Properly Inappropriate

Well, I guess that's it.

2010-02-03T12:42:00.004-05:00

Looks like everything's set for the final move; by the end of the day, this blog will be available in its entirety at http://www.mortalandpester.com. I will no longer update posts here, but if you typically find your way to my blog through Twitter or Facebook, you should have no trouble finding your way there in the future.

Mortal & Pester will be the blog's new name, but all old posts will be found under the category "Properly Inappropriate," and they will still be available here, but you won't be able to post comments to them from here anymore.

Must. Not. Smash. Computer.

2010-02-03T09:36:00.002-05:00

I'm in the process of moving this blog to my own domain. It may undergo a name change, but the content will be much the same as it has been all along.

Mostly, though, this moving business is a huge pain in the butt.

Confession: I am a lazy cook.

2010-02-02T23:24:00.001-05:00

I mean, don't get me wrong. I've been known to come up with a few meals that might be considered "semi-homemade," but unlike Sandra Lee's, they're edible, appetizing, and occasionally even sort of good for you. For example, my chili recipe consists of ground meat cooked with pre-mixed chili seasoning, canned beans of several varieties, and a jar or two of salsa.

I've made my own curry for quite some time, based on my mother's recipe, which I suspect is not quite traditional. She starts with a basic white sauce, and adds curry powder, chicken, carrots and potatoes. I first replaced the potatoes with canned mixed stir-fry vegetables, and later replaced the white sauce with coconut milk. I guess I've sort of taken my mother's faux-Indian recipe and made it more faux-Thai, which is interesting, because I've become really fond of Thai food lately.

So fond, in fact, that my latest 'semi-homemade' dish was an attempt to recreate my favorite Thai appetizer: chicken satay. I bought a jar of peanut satay sauce, which was used as both a marinade for the chicken and a dipping sauce to be served with it. The finished result was, surprisingly, just as good as any satay I've had from even my favorite Thai restaurant. Most of my attempts to recreate dishes are fairly decent, and some are even quite tasty, but none so far have been nearly so satisfying!

I do tend to make more things from scratch -- particularly baked goods -- than I do from prepared foods, thankfully, so I don't feel too much like I'm stealing drunk Aunt Sandy's schtick. Oh, that's the other thing: also unlike Sandra Lee, I tend to hold off on the cocktails until at least after dinner is prepared and on the table. And I don't match my outfit to my kitchen curtains, because that would be creepy.

Decisions, decisions.

2010-02-01T13:43:00.000-05:00

So, I have someplace I plan to be on Friday, February 19th.

Adam Ezra Group are playing in Portland, and I'm excited to get to hang with them again. However (there's always a however, isn't there?) there is a two-day monthly bartender training course in Portland, and the February session is, of course, scheduled for the 19th, 6-10pm and the 20th, 10am-4pm. I really want to get some bartending training under my belt. I feel like it would be really helpful in getting me a job that would mesh with the hours I'm available to work.

But I really want to go to that concert.

I'm exploring other options. This two-day course is $150, but there are more extensive (and expensive) courses available, if I'm willing to travel to Boston. I'm also awaiting information from ROC United, which offers free training in a number of restaurant-related areas, bartending among them. Or, I could just wait a month, and register for the March session of the same training course that's threatening to thwart my good time.

I may have to make a responsible but undesirable decision, but luckily, I don't have to make it today.

New look, new start?

2010-01-31T17:52:00.005-05:00

Well, the blog is getting a new look, at least. I, on the other hand, am still getting used to having black hair instead of purple, even though it's been a month now, and I'm not really ready to step out of my comfort zone within my wardrobe, which consists of so much black and gray that I really ought to be in a band or something.

I'm not really sure that there are any new starts happening; at least, no sweeping changes. I'm working on some things, like getting health care coverage so that I can get back on a few vital medications, and finding a night job so that I can have a positive cash flow again now that I'm completely tapped.

I'm also, on a larger scale, trying to figure out what I want to do and who I want to be, now that I know and love who I am. I have vague senses and even certainties of things: I've always wanted to be a mom, and that will probably never change (whether or not I ever actually manage to ditch my little sister long enough to miraculously find someone to have sex -- let alone a long-term, meaningful relationship -- with, again in my lifetime) and I am beginning to get the ever-more distinct impression that my future will include music, in some rather important way.

Beyond that, there is so much left to shape and decide that it tends to get a bit overwhelming, but at the same time I'm eager to move on and get started. It's hard to remember to take baby steps, even when I'm terrified to budge.

I am a goldfish.

2010-01-29T21:12:00.000-05:00

This blog post has been sitting unfinished for a couple of weeks, gathering dust and the odd sentence here and there as I would return to poke at it with the intention of completing and posting it. Invariably, some distraction or other would come up, be it my father bellowing my name to ask a question I have answered three times already in the same day, or something entirely too shiny or fun for my own good which demanded my immediate attention.

A few weeks ago, I had the unimaginable good fortune to be invited to an apparently rather exclusive party at a typically still-more-exclusive room at a club in Boston. We're talking the kind of place I could never afford to go to on my own: the Foundation Room at the House of Blues. I heard it costs something like $8k for a one-year membership to get into this room on a regular basis, and when you walk in, you can see why.

The room itself is impressive to look at. Lavishly decorated, it has booths set back into the walls like little dens of opulence, and cushioned sofas and ottomans scattered around coffee tables where people can enjoy a leisurely drink or meal. It also boasts richly colored carpeting on the walls in bold geometric patterns, and Oriental carpets covering the floors. Paintings and sculptures fill the empty spaces on the carpeted walls, and across from the moderately overpriced bar is a fireplace and a marble bench.

Adam described the place as swanky; he was not wrong.

The room was also filled with an incredible energy, generated by the band's family, friends and supporters, as well as other music lovers, including guests invited by a local Boston radio station, WERS, who hosted the event. The band mingled for a while before playing an extended set which included improvised lyrics about playing a swanky room with carpets on the walls, for a crowd made up of their biggest supporters. I felt honored to be included among that count, and I feel even more honored each time I go to a show only to be greeted warmly, like an old friend.

Clarification

2010-01-28T11:11:00.003-05:00

To those with a greater understanding of the situation beyond the initials and allusions: I didn't mean to imply, in my post about what happened with D, that D's previous favorite band wasn't kind to him. Quite the opposite! I know that they were, in fact, exceptionally kind to D, and I know (now) that they were burned by him in much the same way that I was (except that he continued to obsess about them even after he was done using them and hopefully, he will leave me alone.)

What I meant to convey was that as nice and accommodating as the previous band was, the band of his most recent obsession was even more so, presumably due at least in part to their previously-established trust in me, developed through several months of friendship, and in my judgment of character. Hopefully, no ill consequences will befall them as a result of my misplaced extension of friendship and trust.

And now, back to your regularly-scheduled randomness and fangirling. Thanks for bearing with me; this angst-ridden, griping phase of the blog is getting too boring for even me to read.

Well, this sucks.

2010-01-26T20:06:00.001-05:00

Third blog post in less than 24 hours after a long bout of blog laziness, and not one of them (yet) has highlighted the amazing time I've had this past couple of weeks with Adam Ezra Group. I promise I will get to that later, because they are super guys who I want to tell you all about! (Again.)

Right now I'm still more or less in shock. I've had maybe an hour's sleep, so I haven't really started to process the fact that my oldest friend in the world apparently cared more about having a project to agonize and dramatize over than she actually did about me, or that a new friend who I had let in with almost none of my usual reservations reminded me exactly why those reservations have come to be. I expect when I finally do process it all, there will be a period of mourning that will not be pleasant, but I promise you that I will make it through.

For those of you who have expressed concern for my well-being, it's appreciated, but I want to make sure that you all know that I will be fine. These weren't my only friends, nor even my best friends, though I did consider them both confidantes. However, considering the campaign of hate I've been experiencing through angry texts, it seems that they are friends I am better off moving on without.

Maybe this is part of the growth I've been expecting; every dark moment in life helps to make the light moments shine a little brighter.

Wow, okay. Keep your ninja crazy to yourselves, please.

2010-01-26T14:52:00.002-05:00

When someone you trust warns you to stay away from someone, no matter how harmless and in need of a friend they seem, you should heed that warning. This is the lesson I have learned in the last ten hours or so. It's probably not the first time I've had to learn this lesson, or at least a similar one, and I doubt it will be the last. My problem is that I look for the best in people.

Take my houseguest, D. I had been warned by several trustworthy parties to steer clear of him, and I didn't take heed. As far as I could tell, he was a sweet kid -- perhaps a bit immature, idealistic and confused, but who among us wasn't at 19? He was coming from what I still believe to be a horrible home life, and he seemed like he needed a friend. One thing I am very good at is being a friend. My habit for looking for the best in people leads to fierce loyalty, which I am learning is more of a character flaw than an asset, most often.

We planned a trip, to lift his spirits. He got the time off work -- in a dishonest way, which I disagreed with, but I'm not his parent or his conscience -- and sent me $100 to put toward the rental car we planned to use for one leg of our journey. I paid for his bus ticket to Boston, where I picked him up at the station and returned with him to Maine.

We attended two concerts; one was unplanned and one that we had planned fell through. The rental car thing didn't happen, but we were surprisingly okay with that; the money was certainly spent elsewhere. Unfortunately, the band we saw perform both nights was considerably nicer to him than his previous favorite band, and he took to them like a fish to water. I kept most of my comments to myself as his obsession with one band was almost visibly transferred, layer by layer, to the other -- this one made up of people I consider friends.

Over the course of the week, he met and befriended my oldest childhood friend, P, with whom I share more than twenty years of friendship (ignoring a several-year hiatus during which we grew apart due to differing interests and my oppressive ex) beginning on our first day of kindergarten. I've noticed her tendency to look at her friends as projects more than people, but I haven't actually been a project before.

Anyhow, D and P got on like a house afire, and I will admit that at times, I found myself feeling slightly left out as they spent more and more time together, in particular on one evening in which I was imposed upon to hang out until the wee hours in spite of being entirely exhausted, and then drive 45 minutes home in the freezing rain, without so much as a 'thanks for your trouble.' But last night, when they decided they wanted to go play pool, I was fine with it. At least at home, I wouldn't be stuck twiddling my thumbs while they excluded me! They're both a little socially retarded in their own way -- let's be honest, who among us isn't? -- and I was pretty sure they were each just glad to find another person with whom they were able to get along well.

At some point this morning, however, it became clear from their text messages that they were trying to lure me into an intervention situation; they had decided, together, that I am suffering from depression, and that God had brought D to me in order for him to save me.

Needless to say (hopefully) there was much cackling in my house as I announced to my parents and sisters (one online) that it's okay, THE CHRISTIANS ARE JUST ON A MISSION FROM GOD. Now, I'm fine with whatever religion people want to practice, and if they're into that self-loathing thing where they practice a religion in which there's no damn way they themselves will get into heaven, that's okay too. But if there's one thing I hate, it's anyone trying to force their religion onto anyone else, especially if that anyone else happens to be me. If you think God is telling you to do something, that's between you and your God. Less than a day before D decided that God wanted him to save me, he'd also decided that God wanted him to move to Boston and become an air traffic controller, so please forgive me if I'm a bit skeptical about his calling.

My personal belief is that if you really want to do something, you will find the 'sign' you're looking for to push you in that direction wherever you choose to see it. What some consider divine intervention, I think is simply the power of your internal desires inspiring you to find much-needed confidence and reassurance from an external source. I don't know where D and P were when they found the sign that told them I needed to be delivered from my non-existent depression, or what they were doing, but I will admit to a certain level of curiosity.

Now, I have lots of issues, don't get me wrong. Insecurity, abandonment issues and anxiety, to name a few. I have, in fact, even been known to suffer from depression from time to time; I am an un-medicated (and by that measure, fairly well-balanced, not to mention self-aware) manic depressive. I know what my depression looks like: I withdraw. I retreat from everyone and everything in my life, as much as I can, and I can tell you right now I have not been doing that at all. Unless dancing like a maniac (not a manic, because I also withdraw a little when I'm cycling manic, though it's mostly in the name of ridiculous amounts of cleaning) in the front row of a concert twice in one week can be considered withdrawing into myself, that is.

The most baffling part of this whole thing is not that D proved my friends right by pulling all this and then having the balls to call me crazy, it's that while I always knew P was a little insane (all my friends are) I just didn't realize she was going to suddenly ninja out, all batshit Jesus-crazy at me.

I just want them to come get his shit so I can go to sleep; they want to meet me to talk about my deep problem with depression. I have told them they can come get his belongings (I am refusing to pay for his bus fare back, however) any time they would like, but really, I am not comfortable meeting them somewhere, nor driving to P's home 45 minutes away. Apparently if I was an adult, I would meet them somewhere to 'discuss this.' No, take it from me: After the insults I have received from them by text, I'm pretty sure if I wasn't an adult, I'd have tipped the cat litter into his duffel when I packed it. Or worse.

Maybe I should just become a hermit.

2010-01-26T04:12:00.000-05:00

I give up on this friends-having thing. Clearly I am not cut out for having friends. The sister thing aside, my best friend didn't even want to see me before she went back to school in New York, and now this.

Hypothetical: You have a friend staying in your house, and you are basically paying for everything -- their food, their transportation to your house from a different state as well as to and from a couple of out-of-state concerts, their nicotine habit, everything, in spite of being unemployed yourself -- and they decide to go off and hang out with your other friend, who they met through you, which is fine. Your friends tell you what time the place they're going to closes, and you make plans to watch a movie when they get back. The weather has been a bit flaky, rainy and windy on top of a few weeks' worth of snow and ice, so when 3am rolls around, about three hours after the place they went is closed, you text them to make sure they're okay. This is, of course, when you find out that they're apparently being spontaneous and driving around until it gets light out and didn't think that maybe it might be nice to let you know so you could, I don't know, stop waiting up, put the movie away and go to fucking bed.

Would you be pissed?

I sure as fuck am. I expected a little common courtesy, especially out of these two particular friends. I really didn't think it was so much to ask that when you're staying at a person's house and you make plans with them, you take a minute to give them a heads-up when the plan changes.

And apparently, that makes me immature. Fuck you both.

Fine. I'll just stop making friends.

2010-01-22T22:48:00.004-05:00

I've got a couple of posts in the works, but until they're completed I just needed to get this off my chest: I'm tired. Not just tired, I'm fucking exhausted, and not in general, but of a particular issue in my life that I've struggled with almost as long as I can remember.

After roughly two decades of my sister co-opting my friends, I should be used to it by now. There's just something that feels like a slap in the face when I find my sister and my house guest tipping back a beer and chumming it up after I've had to spend the last several weeks treading carefully because she's angry and bitter that all her friends were my friends first. How the fuck does she think I feel?

It doesn't feel good knowing that every person who starts to mean something in your life, you will have to share with your sibling, because she can't or won't form and nurture her own interpersonal relationships, and it's a very lonely, desolate feeling when you realize you've been replaced.

My life has been so amazing lately, but all it took to reduce me to a mess of snot and tears this evening was to be invited to join my sister and my friend in watching the movie that said friend had brought for us to watch together, like I was a fucking afterthought. I didn't even know I was going to cry until it hit; mostly I was just angry that it was happening again.

Sometimes I feel like I'm not actually a person, as far as anyone else is concerned. I don't have feelings. I'm just a waystation.

Growing Pains

2010-01-10T10:02:00.001-05:00

I'm experiencing growing pains, I think. A chapter in my life that I hoped would be a lot longer seems like it may be coming to a close, and I'm not sure where the blank pages ahead are taking me. I don't relish the thought of losing the connections I've made with the wonderful people I've met while I was in this place in my life, but it feels like something good is about to unfold for me. I can't expect it to be easy, or painless. The things that are worth it rarely are.

As I write this, my heart is heavy for my older sister and the woman I had come to know as my future sister-in-law. After nearly nine years together, a run that puts to shame any of my long-term relationships, they have recently decided to separate. I know they're both hurting right now, and I know they both still love each other very much. It's heartrending when two people who care about each other so much have to come to the conclusion that they just can't be together any longer.

January seems to be the time for it. Break-ups, reevaluations, rebirths. Suddenly, personal growth from the previous year can no longer be ignored, and changes that want to be made present themselves whether we want them to or not. The holidays, for many of us, present a maelstrom of emotions which may unbalance us, but they can also offer us perspective: in spending time with our families (natural or chosen) we see where we've come from, and from there, where we're headed and where we want to be become a little clearer.

Armed with this perspective and the maturity I've gained over the last year or so, I go tentatively but steadfastly into whatever it is my path is leading me toward. As soon as I'm done eating my Chef Boyardee dinosaurs with meatballs straight from the can, that is -- they do say breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

Can men be faithful?

2010-01-09T12:12:00.000-05:00

This is something I wonder about a lot, and I've never really come to any conclusion about it. There are a lot of men in my life who I can't even begin to imagine cheating on their significant others, but on the flip side, I've never been romantically involved with one who hasn't cheated on me. Am I being overly naive in my belief that these men are capable of fidelity, or am I just unfortunately drawn to the ones who aren't?

Just when I think I'm ready to get back on the horse, I start thinking about that. I guess it's why I'm so terrified of finding myself in a situation where there is an expectation of monogamy -- I know I can make good on it, but so far I haven't been so stellar at picking significant others who are capable of holding up their end of the bargain.

Somewhere out there, there's gotta be a guy who won't smile at me while I hand him my heart, then go behind my back and stomp on it, but how will I know when I find him? How will I be able to set down my baggage, open myself up, and trust again?

This post really poses more questions than it answers. Ugh. Why don't the bastards come with warning labels?

Tiberius boldly goes where Kirk probably should have...

2010-01-09T10:16:00.002-05:00

The other day, I did one of the most simultaneously nerve-wracking and responsible things that a pet owner can do: I took Tiberius to the vet to be fixed.

I'm one of those nervous-nellie cat moms, who -- in spite of evidence mostly to the contrary -- is pretty convinced that when I drop a cat off at the vet's office, I will never see him or her alive again. The basis for this is that several years ago, I had a cat who was poorly, and we took her to an emergency clinic, and she lasted out the night but passed away before we could get back to see her the next day. So my first challenge was constantly reminding myself that Tiberius is a healthy kitten, and the surgery is simple, quick and most importantly, routine.

I brought him up to the vet's by myself; I felt like it was important to keep a low-key 'this is no big deal, we're just going to the vet' feel, and including my dad frequently turns even the smallest deal into a huge, dramatic affair. Ti was mostly just annoyed that I'd taken away his food the night before and hadn't given him any breakfast. I filled out paperwork while the nurse fawned over him, and they said they would call when he got out of surgery, and I could pick him up at two.

When I got back out to the car, I managed to not have a nervous breakdown, and furthermore, managed to go about my day fairly normally. My dad needed driving around, the usual errands, and I didn't really start worrying until about eleven-thirtyish. By noon, I reasoned, they should at least have called to say whether the surgery had been successful or not. Then one o'clock rolled around, and I started to get anxious. One-thirty saw me piling my dad and sister in the car and heading to the vet clinic. We arrived early.

Tiberius was 100% fine when they brought him out. He was awake and alert, and apart from his most prominent feature* being shy a bit of hair, you couldn't even tell he'd had surgery. Barring from a small, 30-45 minute period after each dose of his pain medication (which I was told contained a sedative) he has regained his usual kitten levels of energy and friskiness (much to my father's dismay.) The only one traumatized by this experience, like when I had Kaylee spayed a while back, was me.

An added bonus I've noticed is that his big sisters are much nicer to him. The first thing he did when let out of his carrier upon returning home, after giving me kisses, was to give Zoe kisses, which she accepted. I've even seen him give Kaylee kisses without her taking his face off, so all in all I would call this a sweeping success.

*Tiberius is mostly white, but his testicles are covered with dark black fur. It sounds horrible to say they're his most prominent feature, but I don't care who you are or how pure of mind you are, once you glimpse them, you won't be able to stop looking.

LEMME OUT!

2010-01-04T23:21:00.003-05:00

It seems irrational to be angry at my sister for staying up late on a night when I have to be up early the next morning, right? I mean, there's no reason I should have to wait until she goes to bed before I can sleep, is there?

Actually, since you ask, yes. There is. I'm trapped with three cats who are eager to scamper out their aggressions, and she's our jailer.

You see, her dog is prone to violent outbursts when confronted with the sight of a cat, of which I have three. Therefore, during the day when her dog is allowed free reign of the house, my cats are locked up in my bedroom with me. At night, when she takes the dog to bed, my stir-crazy cats are allowed out of my room to stretch their legs. Until then, however, they drive me absolutely insane. INSANE. Like I kind of am right now.

It doesn't make sense to the poor kitties why they should be locked away, of course. And because she's never been deprived of her freedom, even for a few hours, it doesn't make sense to my sister why they should be so eager to run free, or why I should wish for her to unwind after work and watch mindless television in her room instead of the living room, so that they can do so. It doesn't make sense to me why she should never let me know when she's taken the dog to bed so that I can let the cats out, so I guess we're all confused, except the dog. No, I take that back. It doesn't make sense to the dog why she isn't allowed to just chew on the cats. Actually, a lot of things don't make sense to the dog. The day they were handing out doggy brains, she was in line for snausages.

I just had it out with my sister about this, and after I came back in my room, she slunk off to bed with the dog, quietly, and didn't say anything to me. I thought about stubbornly not letting the cats out until she said something, but I realized that she could out-stubborn a mule, and sinking to her level would hurt nobody but myself and the cats. I let them out, and now I will be able to sleep, and they will be able to play, and everyone will be relatively happy in the morning, but it just bugs me. She can watch TV just as easily in her room as the living room. It would have taken her two seconds to say, "I'm going to bed. Goodnight," and she couldn't bring herself to do it. I just don't get why it's so difficult to try to make other people's lives just a little easier when it's really no inconvenience to yourself.

Did they stop teaching the Golden Rule after I got out of kindergarten?

Flirtarded: my tragic story

2010-01-02T20:48:00.000-05:00

It's true. I am what you might call flirtarded. I never know when someone is interested in me, sexually or romantically, unless they essentially club me over the head and drag me back to their cave. Apparently it's a family trait, because my older sister actually gave me that word to use; I was previously using the sort of restrictive "boytarded," which wasn't really accurate, because it goes both ways: I never know when people of any gender are flirting with me.

This horrifying affliction rears its head in ugly ways. My sister describes her experience with it as a complete uncertainty that flirtation is taking place until everybody is naked, and even then she's not so sure. I usually pick up the hint once I've actually been propositioned; it's hard to ignore the implications of a well-timed "Wanna fuck?," an unfamiliar hand down one's blouse or trousers, or an erect penis suddenly popping into view, even for me. There are still gray areas, though, including clothed spankings, groping, and requests to see my admittedly kind of fantastic breasts that leave me more confused than clued in.

Not only am I incapable of detecting subtle (and less-subtle) hints, I am also horrible at expressing interest. I'm quite certain I've missed a number of opportunities to expand my sexual horizons or make a meaningful connection because of this. It takes everything in me to even whisper something vaguely suggestive to a person, even if I'm fairly confident in their interest level.

The truly tragic thing about this unfortunate circumstance is that often (though there are exceptions) the only people willing to club me and drag me off are the very same people I would most prefer not to be dragged off by: sloppy drunks interested only in getting their dicks wet, for example, or vaguely creepy -- if well-meaning -- men who are old enough to be my father. The people I'm truly interested in are usually at least half as bad at flirting as I am, and we tend to pass like the proverbial ships in the night.

I think I'm ready to stop gliding safely past. I want a shipwreck.

Guess that means I need to figure out how exactly to step up and take the helm.

Toxic to the Extreme

2009-12-27T18:06:00.000-05:00

I made a post a while back about toxic friends, and how I always seem to have one in my life. I got rid of the one in question at the time, but lately I've had another. This one, weirdly enough, has been a part of my life in several different ways, since I was a child. We went to school together, though I would hardly have said we were friends, and then about three years ago, my boyfriend left me for her and she became my stalker. She tracked the events and details of my life online, occasionally popping up to tell me that she was a better girlfriend than I was (who she was trying to convince, I will allow you to decide) or verbally abuse me, and then finally she stopped, and she faded from my mind.

A few months ago, she popped back into my life. She wanted advice, answers, and a friend, or so I thought. She sounded like she was on the verge of leaving the man I shared my life with for four years, and I figured I owed her one. She helped me get rid of the scumbag, I might as well return the favor. Please bear in mind as you read this that I have not spoken to my ex since I got my stereo back from him nearly three years ago, and the only 'facts' I have to go on are the things she tells me, often while drunk, many of which she says she has no memory of telling me. Awesome.

It was worse than I could have predicted. She in no way resembles an adult; her behavior and demeanor are that of a needy child seeking attention and approval, always. He has destroyed her self-esteem -- already low, as I recall from our youth -- even more than he had mine. He's isolated her from her friends in the same way that he did with me, but he's gotten worse. He's become more controlling, more twisted than he ever was with me. Her only goals in life seem to be to make him love her, to compel him to stay, and to convince him that he wants marriage and children as much as she does. His goals remain a sinister mystery to me, but since he so lacks ambition, it is hard to imagine that he actually has any beyond ensuring the continuation of his own comfort -- he lives with her in her mother's house, and refuses to pay rent.

Often Electra* asks me, "Why did Manchild** let you do that?" or tells me, "Manchild won't let me do that." The answer to why he let me do the things I did will come as no surprise to those of you who know me: I am an adult. I made and still make my own decisions. It disgusts me that he treats her like a child, and it disgusts me that she lets him. I get that for some people, that's just how their relationships work, and that's fine as long as they're cool with it. To use a phrase that I often borrow (from the adorkable Greg on CSI, which my father watches almost-daily marathons of on Spike) "My name is Paul, and this is between y'all." But by complaining about it, by expressing that she is unhappy with this arrangement, she's made it clear that this isn't the case, but she's too scared that the jackass will leave her to tell him so.

Yet, in spite of her fears of abandonment, Electra rebels. One of the things Manchild won't let her do, apparently, is drink. So of course anytime she spends time with me, my sister and our mutual friend Pam, she gets shitfaced. Getting shitfaced often leads to her going off to dark corners or out to parked vehicles in darkened parking lots with strange men and sometimes even coming back to tell us, with a look on her face much like that of a naughty child, that she has just had sex. On one occasion, this happened with between two and four different fellows in the same evening. (Two we are fairly certain of, one we strongly suspect, and the fourth we were informed about later by a third party.) One might think this would cause her beloved Manchild to become angry, to threaten to leave her if she doesn't quit boozing it up and screwing other dudes. But no, instead he calls her 'his little slut,' and -- according to her -- even finds it arousing. Which, again, would normally be their business, except that she continues to make it my business. She's just so desperate to get him to react to her in any way, positive or negative, that she will do anything. It's scary, and frankly, the whole thing makes me sick.

Last week, Electra texted me asking me to hang out so she didn't have to go home. Just as I was about to reply, telling her that I wasn't going to help her avoid her shitty relationship issues anymore, I decided to call Pam. At much the same time, Electra also reached out to Pam. She said she needed help, so I packed my sister into the car, we picked her up at work, and we sat down to talk to her. She pretended to listen, poorly. She was busy texting him about a female friend she had forbade him to speak to; apparently she'd recently taken it back, the reason she wanted to avoid her home, and in the car on the way to Pam's she'd reinstated the ban. She doesn't trust them together, because Manchild cheated on me with said female friend when she was only 13 years old and he was 21.

While Electra did that, we outlined why and how their relationship was unhealthy, and that it was making her do unhealthy things. We tried to offer suggestions for how to improve their relationship (mostly, communication and trust) and we presented the dreaded alternative -- telling him to pack his shit and get out of her mom's house -- but it was clear she was tuning us out. She laughed. She brushed us off, like she hadn't idly threatened earlier the same day to stab herself if she had to be in the same house with Manchild while he texted his formerly-under-aged, now married-and-living-in-Canada conquest.

We realized shortly after that evening that we were being used. However earnest Electra's cries for help may be, it's not for support and strength in a difficult emotional time, for friends to hold her hands while she breaks away from an emotionally abusive relationship. It's attention she wants, plain and simple. The attention she isn't getting from Manchild, she was getting from us by manipulating us into being concerned for her. And now that we've realized this, we are angry. We are angry, we are insulted and we are done. We're not catering to her whims or coddling her delicate emotions, and we're sure as hell not babysitting her on her next bender to forcibly remove her from men who are not Manchild.

*Obviously, her name is not really Electra. I have changed certain names to protect the ignorant.
**Clearly, his name is also not really Manchild, although I have found it to be a highly suitable title for him.

Adam Ezra Group: ETH, I think we should see other bands. And by we I mean me.

2009-12-27T12:09:00.001-05:00

Listen, this is between you and me, okay? Don't tell Enter the Haggis this, but... I'm kind of seeing another band. Really, it's their own fault -- they introduced us, and I guess they couldn't have known it would be love, but... well. That's just how these things happen, isn't it?

Adam Ezra Group are an awesome band. Great music, great energy. Sweet, friendly, warm guys. And they seem to think I'm pretty awesome, so clearly they have impeccable taste in people. If you get a chance to check them out live, you should. If you don't see any tour dates near you, by all means pick up a CD or two on the site, or iTunes has a great variety of both AEG and Adam's solo albums. It's a bluesy, folk-y, rock sound that makes me want to move even though I am a terrible dancer.

If I ever stop being a lazy whore this week (read: doing a million other things plus being sick) I'll upload my videos from last week's AEG concert in Portland, including some songs with the opening act, Girls Guns and Glory (who I look forward to seeing again next month when they open for AEG again at the CD re-release party in Boston!) and 'Half a Hero' which Adam dedicated to me, because apparently I just rock that hard.

In which I pretend I am a salesperson

2009-12-27T09:33:00.001-05:00

When I find a product I really, really like, I like to tell people about it, so that's what I'm going to do right now. For a while I've been using Nivea's "A Kiss of Moisture" lip balm, because it's got this amazing rich texture that just makes my lips feel so good. I recommended it to my friend Margaret the other day as an impulse buy in the grocery check-out line, and she told me later that it was a miracle worker; in one application it had completely soothed her chapped lips. It's around $3 and available at most grocery and drugstores. I bought my first tube in line at Wal*Mart.

I still highly recommend the Nivea lip balm, actually, but if your lips are in really shitty condition, like mine frequently are -- I often chew on my lips, in thought or frustration, and I get annoyed with the dry skin that sometimes happens and tend to peel it, and both behaviors frequently result in bleeding and ugly scabs -- and you're not concerned about spending a few extra dollars to make them better, I have the lip balm for you: C.O. Bigelow's Lemon Lip Balm. Like I said, it's a little spendier -- $7.50, available at Bath and Body Works -- but it has definitely proven its worth. It's just as luxurious in texture as the Nivea, with a light lemon flavor and aroma. I particularly recommend this if you're also fighting off a cold, like I am, because it also contains vitamin C which boosts your immune system, and lemon oil which has been found to have mood-enhancing aromatherapy properties. Not that it's gonna cure your cold all on its own, but it sure doesn't hurt to have another weapon in your arsenal. I've been using it for just a few days, but my lips feel smoother and look better than they have in a long time.

Of course, I fully expect that now that I've fallen in love with it, Bath and Body Works will stop carrying it. *cough* SANDALWOOD ROSE *cough* Also, I am not receiving compensation from any of the companies involved in either of these products, but if they wanted to send me free lip balm I'd be totally cool with that.

Bah, Humbug.

2009-12-25T20:46:00.001-05:00

It's not that I don't love Christmas. Christmas is super. It's just that my family hasn't had any small children in it for a number of years, and it's just kind of... losing the magic.

My parents are the sort that, upon seeing something they want or need around the holidays, instead of dropping hints as to what we can get them, buy it for themselves and leave us guessing. They (and my aunt) are really hard to shop for; the least they could do is throw us a bone. My sister and I usually go shopping together, so we always get each other gifts that we really want and love -- case in point: my new espresso machine, her new leather coat (both of which make us sound exorbitantly wealthy but were actually amazing deals and cost under $30 each) -- but it's next to impossible to surprise each other. This year I managed to sneak a gift past her radar, and the most satisfying moment of the day was when she opened it.

It wasn't a bad Christmas. I did okay on the present front (bearing in mind I got new tires for my car a few weeks ago, and that was my "big gift") and there wasn't really any more fighting than one generally anticipates when one's family is cooped up in the same house with no hope of escape all day. Dinner was delicious, and I love giving people presents, but I guess that's just not enough for me anymore. I was a grouch and a downer all day, and if I shat on your holiday spirit in the process of grinching it up, I'm sorry. Maybe next year I'll find a way to bring the magic back to life.

Enjoying the single life?

2009-12-22T12:12:00.003-05:00

I guess that probably shouldn't have a question mark at the end. I mean, I am. I'm having fun, I'm spending time with people I probably wouldn't if I was in a relationship, and I've learned how to be me by myself (which only serves to make me seriously annoyed with people, especially women, who define themselves by their significant other the way that I used to) but there's just something about the holidays that makes me wish that I had someone to curl up with and hide away from all the insanity.

There's actually a guy in my life with a lot if not all of the qualities I'm looking for in something long-term, but I'm pretty sure that it won't work out. There are too many strikes against the relationship, and I really couldn't even begin to guess his interest level. I've always been terrible at that. I want to hope for the best. Do like my older sister says, and just enjoy the ride. It's just that, you know, they call them crushes for a reason, right?

I hate having crushes beyond the telling of it. I hate crushes in general, the way they make you stupid and ridiculous and downright flighty, but mostly I just hate the crushing disappointment that follows them, when I finally am able to talk myself down from the rush of endorphins and the butterflies in my stomach and force myself to realize that it's pointless. Because, yeah, maybe it works out for some people, sometimes, but I've never had a crush that didn't end badly for me.

The funny part is that even having a crush makes me inexplicably angry at the object of my crush, as though it's their fault that they are attractive, intelligent, and whatever combination of other physical traits or personality quirks has earned them their place in my affections. Like they're doing it on purpose, being who they are maliciously, just to get under my skin. I tend to grumble about them a lot, and occasionally I will idly curse their name. I'm able to find the humor in that, to laugh at myself for being so ridiculous, but it only makes me feel a little bit better.

I think I'm better off continuing to find reasons to appreciate being single. Like having one less person to buy a damned Christmas present for.

Enter the Haggis Road Trip Weekends: a belly full of junk and a soul full of music

2009-12-20T09:52:00.002-05:00

So here I am, a week after yet another epic Haggis road trip, and I still haven't managed to blog about the last one. Oops. Suffice it to say that on my whirlwind tour of New England as ETH's substitute merch person, I had a lot of fun, met a lot of great people, saw some great venues that I'd never been to before, and nearly fried my car. I also got to catch up with Adam Ezra and his percussionist Turtle again (who I'm going to see in Portland tonight with the rest of their band) because they opened for ETH at two of the three shows I attended. Now, onto the tour that is freshest in my mind.

The least that can be said about almost any trip involving Enter the Haggis concerts is that it will also include great times with great people and liberal amounts of alcohol. The band themselves (and their sound engineer, as far as I can tell so far...) are top-notch characters who I look forward to catching up with every few weeks, and the people who follow them as I do are amazing, fun people with kind, generous hearts.

This trip, I had my sister with me. We drove, on a Thursday afternoon, from southern Central Maine to Utica, NY, where we met up with two fellow fans, Jen and Sue, one of whom generously opened her home to us and the other of whom generously drove us through high winds and snow flurries from Utica to the show in Syracuse. I thoroughly enjoyed myself -- it's a rare occasion that I have someone really energetic to dance with, and at the Westcott Theater, I did. By the drive home, my thighs were burning and my hips were stiff, but it was totally worth it.

The next morning, we spent a leisurely morning in at Jen's house. While my sister slept in, I poked about on the internet. After she got up and Jen went in to work for a few hours, I ran to the store for a few essentials, and then we headed off to Revolution Hall in Troy. I got well and truly smashed before the opener had even started playing, and of course when I was five shots and nine cocktails in (Note to readers: Don't blog before caffeine. That should read "five shots and four cocktails," for a total of nine drinks. Not even I am that hardy.) , that's when Chris, the band's volunteer merch guy, flagged me down and told me he needed me to work the room with the email list. What do you know? I just about filled a page.

Eventually I sobered up quite a bit, but the crush of the crowd up at the front of the stage got to be too claustrophobic for me, so I went back to visit the sound engineer, Glenn, for the rest of the show. He kind of has the best seat in the house, with a clear view of the stage over the heads of the audience, and it's always interesting to watch him work. The man is like a study in perpetual motion; while the band is playing, he is constantly moving, adjusting settings on the sound board. No wonder the guys sound so great!

The next night we were back on my home turf -- well, sort of. After a fashion. First we went to the Crossgates Mall in Albany for a bit, because both Jen and I managed to not pack enough clothes, and we still had the show in Portland to go to. I got the sexiest half-boots I have ever seen, let alone owned. After a little retail therapy, some halfway-decent food court Chinese food, and a healthy dose of Starbucks, we were on our way to Portland, Maine. The trip was made in two cars, because Jen still had to drive home to Utica the next day, but we bantered and relayed directions to her by walkie-talkie.

After meeting up with some fellow ETH fans at Margarita's, I had to skip out early to get merch set up at Port City Music Hall. I'd never been there before, but it was a unique, quirky-looking venue with fun lighting, great sound and good drinks that didn't cost an arm and a leg. The show was amazing, although I was situated in the back, near the doors, and could really only see the stage when I got my sister to watch the merch table for me and went to visit either my friends in the crowd or Glenn again. I did get a great picture on my iPhone from the sound booth this time, and during one brief visit I realized the guy doing the lighting was using not only both hands to keep the light show going, but he was actually using his face as well.

We crashed that night with our friends James and Brenda, who often find their home infested with Haggis Heads in various states of consciousness and intoxication after a Maine show. They are such amazing people that it's just impossible to be grouchy around them, so chilling with them the next day was a great way to wrap up the weekend and unwind.

I think that after the New Year's shows (two on the night before NYE, two on NYE) it's going to be a while before I have the chance for another road trip adventure, but those tour dates are always changing, so who knows?

Friendship After Sex, or being an adult in the modern world

2009-12-20T08:13:00.001-05:00

Sex complicates everything, right? I mean, it should. It's an intimate act, whether you personally take it lightly or with the utmost gravity. It involves making yourself vulnerable to another person in some way or another, whether you're exposing your soul or just your delicate sexual organs. But lately I've been thinking it's not as complicated as it once seemed.

I lost my virginity to my high school sweetheart, a sensitive, somewhat fey artist type; we dated for three years before he moved on to greener pastures with a girl at college, who was built more like a boy than a woman, a wake-up call I probably should have seen coming miles away. I was crushed both by the betrayal and by the means of dismissal -- he broke the news a few days after Christmas, after dodging my attempts to arrange a meeting to exchange gifts and make plans for our anniversary/New Years. The bomb was dropped via instant message, from his parents' home a mere 7 miles from my house. Apparently, he'd been seeing her behind my back all semester. If you asked me whether I could ever be his friend again, I'd probably laugh in your face.

The second guy I was with was a hardcore nerd. Lived at home with his mom, played World of Warcraft like it was his religion, and even eventually went to work in an electronics store. We were together for four years. I've since learned that in those four years, he cheated on me an average of once a year, starting mere days into our courtship with a much younger (read: illegally young) girl and wrapping up with the woman he left me for. Could I ever be his friend? Hell no. But I've become friends with his girlfriend (yes, they're still together, though through what foul sorcery, I've no idea.) In a way I suppose I feel like I owe her for releasing me from my bonds, but mostly I see myself in her -- self-esteem destroyed, and in search of a way out she's not actually sure she wants yet.

Since then, I've been single, if not abstinent. I had a friends-with-benefits arrangement with a friend in Massachusetts who had been there for me during the fallout from my breakup with the second long-term guy, but the distance between our homes and his tendency to share his girl trouble with me (the girl you are having sex with doesn't really want to hear about the girls you want to be having sex with) led to a sort of rift appearing between us. We still talk, infrequently, but if he called me tomorrow in need of a favor, I'd drop what I was doing to help in any way I could.

This summer, I had an incredibly drunken one-night stand with a stranger at an Irish festival out of state. The best I can say for that experience (or at least what I remember of it) is that I didn't get murdered, I didn't get knocked up, and I didn't catch anything. Not exactly a ringing endorsement. Since I can only barely remember his name and a rough description of him (at least said rough description includes "I think he had an Irish accent?") I think friendship is out of the question at this point.

A few weeks ago, I had a drunken hook-up with a longtime friend. As in, I've known him since before I grew boobs and his voice changed. While the equipment in question was notably impressive, the performance left quite a bit to be desired, and it left me terrified -- that I'd ruined our friendship by allowing this to happen, and that I'd somehow forgotten how to have good sex. I panicked about this for a few days, until the next warm and willing body came along, and... it was fantastic. My fears about my performance, at least, were thoroughly relieved. Then, I saw my friend again, and things... weren't awkward or weird -- or, if they were, I didn't notice it. It was nice.

I've actually seen him and talked to him more in the few weeks since our encounter than in the few years prior. I may have drunkenly suggested a rematch later on (which he didn't take me up on, to my great, sober relief) but for the most part I have been surprised to learn that, as far as I can tell, there is in fact room for friendship after sex. Even (or perhaps particularly) disappointing sex.

The Trials and Tribulations of a Music Lover's Car

2009-11-27T10:55:00.000-05:00

It all began two weeks ago, on the night of the 14th. We'd been experiencing torrential rains, and as a result, my road was a bit, shall we say flooded? I was on my way home from my friend Margaret's house, where Desiree and I had goofed off for a few hours following the Vassalboro grange variety show, which Margaret had organized (gotta love the bits of rural flavor thrown into my rock 'n roll lifestyle, right?) and I didn't see the water in the road until I was passing through it with a mighty splash. My car made some very unhappy noises indeed as I pulled into my yard, but I ignored them, figuring it was just wet and understandably grumpy.

The next morning was a pancake breakfast in Augusta, where it had been rumored the Maine Christian Civic League would be trying to save the souls of the poor kids on the Cony High School Civil Rights Team, whom the fundraiser was to benefit. Des and I made the drive there with no consequence -- and very little heat, which I barely registered at that early hour -- and were pleased to see that there was no aggressive or offensive evangelism going on. If the CCL was there, they managed to keep a civil tongue in their heads and leave the children alone. The drive home was not so uneventful, however. Only a mile down the road I heard those angry sounds again, and realized my car was overheating. The coolant was empty. I filled the reservoir, turned the heater on full-blast, and made it home.

Over the course of the week, the car continued to piss coolant to the extent that I had to fill the reservoir each time I wanted to go in town. The mechanic said there was a leak -- a minor fix, but it would take four hours labor to get to it, fix it, and put the car back together. He scheduled the repair for Monday, with the knowledge that I was planning to attend concerts in New Hampshire, Massachusetts and Connecticut over the course of the weekend, and told me to use Leak Stop in the meanwhile, and to continue to check my coolant.

There will be more on my weekend of musical bliss later, of course, but suffice to say that my car made it to NH and then CT Friday night, where it remained in my friend Kelly's driveway all day Saturday. On Sunday I checked the coolant, topped it up, and headed for the CT show on my own, as I had to be there earlier than Kelly did, and I planned to leave for home immediately following the show. This was not to be, however. Just as I prepared to get off the expressway, my car overheated. I let it cool down, and checked my coolant -- it was full, but my heat wasn't working, which indicated that the coolant wasn't circulating. Nine miles from the venue, the car overheated again. Still, the coolant was full. I continued the final nine miles a single mile at a time, and finally arrived at the venue 45 minutes later than I had been expected. As I parked out front, my car refused to move another inch.

My options seemed bleak. Get the car fixed locally, and hope it wasn't an overly expensive repair, or have it towed the -- count 'em -- three hundred miles from the street in front of Infinity Hall to my dooryard. As it turned out, in attendance at that show was a local mechanic, who happened to specialize in Subarus. At this point I would like to give a major shout-out to Bill from Jim's Garage in Canaan, CT, because he actually left the concert hall during the show to take a peek under the hood and reassure me that my engine didn't smell cooked.

The next day, the car was running well enough for me to drive it to Jim's Garage, and Bill fit me in between his regularly scheduled customers, replaced my thermostat and sent me on my way for under a hundred dollars. Today, my dad's mechanic checked my car out, and the leak is all but gone -- the repair appointment I missed while stranded in Connecticut is no longer necessary, and my car, which was believed to be a lost cause as I stood in front of Infinity Hall trying to get a tow at midnight on a Sunday, will live to see another Enter the Haggis road trip. In fact, I'm buying my tickets today. Syracuse and Troy NY, here I come.

It's all about meme, meme, meme!

2009-11-18T18:35:00.001-05:00

I've been in a blogging dry spell lately, haven't I? Well, until very recently, at least. The other day, my sister-in-law Laura (it WILL happen, one day!) tagged me over at her blog, Wait, This Makes Me A Follower, Doesn't It?, and since then I've manage to blog twice, but not on the meme she tagged me in. So I thought that to stay in the SIL's good graces, I should probably take care of it now, before I start posting about my issues again. :)

I tend to ignore most memes that I'm tagged in, especially on Facebook where I get tagged twenty times in the same meme, get overwhelmed at the prospect of twenty people anxiously awaiting my answers, forget how to spell my name, and wind up gibbering softly to myself in a corner, so forgive me if I'm a little rusty at this. Also, I don't think I actually read 7 blogs regularly, let alone know the bloggers well enough to tag them, so I'm afraid the meme has come here to die.

Rules:
1. Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 random and or weird things about yourself.
3. ~~Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.~~
4. ~~Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.~~

Because I'm sure you're all waiting with bated breath, without further ado, 7 random and/or weird things about me (which actually somehow turned into 1 random thing and 6 introspective things about me):

1. I'm not quite a nevernude, but I am incredibly uncomfortable with my own body and therefore tend to avoid nudity. If I've ever been naked around you, or even half-naked (underwear but no pants, or bra but no shirt, etc.) I was either really drunk, or I really trust you*.

2. My knees are double-jointed, so they bend backwards a little bit. This is great for freaking people out, but not much else.

3. For someone who has in her life written a great deal of romance and erotica, I haven't the slightest clue when someone is interested in me. Whether it goes back to self-esteem issues and my body image problems as touched upon in item 1, or just plain social awkwardness, you would really be better off clubbing me over the head and dragging me back to your cave than trying to be subtle.

4. I am a terrible friend. I lose touch with people I really love, because I flake out and forget to maintain connections.

5. At my most depressed, I think of my obligation to my cats. I can't/won't kill myself, because I don't trust anyone else to take care of my babies for me. This sounds incredibly dark and melodramatic, and maybe it is, but I suppose a more cheerful way of looking at it is that when I adopt a new cat, it's like I'm saying to myself, "Gosh, I guess I will have to stick around for another fourteen to twenty years." (If we haven't met before, thanks for reading my blog, please don't mind my functional insanity.)

6. Sometimes I'm pretty sure that if a doctor came up to me and said, "We can cure your fibromyalgia!" I would (reluctantly) say no, because there are times in my life that my pain is the only reason I'm sure I'm not dreaming, or having a bad trip or something. My life is seriously weird.

7. For all my pessimism on the topic of love, I do believe in it, and I hope someday it finds me.

*Look forward to more on this subject in my next "Fia is a bundle of issues and neuroses!" blogflail.

Colonial Theater Restoration Project

2009-11-18T16:55:00.003-05:00

When I was a kid, I had a lot of big dreams, like most kids do. One of them was seeing the old Colonial Theater in Augusta, Maine, which has stood in near-ruins for at least as long as I can remember, restored to its former glory. Most of my dreams are long forgotten, and some lay shattered under the heels of circumstance, but this one? This one is actually coming true.

Now, in my big dreams, I was rich (and possibly famous) and the project was privately funded by me. In reality, it is being restored by volunteers, and funded by donations.

The board of directors recently launched the official Colonial Theater fan page on Facebook, which currently is the best place for up-to-date status reports on the project's progress. I've shamelessly swiped a few photographs from the fan page, below, illustrating the Colonial as it appeared in 1938, and as it appears today.

As you can see, it's fallen into disrepair, as has been the case for much of Water Street, which I believe was once the center of Augusta's commerce. In recent years, the city of Augusta has striven to clean up its downtown; it's safe to say that the restoration of this once-beautiful building would go quite a ways toward improving the area's aesthetics, but it may also mean new jobs and more importantly, a new source of revenue and culture for an area that's been hard hit by recession and poverty.

It's not going to be a quick fix-up, nor a cheap one. There are many repairs in need of being done over the next several years, the most immediate of which involves aged masonry in the building's facade. Donations in the form of funds, materials and labor will absolutely be of the essence. For the time being, people who wish to make monetary donations toward the restoration of the Colonial Theater can send them to 139 Water Street, Augusta ME 04330. Checks can be made out to Colonial Theater. Online donations will be accepted at a later date.

If you live in the Augusta area, as many of my readers do, I urge you to lend a hand in whatever way you can. Take responsibility for making this community a better place to live, work and play.

The dark side of Etsy...

2009-11-17T14:09:00.003-05:00

I am in love with Regretsy.com, which highlights some of the more ridiculous items available for purchase on Etsy.com, but today the site alerted me to something deeply, deeply disturbing. This entry is about a seller who is trying to hock squirrel blood, which is sort of funny and weird and just a little creepy. But when I went to look at the seller's other items, I was sickened, for lack of a word to better describe my revulsion.

Remember when killing pets and other small animals and taking trophies was a warning sign of sociopathy? Now it's arts and crafts. For profit. Ick.

A far more trivial complaint...

2009-11-04T22:27:00.004-05:00

Bearing in mind that I've only tried maybe five or six of the existing Sing Star titles, and prior to this evening owned only three, I'm pretty sure that Sing Star: Queen is the worst Sing Star game ever made. I had such high hopes for an evening in my living room, belting out "Bohemian Rhapsody" and "Somebody To Love" with my sister, but it was nothing short of an epic disappointment.

The microphones (which we already owned, and which still work perfectly fine with our other games) are so sensitive (and LOUD) at some points in any given song that you can't have them near each other or a controller without causing feedback, and you practically have to whisper in order to not to be picked up on your opponent's mic. At other points, you must nearly eat the mic to even register on the screen, let alone hear yourself. Sometimes, even that fails to work, or stops registering your voiceabruptly. For example, randomly, in the middle of a sustained note.

The track list is great, and the game itself is pretty enough to look at (unless you're put off by Freddie's chest hair) but playing it was considerably less enjoyable than going to the dentist. At least the dentist gives you Novocaine.

Every review I can find says that the game is identical to Sing Star: ABBA in every way except track list, but I was playing ABBA last night and it was just as fun as it's ever been. Did I manage to get a bum copy? Is there a reason Target had their entire stock of Sing Star: Queen on clearance? It's possible, I suppose. I'm just really glad I didn't pay full price.

My Mistake

2009-11-04T11:16:00.004-05:00

I thought I lived in a country that was based on the notion of separation of church and state, not one where religious doctrine could influence and even dictate civil law. I thought I lived in a liberal state which was accepting of its residents and their many walks of life, both chosen and innate. I thought I lived in a time where fear and hate would no longer triumph over love and basic human decency.

I thought that my civil rights and those of the people I love were safe.

My mistake. Guess I won't make that one again.

Question One passed yesterday, stripping Maine's homosexual residents of the right to marry that they have fought so long for and stripping me of what little faith I had left in this ridiculous backwoods excuse for a state. I am bitter. I am angry. I am embarrassed to be a Mainer. I am just barely fighting off hatred for those who let their own bigotry, ignorance and fear go into the voting booth with them yesterday, and especially for the religious organizations whose tax-free donations funded this campaign of hate.

This entire battle has reminded me very strongly of the following poem by Martin Niemöller, which I think we all probably read or heard in school, when learning about the Holocaust:

First they came for the communists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a communist;
Then they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a socialist;
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a trade unionist;
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew;
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak out for me.

Being heterosexual or even not believing in the institution of marriage doesn't mean this decision doesn't affect you. Ask yourself, who will speak out for you when your rights are threatened in the same way that those of Maine's gay and lesbian community have been?

I have never been so thoroughly ashamed to be from Maine, but it's not me who ought to be ashamed. It's the 53% of the state who voted in favor of robbing their fellow human beings of their civil rights. To each and every one of them, I would like to say, "Fuck you."

Fia and the Quest for the Perfect Pumpkin Muffin

2009-10-14T09:38:00.004-04:00

It began, as so many quests do, with an obsession. My unhealthy fixation on the pricy pumpkin muffins from Panera, whose taste and texture are unsurpassed but whose availability is unpredictable at best, had started years ago when I was a Panera employee and was occasionally able to score a freebie at the end of the night on the rare occasion that there were leftovers. It was this fixation that sparked a desire within me to find find the perfect pumpkin muffin recipe: something I could make at home that would be -- if not the ideal replacement for Panera's muffin, which I'm fairly certain contains just enough of both crack and magic to make it ever more addictive -- a decent substitute.

My search terms were fairly obvious, I'm sure. 'Panera pumpkin muffin recipe.' I didn't expect to hit the jackpot and find that some disenfranchised soul had stolen and shared the recipe, but I also knew I couldn't be the first to embark on just this kind of mission from their home kitchen, and I was right. I narrowed it down to four recipes, gathered the ingredients (mostly; this did involve several last-minute trips to the new local Hannaford, and then a frantic search for a substitute for buttermilk after that had closed) and settled in for an evening of baking.

The first recipe came from a blog called Muffin Top, and it was... disappointing. Bland and rather dry, I will admit that perhaps the muffin's lack of flavor is partially my fault -- it called for cinnamon sugar on the top, which I omitted accidentally in the insanity that can be caused by preparing and baking four different muffin recipes in one night. I may try it again, using a whole can of pumpkin as the blogger from Muffin Top accidentally did, and remembering to sprinkle the batter with cinnamon sugar before baking.

The second recipe was far and away the best, and I'll go into more detail on that further down. Saving the best for last, so to speak.

The third recipe, which came from A Veggie Venture, wasn't bad. It wasn't great, but it really wasn't terrible. The texture was okay, the flavor was okay. Just nothing to write home to Mother about. It calls for either pecans or walnuts, and golden raisins, and if I was the kind of person who wanted those things in my pumpkin muffins, I would not have omitted them. I expect that they're much tastier to people who enjoy those things and so don't leave them out.

The final recipe, from Once Upon a Gourmet, calls for chocolate chips and includes a recipe for "streudel topping," which I mistakenly assumed was a malapropism because the photograph included on the page shows a muffin which appears to have struesel on top of it, as well as a little candy pumpkin. I omitted the chocolate chips, because I was looking for the best overall pumpkin taste, and soon discovered the error in my assumption. Once in the oven, the "streudel topping" quickly melted from a delightful mound of brown sugary, cinnamony goodness on top of the batter into a charred sugary mess on the bottom of my oven. I threw a cookie sheet under the muffin tin and ended up with floury caramel. The muffins themselves tasted quite good, but not better than the second recipe and certainly not good enough to deal with the molten mess again.

Now, let's return to our winner, #2.
This recipe and the above graphic came from the Cottage Industrialist. The recipe contains, as you can see, an entire can of pumpkin. The muffins have a delightful soft texture that isn't too sticky or too crumbly, and a rich pumpkin spice flavor. Overall, it was the closest to Panera's, and therefore the closest to what I was looking for. And, plus side, when I attempted to replicate it and double the recipe, but failed to double the flour, they still came out halfway-decent. Tasty, even; just moister, cake-y and a bit sticky. I like a recipe that I can flub up and still have the end product turn out edible and even pleasant.

Feeling the love... only, not.

2009-09-25T19:22:00.001-04:00

This whole scene is starting to really lose its shine for me. This isn't the first thing that's left a bad taste in my mouth in the last month or two, just the latest spray of sand kicked in my face.

As this blog has surely made abundantly clear, I love Enter the Haggis. I support them as much as I possibly can, going so far as to travel to the far-flung reaches of the world -- okay, Pennsylvania and upstate New York, which for a Maine girl who grew up with a travelphobic mother, seem very far-flung -- to catch them at festivals this summer. When they're in Maine, I pimp them as hard as I can: putting up posters, talking to people and when possible, handing out the promo CDs provided by United For Opportunity, their label, for that purpose. Just today I gave a copy of Gutter Anthems to a store owner in Waterville, who was playing Flogging Molly and Dropkick Murphys on his laptop. Waterville is where I caught my second-ever ETH show. Whenever a Maine show is announced on their website, I email my contact, Barb, and she sends me the necessary materials. As a bonus, I get to be "on the list," although I usually buy a ticket anyway.

There are some dates that are rapidly approaching -- October 9th and 10th, in Ogunquit and Boothbay Harbor respectively -- and I was planning a trip to poster the areas around the venues when realized I hadn't received my packets for the shows yet. I was about to email Barb to check up on it when I got an email from UFO asking for volunteers for the December show (which I'm pretty sure I had mentioned in the same email in which I volunteered for the October shows.)

I asked if she had my name down. She didn't. Furthermore, the guest list is full (which again, I don't really care about, because I usually buy a ticket anyway) so... they won't send me posters(?!). They sent me high-res .jpg flyers, instead, that I'm welcome to print out/photocopy and distribute at my own expense, though. Awesome. So, instead of theoretically getting free admission in exchange for putting up free posters, I get to pay for the posters AND the tickets? Yeeeeeaaaaaah, I feel appreciated now.

I'll probably do it anyway, because I'm a doormat.

Bahstan Hahbah Cruise

2009-08-24T09:13:00.000-04:00

So, the Rock & Blues Cruise was a blast -- for the most part. Chilling on the dock with old friends and new friends (apparently all Haggis Heads know who I am, and I'm not sure whether that's a good thing or a bad thing!) and having a few drinks was a nice way to spend the few hours between our arrival at Long Wharf and the actual boarding and departure time of our cruise.

Before Enter the Haggis went on, a bluegrass band called Hot Day at the Zoo performed. I have to admit I didn't listen to much of their set, choosing to take advantage of the opportunity to relax and mingle with a few of the guys from ETH and a couple of people I hadn't really seen in a few weeks. I'll get another chance to check out Hot Day at the Zoo in December, when they play Port City Music Hall, also with Enter the Haggis.

After their set was over, I made my way downstairs to avail myself of the 'full' bar. They had only slightly more to offer than the refreshment table near the band merchandise table, and none of my standby drinks were available, so I opted for a rum and coke. After two and a half pineapple and Malibus and two -- or was it three? -- beers, this was probably not my wisest decision. However, after my first rum and coke evaporated into thin air (it must have!) and a second (and then possibly a third?) one was procured, I was joined by some friends, including Craig (ETH's piper, who was apparently unaware that the other band's set had ended.)

When he finally realized he was probably being missed, we all made our way back upstairs and while he found his place on the stage, I found my sister and one of our friends at the side of the stage. Some really charming person, who I assume to be a Zoo fan rather than a Haggis Head (only because I don't know Haggis Heads to be so rude or mean-spirited) called out, "I hope you fall!" Whether that was intended to be directed at me or at Craig, I'm not sure, (probably me!) but either way, bad form, dude.

The show was, as usual, amazing. They played "Noseworthy & Piercy," and we were not blown out to sea. They played "Down with the Ship," and we were not tossed in the gale. I recorded both, but the cabin of the ship was so dark that I'm not sure it's worth posting either to YouTube. I had wanted to record "Ghosts of Calico" for the sheer novelty and teasing value of Trevor singing about ghosts while on a boat in the ocean, but I was having some issues with my camera and had enough to drink that fixing it was a challenge -- not impossible, but probably hilarious to watch.

I listened to the encore, "Long Way Home," while standing at the bow of the ship, my hair blowing in the breeze. It was really nice, but it meant I missed seeing Trevor join the crowd of people swaying their arms to the music. And then the set was over, and we pulled into port, and the boat was docked. And we were unceremoniously herded off the boat by the Rock & Blues Cruise staff, who not only chased us off the boat, but up the freaking dock, before I could even say "great show tonight," let alone say goodbye to the guys.

There's nothing that makes you feel that you've just spent three hours giving your money to people who can't wait to see the back of you quite like being chased down the gangplank by several very haughty men in yellow polo shirts like so much livestock. I didn't even get to say goodbye to most of my friends who were there, because I hesitated briefly when being shooed (because my designated driver and holder of my car keys was trying to talk to Craig about the email list.)

This is only an observation, not a fact, but it seems to me that the brief period after a show, when the band does their customary meet-and-greet, is probably when the most merchandise is sold. New fans want to buy an album or a t-shirt, old fans want to make sure they've got all the most recent stuff, and everybody wants a piece of the guys -- an autograph, a hug, a moment of conversation. Being shuffled off the boat like that seems like it might have hurt their sales. The only thing I know for sure is that the manner in which we were ushered off was insulting and rude, and left many of us with a bad taste in our mouths.

I was really impressed with the cruise experience, right up until the point where the cruise staff made it clear that they liked our money, but now that they had it, we could all just go screw ourselves.

And for the record, I did not fall. I was born with sea legs.

Sometimes I wonder how I survived infancy.

2009-08-22T18:50:00.006-04:00

I am a horrible, horrible mother. It's a very good thing that I've never had actual children, because clearly I suck at taking care of living beings.

This is, of course, an exaggeration. I've always been a pretty good mom to my cats, though there have been failings which have affected me deeply -- I feel entirely responsible for the flea problem that contributed to my cat Prudence's compromised health, which led to her death while being treated for a UTI. But this time, it wasn't really my failing so much as my parents' utter lack of common sense.

I went on a cruise in Boston Harbor last night (more on that later.) Left my dooryard shortly after noon yesterday, and returned at about 1 this afternoon. I left my parents strict instructions for my cats: make sure to put the dog to bed and let the cats out, and please feed Tiberius this bowl of food from the fridge. Make sure he eats all of it, and don't let the other cats steal it. Well. I forgot to mention that Tiberius likes to graze. A few bites here, and then after some horseplay and general rambunctious kittenness, a few more. He will eat the whole thing, just not all in one go.

So here's how it goes down: I get home, and Ti is in the window, watching anxiously for me. Aw, I think. He missed his mommy. I walk in the door, and I'm informed that my cats were never let out. Tiberius was fed "until he was full" and the rest of the food was put in the fridge. I get in my room, and Ti goes NUTS. We are talking full-on bugshit, people. The poor little dude was STARVING. I guess I should have told them that he grazes, but I kind of assumed they'd have the sense to realize that a few bites was not going to be sufficient to fuel his high-energy antics.

Remind me, when I do have children, not to leave them with my parents...

After this week, TGIF is an understatement.

2009-08-21T09:30:00.000-04:00

Good news: Tiberius seems to be much better, even without being wormed. I picked up some worming stuff for him anyway, and he's got an appointment for his first check-up in two weeks. (Bad news: he really loves that expensive Hill's Science Diet canned kitten food. However, he likes it even with pumpkin stirred in, which is awesome because he turned his nose up at the plain pumpkin.)

More good news: I've located a replacement for my cell phone, and I may have a buyer for the Blackberry that refuses to cooperate. (Bad news: the replacement is pink, so I'll probably get it mixed up with my sister's phone a million times.)

Still more good news: Tonight I'm off to Boston, for an evening of nautical debauchery with Enter the Haggis and a bunch of fun Haggis Heads. Good music, good friends, and good booze (we hope.) Who could ask for more?

Rough night? Yeah, you could say that...

2009-08-19T19:51:00.004-04:00

I got about three hours of sleep last night. Why, you may ask? Well, any mother who's ever had a sick child will smile knowingly and tell me the best is yet to come when I have children of my own, but if you must know, I was up last night with a sick kitten.

Tiberius has diarrhea. His fuzzy little kitten tushie is raw and sore, I can no longer get him to let me clean him up fully. At about 3 this morning, this resulted in him doing the butt-scoot boogie (like the Boot Scootin' Boogie, but with less line dancing and more liquid fecal matter) across my pillow -- only inches from my face -- which as I'm sure you can imagine was a very rude wake-up call. As I type this, my sister is attempting to give him a bath with baby shampoo. I wish her the best of luck.

Yesterday, my father said we'd probably need to take him to the vet to be checked out and probably dewormed. When I agreed with him this morning, my mother, in a bad mood, made the suggestion that I'd be better off bringing Tiberius to the shelter than the vet, and added that we couldn't afford to take him to the vet. Tiberius is about nine weeks old right now, and already I have been his mommy for two thirds of his life. We were not amused.

I was reminded of a time when Kaylee was this tiny, and the vet suggested feeding her canned pumpkin for her diarrhea. Also, online research indicated that Ti's tummy might just not be ready for a straight-up kibble diet, and suggested putting him back on soft food for a bit. So far he's still turning his nose up at the pumpkin, but he's a BIG fan of Hill's Science Diet canned kitten food.

Desiree's attempt at bathing the kitten was about as successful as I suspected: because of his sore bottom, Tiberius was even less game for a soaking and scrubbing than usual, but she did manage to get some of the residual shit off of his legs and tail, so I'm counting this an overall success. Drying him off was a bit more challenging than usual, as well, but he seems to be mostly recovered from this trauma as well.

The good news is that through all of this, he's maintained high spirits, chasing Zoe whenever she gets near enough for him to swat at her, bite her, or otherwise irritate her, and he's not dehydrated. The bad news is that little Ti's first vet visit is now imminent, and I get to play crazy overbearing cat mom on the phone to them tomorrow morning, to convince them to squeeze him in. And if he's got worms, I'll have to feed ALL THREE cats the de-worming medicine, and my arms are going to become even more scratched and scarred than they already are. Still, it's a small price to pay for my babies' health.

For the record, if something should happen to him and the words "You should have brought him in sooner" are uttered, I will never forgive my mother. I suspect my father won't, either. He's very attached to the little guy.

Edit: I don't know whether to find this encouraging or concerning, but I just caught Kaylee trying to bathe Tiberius. You know, instead of beating the shit out of him. Hmm.

Dental Damn.

2009-08-18T10:21:00.004-04:00

So, it looks like due to a number of circumstances -- a few years of neglect (due to being broke and then to having my dental coverage ripped away within a month of getting it, earlier this year,) a few previous medications which caused dry-mouth, and a genetic predisposition for weak enamel and decay -- I'm going to have to have roughly $2500 worth of dental work over the course of the next year or so.

My dad and I plan to win the lottery, so I can tell them to do it all at once. Gas me up, I won't give a shit. I won't even notice. Throw some veneers on there while you're at it. Ha. Well, we can dream, right?

This particular visit to the dentist's office wasn't as guilt-inducing and traumatic as I expected, due mostly to the fact that my dentist is on maternity leave and so she wasn't there to give me shit about not having been in for two years, but you can't argue the facts -- my teeth need some serious TLC. I'm seeing another dentist for two high-priority fillings, and then my regular dentist will be back in October, and the real fun can begin.

The hygienist actually complimented me on my brushing, but suggested I might floss more regularly. Those of you who know me (and are familiar with my near-obsessive floss habit) may now laugh. She applied some weird fluoride stuff that she warned would make my teeth feel sticky and dirty -- it does, and they do -- and said that I could eat and drink whenever I wanted to, but couldn't brush for 5-6 hours. Which... I'll be honest, I'm not usually running off to brush my teeth between 9am and 3pm anyway, so that's not going to be much of a problem. I also have prescription strength fluoride toothpaste, which isn't new. Just a new tube.

When I was a kid, and I was good at the dentist, I got to pick a toy out of the prize drawer -- a random assortment of kitsch from Oriental Trading -- as my reward. Today, my dad and I are getting Chinese, and then later on, I'm going to Best Buy to make one last attempt at getting my BlackBerry working with my cell plan before I give up and put it up for sale.

Oh yeah, I have a blog, don't I?

2009-08-17T19:55:00.007-04:00

I'm not even really sure where I left off, but let's just assume that I am starting anew. Between attending concerts and festivals --mostly Enter the Haggis, but this past weekend I also saw the Wallflowers -- and chasing around a kitten, my father and my sister, I've had little to no time to blog, and even less interest.

What strikes the tinder in me to blog again? Well, for starters, I've been reading The Julie/Julia Project, the blog on which was based (the book, on which was based) the movie Julie & Julia, which I saw shortly after it came out and enjoyed immensely. I identify strongly with the Julie Powell of 2002 -- nearing 30, mostly aimless, and unable to finish a fucking thing. (Also, addicted to Buffy.) I need my own Julie/Julia Project. My own "I will follow through with this if it fucking kills me" goal.

Until I find that goal, I have this. It's not much, but it's mine.

I've decided to go ahead and attempt to apply for disability, since one of the major roadblocks keeping me from finding a job is the fact that I'm limited in what I can do, physically. I'll push myself beyond my limits for a job I love -- heaven knows I did that for B&N, before they shit on me -- but you always have to pay the piper, and I paid dearly. I continue to pay every time I try to push myself; the other day I was painting the porch, knowing that I was heading into a flare-up that would probably leave me useless for a while. I took breaks, because of the heat, but I finished that sucker in three sessions over two days. And now I'm exhausted and feel more or less like somebody's hammered me out for schnitzel, and my dad keeps interrupting my attempts to nap just before I actually get to sleep. Another reason for applying for disability is that I will (probably) be able to go back on Mainecare, and maybe -- just maybe -- actually get some kind of treatment for my fibro. I haven't been to a doctor at all since Lyrica came onto the market. I hear it's worked wonders for some folks.

On top of feeling like I've been rode hard and put away wet, I'm kind of emotionally worn out, too. I've been dealing with a 'friend' recently who lied to me and made several attempts to start a feud, but being generally too tired for drama, I refused to engage her, and my decision not to rise to the bait resulted in the full-on, Facebook-official termination of our friendship. C'est la vie. I suppose she can't have been a very good friend to begin with.

Oh! And my phone got run over by a car, so I replaced it with a phone I bought on Craigslist, except my CL phone won't communicate with my phone plan correctly so it's a brick of shit unless I can get tech support to help me out. What I might end up having to do is resell it and buy a different phone entirely.

Let's see... what won't I be doing in the near future, that I'd hoped to do? I will not be going to Dragon*Con this year, unfortunately. I'd been looking forward to it for quite some time, but it's just not happening. I was so excited, too, because they have Garrett Wang and Robert Duncan McNeill. I'm such a Voyager nerd. I mean, sure, they've got Patrick Stewart and Leonard Nimoy, freaking Picard and Spock, but it's Kim and Paris that I really geek out about.

I will also not be going to my big sister's wedding, at least not yet, because the religious conservatives in Maine gathered enough signatures that now it has to go to a state-wide vote. Fuck you, everyone who signed that petition. I hope someday I have the chance to take away the rights of someone you care about. (Okay, not really, because I don't like taking anyone's rights away. I'm just pissed.)

And... that is the general state of me right now, I think. Tired, in pain, disappointed, and barely holding on at times, but still here.

In every cloud, there is some silver...

2009-07-21T15:54:00.004-04:00

When I first opened Blogger to begin this post, it was one of anger. At humanity in general, and at one individual specifically. I don't know this individual's identity. Nobody does, and it's possible we never will. And, to be fair, the anger was not truly mine to feel, but nonetheless, I and the entire Enter the Haggis fanbase felt it nearly as acutely as the person to whom it rightly belonged. Brian Buchanan didn't want to believe that someone would steal his fiddle, case and all, but that is exactly what appears to have happened this past weekend. At some point between Friday night and Saturday evening, it went missing. The hope was that it was just misplaced, grabbed by another musician by mistake or left behind accidentally, but that doesn't seem to be true, sadly.

The fiddle in question had belonged to Brian for twelve years. He'd saved up to purchase it busking at the local mall, which is especially notable when you take into account that Brian is now only twenty seven. I don't know if you remember what you were like at age fifteen, but I know I certainly didn't have the kind of single-minded dedication that a mature purchase like that requires, let alone the drive to actually earn the money to make it. For fifteen years of his life, that violin was the tool with which he plied his trade. Everyone who has ever lost something valuable to them, whether it was expensive to replace or merely steeped in sentimental value, can begin to understand the feeling of loss Brian was likely experiencing. Now, please remember that this particular fiddle was both.

The fans banded together instantly. I've seen the power of fans united for a cause, and I expected no less from these fans. I was not to be disappointed. For two days we sat on our hands, discussing possible fundraisers and awaiting the word from Brian that the fiddle had been located after all. That word never came. What did come instead was a post from Brian himself with a link to donate funds through Paypal and an offer of compensation -- tokens of gratitude, if you will -- to those willing to help out.

If you click that link now, you'll see that donations have since been closed. In less than fifteen hours, due to the selflessness of leagues of grateful and supportive fans, Brian was able to raise enough money to buy himself a new fiddle. I hope it's an upgrade. He deserves it. Brian is probably one of the hardest-working guys I know, and he routinely goes above and beyond the call of duty to give the fans an experience like no other.

My faith in humanity has been restored by these wacky Haggisheads and their generosity. I didn't even get a chance to add my own two cents (and probably not more than that, as I'm quite broke) before the donation drive ended. The anger I felt at the thief, and really that the thief even existed, has been more or less washed away by the gratitude I feel to the other fans for proving to me -- and more importantly to Brian -- that for every fiddle-stealing jerk in the world, there are hundreds of good people waiting for the chance to show you their capacity for love in even the smallest of ways.

I still really want five minutes alone in a dark alley with the perp and a baseball bat.

A brief explanation of my absence:

2009-07-21T15:33:00.004-04:00

There isn't one. I'm a lazy blogger this month. Too many ETH shows and not enough sleep makes Fia an uncreative slug. However, watch this space for a piece on a tragic event that rocked the Haggis Head community this weekend, and restored a lot of people's faith in their fellow fans and humanity in general.

More fun with the State of Maine

2009-07-11T12:17:00.005-04:00

I am so sick to death of the State of Maine. The added insult to injury of their refusal to pay me unemployment benefits was just compounded by the fact that for some reason, in spite of the fact that I've been found ineligible and chose not to pursue an appeal, an appeal has been filed anyway.

Yeah. That's right. I have a freaking appeal hearing on August 10th.

I don't understand why an appeal has been filed without my consent. If my former employers filed the appeal, then what the hell is wrong with them? The decision was in their favor. Jesus Christ, Barnes & Noble, you won. You ignored your own termination policy and screwed me over. I took it, okay? Just take your balls and go home. I don't want to play anymore. If they didn't file it -- because why the hell would they? -- who did?

I am bone-weary of this bullshit.

Poem: Shivering

2009-07-07T18:27:00.004-04:00

I wrote this poem a few months ago, and now that the emotions that went into it are no longer raw and on the surface, I'd like to share it. Really, I should be used to this by now, because it's basically how my romantic life malfunctions on a regular basis, but at the time it hurt like hell. It wasn't even so much the fact that the guy wasn't interested after all, as the way he (apparently unintentionally) reeled me in and made me think he was until I started to think that maybe I was, too, and then he shut me down with no warning. Not exactly the rejection and abandonment I'm used to. Call it a variation on a theme.

Shivering

It would be a lie
If I said I didn't want to touch you
That watching your face flush
With happiness and maybe alcohol
Didn't make me tremble with anticipation

It would be a lie
If I said that I was unaffected
That your smile wasn't contagious
And that I couldn't see myself falling
I'm glad I didn't let my heart get that far

It would be a lie
If I said that I was okay with the way
That you've changed gears on me so suddenly
Leaving me in your wake without a kiss or a clue
Or that I didn't feel the draft from your cold shoulder

I'm a grown-up girl with a grown-up heart.
I'll stop shivering soon.

It's a boy! (We're pretty sure.)

2009-07-07T17:57:00.001-04:00

On Sunday I unexpectedly became a mom again... to a 4-week-old orphaned barn kitten from Margaret's family farm. As you may know, I already have two cats, Kaylee and Zoe, who as you can imagine are not pleased about this new addition to our family. He's tiny, he smells weird, and he requires feeding from a bottle every 2-4 hours.

His name is Tiberius Kirk Fortune, and he is possibly the sweetest cat since Kaylee, which is saying something. He's decidedly a people kitty, though once you hear his harrowing tale, you'll understand why. As Margaret said, at the point she rescued him, if she'd been a snapping turtle, he'd be a snapping turtle kitty.

Tiberius' tale begins 4 days ago, when he became trapped under a pile of old floorboards underneath the barn at the Cates farm. His mother, after presumably exhausting her own resources to rescue him, gave him up for dead. But tiny Tiberius was too tenacious to resign himself to that fate. For two days he cried as loud as his little lungs would allow, and his cries reached Margaret's ears... and broke her heart.

He is a lucky little lad. If the boards he'd been pinned under -- upside-down, I might add -- had been stacked even a little differently, he might have been squished beneath them as Margaret worked to free him. As it is, he was so frightened that he managed to wedge himself further from reach, and once the boards were out of the way, Margaret had to call to him to get him to come back out where she could reach him.

By this point, I was already en route to the farm, intending to take pictures of the rescue and the kitten it produced. But Margaret had made quick work of it, and when I arrived, Tiberius was free and well on his way to having a belly full of milk. The minute I saw how tiny he was -- and knowing that Margaret's home is strictly anti-indoor cat -- I called home to ask whether we could foster the sweet baby. I was met initially with reluctance, which would later fade instantly upon each family member meeting the little dear.

He charmed my sister, my mother, and my father -- the hardest sell of all -- within moments of meeting them, and my father more or less decided that yeah, he's staying.

Tiberius Kirk Fortune, welcome to the family.

Happy Birthday, America! (Belated)

2009-07-07T00:45:00.002-04:00

Roughly a tank and a half of gas: $43.50

Tolls on I-95: $6

Admission fees at the gate: $10

Being the only Haggisheads at an Enter the Haggis show: priceless.

~*~

It sucked that there wasn't a bigger turn-out this weekend at Lyndon State College's Independence Day celebration. It was weird that the only faces I recognized at the event were the band and their awesome sound guy Glenn. But at the same time, it was kind of rad being able to be there to support the guys.

I'd never been to Vermont before, and I hadn't been in the scenic White Mountains of New Hampshire since I was about... eleven, so just getting there was an adventure. After one slight deviation from the plotted course, I remembered that Desiree is, at best, an unreliable navigator and stole back the Google Maps print-out to ensure that we didn't get lost again. Being that it was the fourth of July, we drove through several celebrations, including the dispersing crowd after a parade in Naples, Maine, and a street fair in North Conway, New Hampshire that we sort of wanted to stop at. We didn't, because as far as we knew, our destination was also a festival. (We would later learn that two tents and a sound stage constitutes a festival in Vermont.)

When we arrived, we were greeted with a wave, quite unexpectedly. I guess the guys in the band were as glad to see familiar faces as I was! The first thing Craig said to me was, "Thank you for not saying anything about my moustache." I like it. It's sort of vaguely Errol Flynn-esque. I think I'm going to affectionately call it 'the pornstache.'

The band scarpered off to find food while the act before them was still on stage, and I took in my surroundings. An amphitheatre on the grounds of a college campus, in somewhat rural Vermont, the venue would probably have been much more inviting -- and therefore contained more people -- if the weather had been cooperative. It was chilly, gray and overcast; occasionally, gusts of wind and the briefest of showers added to the mix for weather that was... not wholly conducive to typical Fourth of July celebrations, shall we say?

The previous act finished up while the guys scarfed down their barbecue supper huddled around a merch bin which acted as a makeshift table. Well, except Craig, who made off for the tree line with his plate. Whether he was protecting his food from the others, or simply making sure he had easy access to the backstage port-a-potty in case it didn't agree with him, I can't be certain, but it was pretty funny. To me, at least.

As the band prepared to go on, I became acquainted with Mark's wife, Chandra, who was doing merch for the band. She's absolutely adorable, very genuine and sweet, and she's a Mainah like me. She's just a doll. It must be hard for her, having her hubby gone on tour, but she seems very supportive and understanding, which is just what I've found to be true of the other band members' significant others I've encountered. They are a special breed of lady, those band wives/girlfriends!

The show itself was great. In spite of the lousy weather and the small crowd, the guys had a great energy going, and it was -- as usual -- contagious. There were maybe thirty or forty people there, but by the end of the show they had drawn most of the crowd out from under their portable rain shelters spread out over the hillside, and many were even dancing! The really funny part, for me, was the crowd participation bits -- in Fiddle Set, Gasoline and Lanigan's Ball, for example -- where Brian or whoever would basically just point to my sister and I, as we were more or less the only people there who knew there were audience participation bits. And we screamed as loud as we could and hoped the guys appreciated it. The locals must have thought we were nuts.

The fireworks were cancelled because of the inclement weather, which I thought was lame. Places with worse weather had their displays, some in spite of pouring rain. There were lots of booms and a few stray sprays of sparks, presumably from an amateur home display, but nothing spectacular. We stuck around to watch the band break and to chat a bit before heading back to the car and... getting lost in the parking lot. (I couldn't find the exit in the dark!) Luckily, the groundskeeper gave me directions out of the lot... and back to the highway. From there, I managed to reverse-engineer my directions to the festival into directions home without employing Google Maps on my phone, and had a remarkably uneventful drive back to Maine.

Longest car trip I've ever made without trading off drive time. Totally worth it.

Celtic Fling: day two

2009-07-05T13:26:00.000-04:00

As many of you will already know from experience, one of the least fun parts about waking up still drunk is being fully conscious and aware when the hangover hits. Now, I've always been very lucky with hangovers. They leave me groggy and headachey, but that's about it. Still, I was pounding down ice water and Excedrin for the first few hours of Fling, and food was not a topic I was prepared to discuss at any great length. I choked down a few donut holes on the way just to have something to absorb the leftover booze sloshing around in my guts, but that was about it.

The original plan for the previous evening had included meeting up with James, an online friend who is as fervent a fan of Scythian (the band sharing the Globe stage with Enter the Haggis, as I am of ETH) and who was staying in the same hotel. It... didn't end up happening that way, of course, between my dying cell battery and Leah's need to have a tire replaced before the Camp Haggis excursion. (It should be noted that Leah drove all the way to Pennsylvania from Missouri, and had to have one tire replaced on the way, so her concern for her car was entirely well-founded, in case my usual glib narrative gives you the wrong impression.) I was pleased to realize, however, that I was able to pick James out of the crowd of people dancing to Scythian's high-energy music with very little trouble, and texted him the obligatory creeper message: "I can see you." We met up, hugged like old friends (something I love about the internet -- the connections you make are often so real that they carry through to "real life" without so much as missing a step) and chatted for a bit before I let him get back to his Scythian set still on-going and I continued nursing my semi-hangover while waiting for ETH's turn on stage.

Throughout the course of the day, they did three hour-long sets, all of which were superb. Probably one notable exception was "Suburban Plains" (a track from the new album that they haven't been performing live for long.) Craig started off with the wrong whistle, which sort of threw the whole song out of key, and Trevor was so thrown that he forgot where he was in the lyrics. I thought they recovered nicely, but I am coming to the conclusion that I am remarkably biased.

At some point, a plan was formulated. An evil, devious plan, which I will tell you more about in the next installment. While I went back to the hotel to basically collapse at a ridiculously early hour instead of heading over to James' hotel room (where I understand there were daiquiris and bunny-chasing to be had,) several other Haggisheads went adventuring to Wal*Mart, and the fruits of their midnight excursion play a pivotal role in this plan.

Feeling nostalgic for harder times

2009-07-02T22:24:00.001-04:00

I was all set to go to bed tonight -- and actually had been trying to get there for quite some time -- when I realized there was a lightning storm going on outside. It made me nostalgic for the nine months I spent living in a camper in my parents' yard, when my cats and I would otherwise have been homeless.

It was a trying time. I moved into the camper in the dead of winter with nothing but Kaylee and Zoe, a space heater, an electric blanket and an electric tea kettle to keep me warm. My mother worried every night during the first few months that I would freeze to death in my sleep (but she wasn't worried enough to make room for me in the house.) The Earl Grey addiction I developed and its consequent caffeine-fueled bouts of creativity were like nothing I've experienced since, though, and I was almost sad to see winter go.

I was not, however, sad to no longer have to walk through thigh-high snowdrifts to go to the bathroom.

Summer came on slow, and it was hot, sticky and uncomfortable, but the storms it brought were both terrifying and gorgeous. I lay awake many nights, with the curtains thrown open so I could watch the lightning until sleep claimed me. And that is exactly what I plan to do right now. Thank you for indulging my sleep-deprived moment of irrational nostalgia.

Pictures & Video from Fling

2009-07-02T09:17:00.003-04:00

If you're interested in looking at my photos from Fling (which are mostly of the guys from Enter the Haggis) you can find them at my Flickr photostream. I gave in and got a Pro account, because I foresee having lots more pictures to upload this summer.

For video of ETH at Fling, you can check out my YouTube account, and because YouTube won't allow videos longer than ten minutes, on Vimeo I have a twelve-minute-long jam where Trevor Lewington, Brian Buchanan and James Campbell (yes, the cyborg!) joined Scythian onstage.

I'm not procrastinating the day two recap, I'm just trying to remember it all.

Hang on a second...

2009-07-02T08:46:00.003-04:00

Before I continue with my recap of day two of Celtic Fling, my big sis has just finished sculpting a big, scary, awesome metal bra, to be auctioned off for breast cancer research and whatnot, but before she can auction it, she needs a name for it. Please pop over to her blog, Weldable Cookies, and help her brainstorm a fitting title for such an outrageously rad piece.

Celtic Fling: day one

2009-07-02T07:14:00.003-04:00

After a long day in the car on Friday, my travel companions (Stephan and his dad Paul, who were entirely too engaging, because I'd intended to sleep the whole way!) and I arrived in Pennsylvania, where we split up. I met my roomies (Stacey, Ali and Leah) at the Quality Inn, and they proceeded to Pinch Pond campgrounds, current home to Camp Haggis.

Almost immediately, two of our roomies took off to attend the first evening of Fling; Gaelic Storm was performing, as well as Ceann and Scythian. Leah and I met up with Ellen, with whom we'd be rooming the second night, and headed off to Wal*Mart to get a tire replaced on Leah's car, and to stock up on a few provisions at the package store. We started drinking with dinner -- Calico Jack with diet Coke for Leah and Moxie (which I'd brought down from Maine) for me -- and headed out, with Ellen at the wheel, to meet up with our fellow Haggis Heads at Camp Haggis.

When we got there, the party was already in full swing, with most of the adults well into their cups and the few underaged kids taking great delight in taunting and otherwise provoking the drunks into serious conversation (I'm looking at you, Stephan.) A number of shots and wild concoctions were pressed on me even before my water bottle full of Moxie and rum was gone; when that ran out, I could count on a fresh beer being pressed into my hand every time my bottle ran dry.

At some point, the majority of people retreated, in various stages of intoxication, into their tents. Ellen returned to the hotel, leaving me and Leah in Ali's care along with Stacey, and only a handful of us remained around the campfire. True to the lyric by the very band that brought us all together, Enter the Haggis, we "carried on 'til five," and I crawled into bed as the sun began to rise.

The evening was not without its drawbacks; a large rock in the camp area that had been the cause of many stubbed toes and drunken stumbles claimed a piece of my glasses and a piece of my face when I was helping Leah back from the bathroom and she tripped over it while holding my hand. (If anyone wants to make a donation to the Fia Needs Glasses Fund, email me! I'm only mostly joking.) That sobered me up considerably, and I had the presence of mind to ice it as the reveling wound down, and rinsed the dirt and blood from my mouth with beer.

Though we were still drunk when we woke up the next morning, and I had road rash on my face, we began the day in mostly high spirits, if a little groggy and behind schedule. Thanks to a wake-up call from Ellen, we didn't miss check-out time, at least!

Fling!

2009-06-28T08:29:00.004-04:00

I did not let my irrational guilt get the best of me, and I am now in Pennsylvania, preparing for the second day of Fling. I have a boatload of Enter the Haggis photographs and videos from the first day, which I will share as soon as I get the chance to upload them.

The grounds are amazing, the shows have been astounding, and I am so glad I came. I've hardly had a chance to speak to the band, aside from James, who assured me yesterday that he'd been plugged in all night and his batteries were fully charged. I shall continue my investigation into the potential cybernetic origins of the rest of the band today.

Being entirely Scots-Irish on my dad's side, and having never felt particularly close to my heritage on my mother's side, I am loving being surrounded by a celebration of Celtic culture... but could someone please tell some of these girls that corsets aren't supposed to make your boobs into a shelf barely an inch below your chin, let alone into horribly disfigured pancakes that hang and flop over the top of said corsets? That doesn't look sexy, let alone comfortable. And for the love of haggis and neeps, men, everybody loves a man in a kilt... but if you wear a freakin' skirt, I'm going to laugh at you. There is a difference, and we can tell at a glance which one it is that you're wearing.

Irrational Guilt!

2009-06-25T10:14:00.000-04:00

I'm torn up with irrational guilt right now, as I prepare to venture off to Manheim, PA for this weekend's Celtic Fling & Highland Games. My younger sister has been guilting me pretty heavily because she won't be able to go, so my enjoyment was already tempered by this, but now I'm worried about my Dad.

He's been forgetting things a lot lately, so as it is I've had to remind him a few times that I'm going to be gone all weekend. He remembers that I'm going to a concert, but he occasionally thinks that it's Friday night, and I'll be home on Saturday, when I won't actually return until Monday. He worries that nobody will let my cats out to visit him at night (he sits up by himself frequently even after nocturnal Fia has gone to bed, and Kaylee has become his buddy.) I worry that my mom and sister will continue to forget that he's a person with feelings as well as being a frequent annoyance (and kind of a jerk.) My sister showed some promise in remembering he was a person yesterday, when she suggested we invite him along to do grocery shopping, but she kind of ruined the goodwill I felt toward her for it by proceeding to complain about him the entire time.

I have a million things to do today to get ready for my trip, and I just found out that I have to spend an as-yet undetermined amount of time at the VA, waiting for Dad to finish getting his eyes looked at. He has what looks like conjunctivitis, that he claims is eye strain from his new glasses.

If I can't get my stuff packed, though, I might as well cancel my trip. Which would probably make everyone but me happy, anyway.

Guilt makes me grumpy.

Oh, State of Maine. You so wasteful.

2009-06-22T23:50:00.003-04:00

I got six letters in the mail today, each reiterating that I am not eligible for unemployment. Which I kind of got the first time, actually. Thanks.

And, you know, I realize that logging is a big industry in Maine, and I guess wasting paper is one way of ensuring that loggers don't become unemployed and attempt to collect benefits... sort of, but can we please think about the environment for a wee second?

Colorful, Festive Edamame Salad

2009-06-21T14:01:00.001-04:00

I basically invented this recipe the other day, but it is initially based on Cedar's Chickpea Salad, available from the deli section of many grocery stores. I intended to post it here before, but I got distracted.

1 lb. frozen shelled edamame, cooked
2 cans chickpeas, drained and rinsed
1 can black beans, drained and rinsed
1 can black olives, drained and sliced
4 sections of roasted red pepper, diced
2 large carrots, shredded
1/2 of a red onion, diced
1 bottle Italian dressing
1 tsp sugar
1/2 tsp salt
cumin & cayenne to taste

Simple directions: throw it all together in a bowl and mix well. It tastes even better after it's had a day or so to sit in its room and think about what it's done.

Let me just clarify...

2009-06-20T08:40:00.003-04:00

I don't disagree with the decision made by the Board of Labor. I think it's a bit stupid, but they cited my limited ability as the reason I was denied -- I can't really work mornings, because of my father -- although I did say that if I was offered work during the mornings, we would try to work something out.

What I do disagree with was the horrible, deceptive (not to mention wasteful) way they delivered the decision. First, telling me I had been denied, then calling me and telling me I was eligible, sending a notice that said I was approved and the necessary paperwork to continue my eligibility, and then sending a second notice, the same day, denying me again... it seems almost unprofessional, not to mention just plain mean.

I guess I'll take the weekend to consider appealing, because I could really use the money -- my car needs to be inspected this month and registered next month -- but somehow, I doubt it will be of any use.

Fuck You, State of Maine

2009-06-19T12:20:00.003-04:00

Many of you know I filed for unemployment when I was terminated. I was initially denied, and I let it drop. I received a phone call the other day which turned out to be a fact-finding interview, because they had determined that I was, in fact, eligible. So I chatted with the nice man from the Board of Labor and he said they'd have a decision for me in 48 hours. Well, they did better than that. They gave me two.

Today, I got three envelopes in the mail from the Board of Labor. The first one contained a letter which declared that I had been approved for unemployment benefits! I was elated. This wouldn't solve, but would at least alleviate some of my financial woes. The second envelope had a form that was necessary for the continuation of my benefits. The third one contained a letter remarkably similar to the first one, which was labeled "Decision 2." Where the first letter had said approved, this one said "Denied."

What a dirty tease. They couldn't have just saved a tree and sent me the one "fuck you" letter? They had to build my hopes up first? What the hell was the point of that?

Confirmed! James Campbell is a cyborg!

2009-06-18T22:16:00.004-04:00

In front of approximately 100 witnesses on video chat tonight, live from The Intersection in Grand Rapids, MI, Enter the Haggis drummer James Campbell confirmed, "Yes, I'm a cyborg."

For my next hard-hitting ETH investigation, I shall attempt to figure out how and why lead guitarist Trevor Lewington, the amazing lyricist and maritime aficionado with a penchant for ghosts, is so ridiculously awesome. I suspect he's also not quite human. Perhaps he is, himself, a ghost? More on this later.

I can has hugs.

2009-06-17T18:43:00.000-04:00

After my blog post yesterday, the one friend who hadn't totally cut me out of his life, Shawn, called me in the middle of the night, pretty annoyed that I'd made the post in the first place. The friend I mentioned as an example had seen the blog (I'm sorry, Jeff. I didn't mean for you to feel like I was calling you out!) and was hurt by it. That was never my intention. I was trying to vent my own hurt and frustration at feeling forgotten and alone, not cause anyone else pain.

It was strongly suggested that I haul my butt out of bed, clothe it, and get it to Denny's, so I did. There, I was rewarded for my compliance with the first hugs I've had in over a month, from Shawn and Jeff as well as Robert and Colleen (who is a Haggishead, which is completely irrelevant but always notable.) Even though I worried that they felt obligated, I was sort of touched that they made the effort. Because the truth is, they didn't have to feel obligated, and probably wouldn't have if they didn't care.

I did have to kind of fight the urge to cling, limpet-like, to Jeff's side, now that I know the slight wasn't intentional. I think that might have made him uncomfortable.

Salt in the wounds I thought were healing

2009-06-16T14:02:00.001-04:00

I was hurt by the way my social circle had so easily cut me out of their lives after my termination from work. The way they seemed to sort of forget I existed, when they'd become such a vital part of what kept me sane, was a slap in the face. I'm lucky that I've found that sort of grounding social outlet in a different, if internet-based community for the time being, but I miss the in-person social interaction, and I really, really miss the hugs.

Which is why it sort of felt like a sucker punch when I ran into one of those friends yesterday, a friend who had always been ready with a hug or three, and who I'd probably cried on at least once or twice. While he seemed happy to see me, the hug never came. It just... didn't happen. That contact I used to take as a given, just wasn't offered.

I'm a person that thrives on physical contact. It's been over a month since anyone hugged me. It's been a month since anyone touched me when they didn't have to. I'm starving for touch, for human contact, for even the most innocent physical affection.

I can't handle this isolation. I'm going a little crazy right now.

Out of my mind, back in five minutes.

Rachael Ray: Yummo, or culturally offensive?

2009-06-15T12:44:00.002-04:00

While at the VA with my dad the other day, I was idly watching Rachael Ray in the primary care waiting room, and she was talking about nachos. Specifically, her own variation on the nacho theme, which she called "Irish Nachos." My jaw dropped in horror.

The sound was low, and the noise level in the waiting area fluctuated so that I couldn't really hear what went into it, but it was clear that what she was calling "Irish Nachos" was basically a boiled dinner, shredded over waffle-cut french fries. Which is when I started getting a little butthurt.

Then I came home and looked up the recipe. Not only is the dish made with said waffle-cut potatoes and typical boiled dinner ingredients -- corned beef and cabbage -- but it also includes BEER. How or why anyone would want or need to put beer IN their "nachos" is beyond me, but the whole unappetizing mess is indeed topped with a cheese sauce made from light beer, chicken stock, butter, flour, and shredded cheddar.

That doesn't even sound tasty. It sounds disgusting, and just offensive enough to make me like her even less. It's not bad enough that she's introduced words like "yummo" and "sammie" into the common vernacular?

Apparently I am on the crack...

2009-06-10T12:10:00.003-04:00

After yesterday's Moxie-and-Red-Bull-inspired burst of creativity, I had a very bizarre dream last night. I was going to a concert with Margaret and Desiree. (I don't think it was ever specified what band, either, but I assume it was probably Enter the Haggis because that's basically all I ever see live.) For some reason, things kept cropping up to keep me from taking a shower and getting dressed for the show. For some reason we all lived in an apartment in this city, with my mom.

It was almost time for the show and we had wanted to be early, but I still hadn't had time to shower, so I just threw on clean clothes. We were totally going to be late, as it was. Then there was some kind of snafu with the car, like we couldn't find it, and then I blacked out or something, and when I came to in the dream, I was lost. In a city that wasn't the same city we were living in. It didn't really look anything like Boston, but my subconscious decided that it was. And then my mom called and she was yelling at me for getting lost, and I was trying to find my car so I could get Margaret and Desiree and get to the concert, even though I was pretty sure by the time we got there, everyone would have gone home.

I'm not sure what happened after that, but I woke up still feeling lost, anxious, disappointed and a little homesick.

Who needs creative juices when you have Red Bull?

2009-06-10T00:01:00.003-04:00

Hopped up on Red Bull Cola (a German study has shown that it contains trace amounts of cocaine!) and Moxie today, I decided to finally put into action an idea I'd had for a musical video which matched the Enter the Haggis song "Did You Call Me Albatross?" with clips of River Tam dancing and fighting from the television show "Firefly" and the resultant film, "Serenity."

The blurb on YouTube reads, "The song "Did You Call Me Albatross" from Enter the Haggis' new album "Gutter Anthems" sounds like it was pulled from the world of Joss Whedon's "Firefly." For a "Firefly" fan, the title and the driving beat bring to mind nothing so much as River, our own little Albatross, though the song was not written with that intention."

Don't poke the Haggis...

2009-06-09T07:57:00.003-04:00

Over at her blog, Sofie (known in certain circles as its_only_me) posted a list of Chuck Norris-esque "facts" about Enter the Haggis fiddler Brian Buchanan.

I've been picking on James lately, so I guess we just need someone to spork Craig, Mark and Trevor now. Poor guys.

Pain & Exhaustion

2009-06-08T14:01:00.000-04:00

I spent most of yesterday, when I wasn't napping, in a grumpy cloud of irritability and exhaustion. For no apparent reason (other than my fibro, of course) my back was spasming and my limbs were achy. Things haven't really improved since then. I'm sore to the point that moving hurts as much as sitting still does, and I feel like I could sleep for a week.

So of course, I have a job interview today, the first since my search for employment began. I feel like my body is sabotaging me.

James Campbell: Cyborg, or Android?

2009-06-06T13:08:00.003-04:00

I come bearing news about James Campbell, drummer for Enter the Haggis and SUSPECTED CYBORG. Yesterday afternoon, I and several other visitors to the Enter the Haggis chatroom witnessed some rather damning evidence. While Brian Buchanan chatted with fans in the foreground of the video feed, James was in the back with his head off. Some might say this was a trick of the light, caused by the bright sun outside the hotel window, but I know what I saw.

I consulted with expert Brenda Treadwell, who agreed that James probably had his head off to recharge, and theorized that his characteristic attire -- shorts and a t-shirt -- is worn with the intention of allowing natural airflow to ensure that his electrical systems don't overheat. It was further postulated that the reason James is so frequently seen driving the ETH van is because of his built-in navigations systems.

James frequently moves too quickly for cameras to capture, as I have reported previously, and witnesses in Michigan on Thursday report having seen a decorative backdrop fall down onto James, yet he didn't even miss a beat. I ask you, does that sound like the work of a mere human to you?

Still, the question remains whether James is a cyborg or an android. The difference, of course, is that a cyborg consists of synthetic and organic systems, and an android is entirely synthetic. Think Seven of Nine on Star Trek: Voyager versus Data on Star Trek: The Next Generation. Based on the evidence as presented, I'm tempted to conclude that he is, in fact, an android (Kryten on Red Dwarf had interchangeable heads, you may recall) but unfortunately there is no way to be certain without asking his parents -- who seem like totally cool folks -- whether he was born or manufactured, and really, that's just an awkward conversation nobody wants to have.

Your friendly neighborhood porn clerk

2009-06-05T19:11:00.000-04:00

It's probably no surprise to many of you, who've read the back posts about my father's porn addiction, my post explaining my personal feelings about sex, and the post where I mention that I am now actually selling porn on eBay, that I have no problem walking into an adult bookstore, browsing and chatting with my friends, and even making a few purchases. Porn and all its various accoutrements don't embarrass me anymore. They just really haven't, since I realized that sex was nothing to be ashamed of. That's not to say that I don't still raise an eyebrow in reaction to some of the content of said porn, or the... unique nature of some of the accoutrements, but all in all, it barely registers.

Something that Margaret and Desiree and I have done for the past few years, is whenever Margaret is home from school, we go to Treasure Chest II, which is arguably the cleanest and least skeezy adult bookstore in Central Maine, and browse. Each visit, the clerk is more and more delighted to see us -- apparently, we are entertaining.

Now, I'm not sure how we manage to always get the same clerk when it's the three of us. I've been in there by myself (bringing in a job application, if you must know. I would have SO MUCH FUN working there.) and he was nowhere in sight. But whenever it's the three of us, Ricki is on shift.

Ricki is a character. The son of a minister, he's a former stripper who works at the Treasure Chest II in the evenings, and cleans a department store -- in so much as Central Maine has department stores -- in the mornings. He's a hard-working guy. Which, I suppose, is why he seems so delighted to see us. His usual clientele are probably more inclined to slip away and utilize the "private viewing booths" than stand around and chat, whereas we are inclined to speculate about the inspiration behind certain designs and alternate uses of certain products, discuss subject matter, and just generally keep him and ourselves amused. Plus, we usually buy something.

My sister Desiree is vaguely terrified of Ricki, though it may just be a general fear of sexuality. While I was writing "dirty" stories (and having them embarrassingly confiscated by my mother) at the ripe old age of twelve, she came up through much of junior high and high school under the Crusade for Sexual Ignorance, cunningly enacted upon unsuspecting youth under the guise of budget cuts and morality. In any case, she refuses to approach the register to check out unless she's flanked by Margaret and myself, which is both amusing and frustrating. I am constantly being distracted by something new, or sparkly, or covered in feathers, because I am apparently a drag queen trapped in a woman's body. I don't want to have to hold my sister's hand every time she makes a mature purchase. Anyway, that sort of takes the "mature" out of it and makes it feel a little skeevy.

To his credit, as far as I know, Ricki is the only porn clerk who hasn't seen me walk into an adult bookstore with Margaret and automatically assumed we were a lesbian couple. At least, if he did, he tactfully kept it to himself. Most notable was a mostly-toothless drag queen, in a particularly sketchy store called 1st Amendment (which has now been closed down and turned into a pet store) who declared that I was clearly the top. (Amusingly, I am actually more bottomy than toppy, but due to some seriously wimpy exes, I've had to become rather adept at switching it up. Now you know a little bit more TMI about my personal life! I'm sure you're utterly thrilled.)

Smellpretties!

2009-06-05T10:46:00.000-04:00

My mom has been coveting my Bath & Body Works Exotic Coconut body spray lately. It was discontinued, so I've been sort of eying my reserves nervously lately. When my sister and I were shopping for Mom's birthday present, we found out that it has been brought back due to popular demand, or something. So, we bought her some of that, and some Moonlight Path, too, which we knew she liked. I also grabbed her an aromatherapy thing intended to help her sleep, and a bottle of "29 and Holding" sunblock, which I thought was a fun birthday gag gift, as well as something she may actually get some use out of, since she spends her days off gardening.

I got myself some lotion and body wash in an aromatherapy scent that had also been discontinued and recently revived -- Sandalwood Rose, my personal favorite. I wish they'd brought it back in a perfume or body spray, but I'll make do. I actually came out of there with much fewer "smellpretties" than I usually buy myself when I go in for the semi-annual sale, mostly because until the DVDs start selling better, I'm pretty strapped for cash, and it was my mom's birthday, so getting her a good present was a priority.

Holy crap, that's a lot of porn.

2009-06-05T01:23:00.002-04:00

I have in my possession three large boxes, plus an entire gun cabinet shelf full of adult DVDs, waiting to be auctioned on eBay. If I can get five to ten bucks for each one, I could potentially fund both of the trips I wanted to take this summer, without getting a job (but the search continues.) I have duplicates of many, some in triplicate, and even more copies of a few. It would appear that I have more or less the entire run of Girls Gone Wild up until about two years ago, plus a number of celebrity videos. The collection covers a wide variety of subjects and even eras -- one cover features a handsome young man, with piercing eyes and an unfortunate moustache, by the name of Ron Jeremy.

I've spent the last few days sorting through the contents of these boxes and have started listing them on eBay. I've already sold two! I am a one-woman, internet-based porn consignment shop, or something!

Leah says after I've sold enough DVDs, I have to tell the guys in Enter the Haggis how I funded my trip to Celtic Fling in Manheim, PA to see them. I will admit I'm curious to see if they can be shocked, but I'm sure it's not the craziest way anyone's ever raised the cash to travel to a show. Still, I do love having a good story, and "I sold porn on the internet to be here" should be worth a few laughs.

Confession: I am a snob.

2009-06-01T15:29:00.000-04:00

I'm a snob about grammar and spelling, to be precise. Even though mine isn't always perfect, I strive for the best that I can manage, and I think I do pretty well. I feel there are exceptions to be made for informal writing, like blogging, but generally whenever anything you're writing is intended to be consumed by an audience, I feel you should at least do your potential audience the courtesy of running it through some kind of spelling/grammar check.

I'm even less tolerant of poor spelling and grammar in the context of printed works; there's a slim possibility that I might enjoy Stephanie Meyer's Twilight series, if I could get beyond the unhealthy relationship dynamics that it sells to young girls, but I've been advised against reading it by several friends. Not for the above reason, but because apparently Ms. Meyer is one of those writers. The ones who somehow manage to sneak a myriad of grammatical errors past their editors by virtue of the sheer marketability of their material. Yes, my friends have warned me off attempting to read the series not because of the dazzling, sparkly vampires, or the creep factor, but because of the lack of editing it has suffered.

The other day, my father instructed me to find a book for him on the internet, written by his late friend's brother, and supposedly mentioning him in it. The site he told me to search was Lulu.com (my sister and I exchanged a look and thought the same exact thing: he's mispronouncing Google. We were wrong.) I went to Lulu and searched for the title and author's name he provided me with, and I found a horribly-worded, horribly-spelled, grammatically atrocious summary which did not leave me hopeful for the contents of the paperback, which cost some $45 plus shipping. At my father's insistence, I ordered it for him anyway.

When it arrived, I flipped through the pages out of sheer curiosity. I wanted to cry. The entire text was set in bold typeface. Paragraph breaks were random, but not used nearly as often as necessary. Several people's dialogue blended together within each paragraph. I felt... dirty, somehow, as I handed the book back into my father's waiting hands.

Lulu is, apparently, a legitimate site that allows creators of content -- CDs, DVDs, books, and more -- to distribute that content without having to deal with overhead, because the products are printed to order. The banner on their front page shows a picture of Sunken Treasure, which is an anthology of essays by Wil Wheaton. However, I'm pretty sure that legitimate writers as clever as Wil Wheaton are bright enough to employ, say, editors, which is actually one of the optional services that Lulu offers as part of their publishing package.

Originally, I had judged Lulu harshly based on the quality of the book my father purchased from them, but now I realize that it can be a useful tool for people wishing to publish their own work. The main problem I can see is that the few real gems that Lulu users produce are going to be lost among a sea of unedited, barely comprehensible pap. Which... actually isn't much different from the talented but overlooked writers struggling to be published by commercial publishing companies, only to be left behind in the shadows of writers like Meyer.

Ugh, 5 AM.

2009-06-01T11:42:00.001-04:00

I'm a night owl. That probably comes as a surprise to exactly nobody, because I frequently make posts in the middle of the night. I can often be found chatting away the wee hours in the Enter the Haggis chatroom -- whatever incarnation it happens to have taken at the time as the band's tech geek Brian Buchanan quests for the Perfect Chat Platform. (I remain skeptical that it exists, but confident that if it does, Brian will find it. And as much as I dislike the current chat, he seems satisfied, and so, I suppose, I can learn to live with it.) Recently, however, I've had to beg out of chat early. My mother's car has been in the shop, leaving me with the only functioning vehicle in the house and the responsibility to get her to work on time.

"On time," in my mother's world, means a minimum of half an hour early, which is why I found myself, at ten minutes of five this morning, being pressured to, "Come on, let's go!" The look of surprise on my mother's face when I emerged from my room fully dressed, with keys in hand, and said, "Well? Let's go, then," was totally worth having to press snooze twice on a 4:30 alarm. Well, you know. If anything that's actually costing me money and isn't a trip to someplace fun can be worth getting up at 4:30 am for.

What an ordeal!

2009-05-31T22:33:00.002-04:00

So, after supper today, I got the brilliant idea to condense my many and varied email addresses into a nice generic one, using a domain I've had for a while but haven't been doing much with. Little did I know that it would take up several hours of my life, changing my blog over to a new Google account (which turned out to be completely unnecessary after all, awesome job Fia) and working on some kind of page to put up at said domain so that people wouldn't see a blank page if they followed the address there. Well, that seemed like a good enough excuse to start playing with the new web design software I picked up from Coffee Cup, so I started poking at that, and the next thing you know, it's ten thirty at night.

I've only just emerged at a point where I'm satisfied -- for the moment -- with the way things stand. The plus sides are that my email is all in one handy-dandy place, which I love, and I have a basic grasp on the use of the visual design program so that I can get to work on the site I actually bought it for. The down side is... where the heck did my Sunday evening go?!

Reopening old wounds

2009-05-30T11:43:00.002-04:00

I'm kind of impressed with myself. I didn't actually reconsider making that post yesterday until after I started seeing traffic to it, and I was surprised to find that my first thought was, "What will ______ think of me now?" as I saw familiar IP locations access the page. And hopefully you'll think no different of me. Our experiences are what make us who we are, and if you're still reading this, you've already experienced who I am in some way, and decided that reading my thoughts and experiences was worth five minutes of your time every time I make a post, whether it's cute kitty pics, recipes I enjoyed, or a cathartic rant about something that's happened in my life. Unless you've known me even longer than my oldest, dearest friend, that experience was already a part of me before you ever met me.

A horrible encounter with a creep five years my senior when I was in adolescence is not solely responsible for the strong but insecure woman writing to you now. The seeds of insecurity were sown throughout my childhood, starting with a mother who was painfully insecure, herself, and had been bullied by my father for a decade before I was even born, and they were nurtured by the cruelty of children who, as children do, sense and exploit the weaknesses of their classmates.

There is one classmate in particular that I can't help but call to mind when I think about my childhood. His name was Ricky, and he was one of the few kids in our grade -- no, our school -- who was picked on more than I was. Lanky and geeky, quiet and shy, he accepted his role as the bottom of the totem pole with very little argument. I'm ashamed to admit that I wasn't blameless in the relentless teasing he received in the fourteen years we attended the same schools together, but we shared the camaraderie of prisoners unable to escape their fate, and when the tables were turned, he gave back as good as he got from me.

Ricky killed himself when we were 18. I still visit his grave sometimes; though I'm not certain that I believe in God, I'm pretty sure at times that it's only by the grace of someone that I didn't follow the same road. And I feel like much of my strength comes from emerging from the experiences we shared, and surviving.

For a long time after my boy scout camp encounter, I felt damaged. No boys, to my knowledge, had looked at me twice before then, and none did afterwards, either. I went through high school with the potentially destructive desperation to lose my virginity of a misguided teenager with a woman inside of her who only wanted to feel desirable. Probably the biggest mistake this led to was devoting three years of my life to the boy who finally accomplished this goal for me. And then after only a few months single, I jumped right into bed and a four-year relationship with the next male who showed the slightest interest in me.

And here's where more of my strength comes from: Both of those relationships, at their demise, left my self-esteem -- what little of it existed -- shattered and bleeding. Somehow, I pulled through. Over time, I realized that it wasn't me that was the loser, it was the idiots who thought they had actually found something better than me, through infidelity and lies. I still lay awake at night, with my cats for company, wondering if I'll die alone and childless. It's my greatest fear. But I no longer worry that I'm not worthy of finding love.

I know that I am an intelligent, loving, loyal person, with a big heart and good soul. These days, I'm more concerned I might never find someone worthy of me. Two years single is a long time, for me, but at this point, I could do two more standing on my head. If I happen to be starving for human contact to the point that I would probably cry grateful tears if someone would just hug me, well... that's another issue entirely.

I need an adult!

2009-05-29T11:14:00.003-04:00

There are some people I will always feel like a kid around. School teachers, whether I remember them fondly or not. My parents, obviously, even though I frequently have to act as their grown-up. Aunts and uncles, my parents' friends, and my friends' parents are all on the list.

I've mentioned before that I grew up across the street from a cow farm. The farmer has several sons, and at least one step-son, most of whom have added their own homes to the plot of land that stretches out on the other side of my once-paved back country road. I grew up around those sons. They were men when I was a small child, and they'd call me "Smiley" when I visited the cows with my parents. They're definitely on the list of people who I will always feel like a kid around.

Which is why it's so awkward for me that one of them seems to have taken an interest in me. When we meet on the street, he makes lewd comments and tries to flirt, succeeding only in making me feel extremely awkward. Occasionally he lurks around at the end of his driveway to catch me when I check the mail. He's married. He has a grandchild. According to my dad, when I mentioned not wanting to run into him at the mailbox because he makes me uncomfortable, he's good people.

It's not that I really think he'll try anything. He's a nice guy, for the most part, probably just having a mid-life crisis. But I am not interested in being his mid-life crisis, and so I pile on clothes like armor and try to avoid checking the mail when I can see his truck lurking in the driveway. It's not even that something might happen, it's that if anything did happen, my parents probably wouldn't even believe me. That is a terrible feeling.

When I was thirteen, a friend and I went to visit a Boy Scouts summer camp while her mom volunteered with her brother's troop. My friend and I were very popular with the counselors, many of whom ranged in age from 15-18, because we were the only girls around. It was a new and exciting experience for me, having been labeled early in adolescence as undesirable, for reasons that still mystify me. I had my first innocent kiss with a boy of 16, who insisted that I write, after those precious few weeks were over (I did; he never wrote back.) But one evening, when he was occupied elsewhere, my friend wanted some time alone with a guy she'd grown attached to, and one of the older boys, five years my senior, was more than happy to keep me distracted.

I won't say what happened, but I will say that I later heard he tried it with the camp director's daughter, and lost his job. I will say that I was physically okay, but I was confused and hurt and frightened. I will say that over a decade later, when I see him around -- which is, thankfully, not often -- it induces a panic attack. Most notably, this happened at my sister's high school graduation, which resulted in me finally telling my mother what happened.

I'm pretty sure she didn't believe me then, and she didn't even know the guy.

I am such a crazy cat lady.

2009-05-29T09:43:00.000-04:00

I can't help it if my cats are so ridiculously adorable that I feel compelled to share pictures of them. This morning, Kaylee was sitting on my pillow with her head under the window shade, peeping out at the rain and the birds. I pulled the shade to let a little -- very little -- light in, and she looked surprised, like she'd just realized I was there. Then she trotted over to where I was sitting at my desk, curled up on my chest to be snuggled, and started purring like mad.

When she'd had her fill of Mommy snuggles for the moment, she went over to where Zoe was laying peacefully, and began aggressively purring at her. She was hoping to entice her into a wrestle-bath-nap, I would imagine. (Their wrestling matches inevitably turn into "forced" baths, where Zoe "holds Kaylee down against her will" and bathes her, while Kaylee makes a sound vaguely like a boat motor, and then they both fall asleep.)

Zoe was in the mood for none of that this morning, and settled for being quietly annoyed and trying to sleep while letting the kitten snuggle her. You can see that Kaylee was quite pleased with this turn of events, anyway. She just loves her big sister! I love this picture so much. It almost looks posed, as though it were possible to get cats to pose.

I am almost lame enough to consider making this my Christmas card photo.

Testing my willpower...

2009-05-27T09:05:00.004-04:00

You know, it's hard not to want to crawl back into bed on a chilly, kind of gray May morning, but frankly I think this is just cheating:

I mean, really. That's not playing fair.

Eating like... a normal person?!

2009-05-26T18:24:00.002-04:00

Holy cow, I feel weird! I actually remembered to eat breakfast before eleven o'clock, and I've been ravenous all day long. I ate a lot. Hunger is, as I mentioned in my earlier post, a rare sensation for me, and when I do feel hungry I often... get scared and panic.

Yes, I realize this kind of makes me a freak.

Let me tell you about all the stuff I ate today, so you can get an idea of what's "a lot" to me. At about 8, I had a bowl of oatmeal (strawberries & cream!) and by around eleven thirty or so, I was hungry! So after freaking out for a moment, I went and made myself a tuna salad sandwich (with sweet pickle relish and chopped tomatoes, yum.) By one or so... I was hungry again, so I ate about 10oz of cottage cheese with peaches in.

At about four thirty, I was peckish again, so I had a handful of pretzel crackers and some goat cheese (with olives and garlic, from the farmer's market!) Supper was a large helping of baked salmon (my mom makes it with mustard, mayo and lemon slices, which sounds weird but tastes DELICIOUS) with couscous and green beans. Later, I might even have some apple pie. What the heck?! I might as well go for a record!

...I have been told that this is about how much a normal person eats in one day. Which... sort of explains why my body thinks it's hibernating most of the time. Ahem.

...identity crisis?

2009-05-26T17:59:00.005-04:00

Earlier, I tweeted about a "canvas tent-gazebo-thing" (I believe the word I was struggling for was canopy, and thank you all for bearing with my brainfart) that my mom and I had put together to cover our pool deck. Well, the "pegs" it came with, for securing it in place, were little more than bent pieces of metal with nothing to hold them in the ground, so we decided to wait to secure it until we could get to Target and pick up some tent pegs.

It turns out that was probably not a wise decision. While we were eating supper tonight, the canopy suffered an identity crisis. After gazing at the cool, refreshing (if still a bit cloudy, which is why I haven't gone for that swim yet) waters of our pool, it decided it would rather be a boat.

It took me and my mom a while to stop laughing long enough to fish it out.

Weight-y decisions

2009-05-26T16:21:00.001-04:00

I've been doing a lot of thinking, about vegetarianism and how that sort of diet/lifestyle would fit with my nutritional needs, and I was leaning heavily towards it. But I feel like, in my unique situation, I need more fats and proteins than a vegetarian diet can provide, which is why I've finally settled on becoming a pescetarian.

I really didn't take this decision lightly. Diet, like religion, is a personal decision, and you have to be true to yourself. Plus, I think they take away your Mainer card if you swear off seafood entirely. Trufax.

Something I don't like to talk about, but which isn't a secret, is that I had laparoscopic gastric bypass surgery about six years ago. I was on the low end of the spectrum for candidacy, lost about eighty pounds... and then gained back about fifty of them, partly due to medication for unrelated conditions, and partly because I don't eat enough. The reason I don't like to talk about it is not because I consider myself a failure, but because there are things I'm tired of hearing, like "wow, you must have been really big, then," and "that's cheating/the easy way out."

Don't ever let anyone tell you that life-threatening abdominal surgery is cheating. There's nothing easy about laying in a hospital bed with tubes in your stomach and nose, and an IV in your arm, or going home with a tube hanging out of your side to feed yourself through for 6-8 weeks. There's definitely nothing easy about learning to eat again, and the trial-and-error method of figuring out what foods you can't eat anymore, period. Six years later, celery still makes me vomit.

I did what I thought I had to do, to prevent myself from going down a dangerous road of heart disease and diabetes. Looking back now, I don't regret the decision I made, but I do think it was the wrong one, if that makes any sense. The procedure I had was called a Roux-en-Y gastric bypass. It and all its bariatric cousins are, quite frankly, for many people with severe obesity, a miracle. That does not mean those people will have an easy go of it, either. It is a constant struggle, whether you are ultimately considered a success or a failure.

It's had a lot of lasting repercussions, beyond my aversion to celery. For one, I am very rarely hungry, and I often forget to eat, which results in my body becoming convinced that it's hibernating. When I do eat, I have to do so in small quantities, or I'll make myself sick. My body even absorbs alcohol strangely: I become intoxicated quickly, but sober up even quicker. Almost nothing I ingest behaves the way it typically would in a person with an unaltered digestive system.

So, you can see why I would have to consider for some time any drastic change in my eating habits. I feel like pescetarianism is the right decision for me. I would like to commit myself to vegetarianism, but I know that my body won't be able to handle a vegetarian diet without becoming malnourished, not because of the nature of the diet itself, but because of the unique way my body reacts to different foods.

And I'm really looking forward to eating my sister's share of Mom's baked salmon tonight, because with her usual approach to sibling rivalry, she's decided to go vegetarian.

Seriously, body? Now?

2009-05-26T11:27:00.002-04:00

So, my family has been telling me that I look like I'm losing weight, but the scale says no, which is fine by me because I'm not actually trying to lose right now. Apparently, my weight is just redistributing itself. How shall I put this delicately? Suddenly my, er, cups runneth over.

Really? Really, body, really? You do realize I'm 27, right? Because I'm pretty sure I went through that particular growth spurt when I was about 14, and I was amply endowed by the time it was done. I don't really want to have to have reduction surgery, for crying out loud.

I'm too old for this!

Context is everything.

2009-05-25T14:50:00.000-04:00

Well... that experiment failed miserably. Of the three people who responded, one was one of my oldest, dearest friends and one was my sibling. Luckily, I can live with my bubble of weird anonymous vulnerability. I was just indulging my curiosity -- or, attempting to. The particular new pattern of hits that has really intrigued me will have to remain a mystery, unless and until the person behind them makes their presence known.

I'm always a little bit wary about posting to a public blog, because I have this uncanny ability to attract weirdos. And, you know, people like that, I don't necessarily want reading up on the minutia of my life, but that's the risk you run in keeping a blog. There's no way to be sure that only people of stellar character are reading about your weird simultaneous fear of and yearning for commitment and love, your dad's epic porn collection, or your triumphant successes and crushing failures, though I'm sure that most of you are.

The really interesting thing, to me, is that you are here for a variety of reasons. Some of you are family, or near enough. Some of you know me from work (remember back when I had a job?) and others know me because we share a favorite band or television show. But however we know each other -- or don't -- you have all helped to make me feel like I have something interesting to contribute to the world. It's not always easy to look at someone outside of the context you're familiar with seeing them in, and whether you've identified yourself to me or not, I would like to thank you for allowing me the opportunity to show you myself in a different context, and for (apparently!) liking me anyway.

Hello? Who's there?

2009-05-24T17:41:00.004-04:00

If you blog, you probably wonder, like I do, who's reading your blog. You can employ hit counters and IP trackers, but unless you know for certain that a particular IP address belongs to a particular person, there's still no way of knowing for sure, and the guessing game can drive you to distraction. This uncertainty of just who is reading your thoughts provides a unique sense of simultaneous anonymity and vulnerability.

I've been getting some hits recently that utterly baffle me, so I thought I'd open up the floor for introductions. If you're enjoying this blog, maybe you and I have something in common, and I'm all about connecting with people who share similar interests and experiences. So, uh... Hi. I'm Fia, from Windsor, ME. Who are you, and where are you from? And um, out of curiosity, what on Earth brought you here to this blog?

Anybody?

Vegetarian Haggis

2009-05-24T14:00:00.002-04:00

It took me quite a bit of searching to find a recipe for vegetarian haggis that sounded wholly appealing to me. While the beans and lentils sounded tasty, most of the recipes I found contained nuts, and I'm not terribly fond of nuts in things, especially if I can't see them. Yes, I'm crazy. This is not news.

This recipe came from Veg World, where it was actually listed as vegan haggis. However, I used Olivio, which contains whey, where the original recipe called for dairy-free margarine, and we didn't have any cumin, so I substituted curry powder for the cumin and turmeric. Apart from that, I followed Mike Lewis' recipe to the letter:

Vegetarian Haggis

This recipe can be prepared in advance, ready to bake before serving. The quantities are for four people, but don't worry if the servings look small - the dish is very filling.

½ cup (3 oz, 75 g) fine oatmeal (the pinhead variety works best)
2/3 cup (4 oz, 110g) of brown or green lentils
1 large onion, chopped
1 tbsp. vegetable oil
2 large carrots, finely grated
4 to 6 mushrooms, sliced
1 tsp. ground spices (your choice of cumin, turmeric, paprika or nutmeg, in any combination)
1 tbsp. soy sauce
One 14-oz (400 g) can of kidney beans, drained and rinsed
2 cloves of garlic, finely minced
Salt and pepper to taste
Knob of dairy-free margarine

Oven: Pre-heat to 375F (190C)

Put the oatmeal in a bowl and cover with water. Let it stand for at least an hour. Drain thoroughly.

Place the lentils in a pan of water and boil rapidly for 20 - 30 minutes or until soft (the time will vary according to the type of lentils). When the lentils are ready, drain and rinse them in a sieve.

Sautée the onion in the oil until it is soft. Add the carrots and mushrooms, and cook for a little longer. Then add the spices, soy sauce, cooked lentils and about a quarter of the kidney beans.

Using a food processor or blender, purée the remainder of the beans to form a thick paste (add a little water if necessary to prevent it getting too stiff). Add this to the lentil and vegetable mixture.

Finally, add the drained oatmeal, salt and pepper, and the garlic. If the mixture looks too dry, add the margarine. Mix well.

Transfer to an oven-proof dish and bake for 30 to 40 minutes.

After 40 minutes in the oven at 375F, the haggis was still very mushy, so I put it back in for another twenty minutes. After the twenty minutes had passed, it was, if possible, mushier. I didn't dare put it back in for longer, so I attempted to cut it. Not so much. Scooped it out onto a plate and tasted it: bland and flavorless, regardless of the amount of spices I had added. Added HP sauce: tasted like HP sauce.

Verdict: EPIC FAIL, and a complete waste of perfectly good vegetables. I think I'll find out whether Emily might like it for her goats. At least I still have bashed neeps to eat.

Ow. Don't touch me.

2009-05-24T13:11:00.001-04:00

I'm having one of those days where my skin hurts to the touch, so basically I just want to be naked, unconscious, and suspended in mid-air. For obvious reasons, this makes me kind of irritable, and I'm pretty sure I've bitten Desiree's head off at least twice since I got up this morning. She's very understanding of her big sister's random bouts of bitchiness. She even brought a cup of tea to my room after the first outburst, and now she's dicing turnips to go with the veggie haggis, which has FINALLY made it into the oven.

The Kaylee kitten has decided to take it upon herself to make me feel better... by snuggling me mercilessly. This doesn't actually have the effect of making me feel better physically, but it sure is nice to be loved.

Thank god I'm a country girl!

2009-05-23T23:52:00.002-04:00

I love the city, don't get me wrong. I love the fast pace, the late nights, and the crowds that allow me to indulge in my hobby of people-watching. But I grew up on a half-dirt road, across from a farm that raised milk cows and pigs (the latter of which had a penchant for terrorizing my mother in her garden.) Every year that I can remember, we've had a garden, which yields any number of vegetables that my mom (and sometimes my younger sister and I) will pickle, stew, can and freeze to eat throughout the cold Maine winter. When I was very small, my parents even kept chickens.

If I lived in the city, I might not have been able to appreciate the day I had yesterday. In keeping with my efforts to become at least semi-vegetarian, my sister made some homemade pad thai with tofu. I'm... still not a big fan of tofu, but it wasn't horrendously offensive to me, so I guess that's a start. It's mostly a texture thing, and I guess there's a firmer variety available, so we'll try that next time. Some people say they'll try anything once; I like to say I'll try anything twice, because I know that if I'm prejudiced against an activity, a food, a musical style, anything like that, I won't give it a fair shake the first time around. I like to keep an open mind, though, so I'll try it again.

I love my mother, but in many ways, she's responsible for this shortcoming in my open-mindedness. For some reason, in her mind, I am a much pickier eater than I actually am. Sometimes I get weird about my food touching on my plate, but for the most part I will always give something a chance before deciding against it. Growing up, I often wanted to try new things, and she would tell me, "Oh, you won't like that." And I would say, "Oh, I won't like that. Okay." Then I would take that with me, so that when I was offered something new, I would say, "Oh, I don't like that." The end result, of course, being a person who appears to be a very picky eater, but who is actually very much ignorant about my own tastes, because I haven't actually tried things*.

After lunch, we were off to the Farmer's Market in East Vassalboro, where my friend Margaret's family was selling vegetable and flower seedlings. There was a gentleman there selling goat's milk and cheese, something that I have always had one of those mental blocks against. Milk from a goat? Why would I want to try that? But I did try it, some tasty chocolate goat's milk and some amazing black olive and garlic goat's cheese, and it was delicious! Another stand had fresh artisan bread and bags of granola. Now, bread is one thing I'm often very picky about, and I've accepted the silly nature of my prejudice against bread that isn't Wonder-esque and moved on. But granola is another thing that my mother always told me I wouldn't like. My sister and I purchased a bag, and it was also delicious! I also bought a sample-sized packet of organic Yemen Mocha Matari (coffee) that smells absolutely sinful.

From there we headed to Uncle Dean's Good Groceries in Waterville. I'd just been in a few days ago for lentils and fine-cut oatmeal for my vegetarian haggis (which I really need to bake soon) but I hadn't had a chance to really browse. I found many many things that sparked my curiosity, but ended up just getting a Blue Sky orange cream soda and a bag of Little Lad's herbed popcorn. Margaret got some rolled dates and a bag of freeze-dried, buttered and salted corn-off-the cob that tasted AMAZING. It tasted like summer! I'm definitely going back for more of that.

After a bit more shopping -- Sign of the Sun, which is an eclectic sort of boutique, and Goodwill -- we headed back to the Cates' farm, where we threw together baked French toast to bring to the Grange pot luck. At the pot luck, I got to catch up with Margaret's sister-in-law Emily, who we went to high school with, and after that we offered her a ride home. Emily showed us around her place, and I was really impressed. She has a pretty extensive garden, and keeps ducks, geese, goats and even chickens. She gave me a dozen fresh eggs for giving her a ride! They're even colorful, like the ones my parents' chickens used to produce.

We visited for a while, chatting about a number of topics, including Emily's pregnancy. Margaret read aloud from a book for midwives in third world countries, things which made us laugh and cringe. Emily is planning on giving birth at home, as long as her pregnancy continues to be a normal and healthy one. At one point I chanted, "Push it out, push it out, waaaaaay out!" and volunteered to be Emily's birthing cheerleader. (The concensus seems to be that a birthing cheerleader would not survive the birth, having been strangled by the mother the moment she started yelling, "Give me a B! Give me an A!") At some point during the evening, the eggs that Emily was incubating on the kitchen table actually started to cheep at us. I had no idea that baby chickens could cheep before they came out of their shells! It was really neat.

I kind of want a goat or two now. I love animals (except dogs, which I like but am generally afraid of.) Emily's goats were adorable and sweet and full of character, and we've got plenty of field around our house for an enclosure for it to run around in and eat grass. My dad would love it, because he's always talking about raising goats. (Sometimes he says pigs, just to make my mom twitch.) We'll see. I know my mom has been making noise about raising chickens again for a few years now, too.

The only problem with all of this, which has affirmed that I'm making the right decisions in changing my ways, is that I feel like a poser. It sounds really silly, but I don't know how to start living a more natural, sustainable, healthy lifestyle without feeling like I'm going green just because green is cool. I guess the only thing I can do is to just suck it up. I know that I'm changing the way I live because I want to, and not because it's the latest thing or because such-and-such a celebrity is doing it, too. But, you know, I guess this would be an awfully odd time to start letting what people think about me influence my life, don't you think?

*Funny story, for many years my mother was the reason I didn't like beer, either. Imagine my surprise when I learned that it does not, in fact, taste like urine! At least, I don't think it does...

I'm really annoyed, and I need money.

2009-05-23T12:54:00.001-04:00

Why is nobody in Maine hiring second or third shift? When I wanted first shift jobs, there were none available. Now that I need second or third shift so I can mind my father in the mornings, everybody wants first shift workers.

What the hell, universe? Couldn't you at least try to work with me, just a little? It's not like I'm asking for a hand-out, just a job that doesn't require leaving my father to his own devices. He has Alzheimer's, for cry-eye, what am I supposed to do?

I'm a little angry and a little frustrated and a little broke. I can't even manage to sell my iPod on Craigslist for a little extra money, and I've got five weeks to get money together for Celtic Fling -- gas money, food money and drinkin' money being the top three priorities, but a little spending money wouldn't go amiss, either.

If I hadn't had such a great day yesterday -- blog post to follow -- I'd be in a serious funk right now.

Makin' Whoopie!

2009-05-21T15:15:00.000-04:00

Well, okay. Makin' delicious whoopie pies. My intention with this blog is NOT to turn it into a cooking blog, but since I just made a batch of these Saturday night, I'd like to share the recipe, and a little bit of the history.

Whoopie pies are a New England phenomenon, and apparently also a tradition amongst the Pennsylvania Amish. (News to me, but then I don't know much about Amish culture.) Recently Oreo has taken the idea, turned it into a product line called Cakesters, and run with it, but if you want a REAL whoopie pie, you have to go to New England, or borrow a New Englander's recipe!

Whoopie pies are such a predominant treat in Maine, particularly, that there is a bakery near me that makes nothing but whoopie pies, in a variety of wild and inventive flavors. Started by a housewife in Gardiner, ME, Isamax Snacks' Wicked Whoopies have even been featured nationally on the Oprah Winfrey show.

The history of whoopie pies has a recipe featuring filling made with Marshmallow Fluff, another New England phenomenon, and also notes that whoopie pies are traditionally made with vegetable shortening, not butter, which would make them a suitable treat for even a vegan diet. My recipe includes butter in the filling, but if you chose to, you could either substitute the Fluff-based filling, or use a dairy-free butter alternative.

Note: this photo is from Google image search, and is way prettier than my whoopie pies usually come out. But mine taste at least twice as good as they look, and I've been told they do look really tasty, so it doesn't really matter.

Whoopie Pies

Cookie Ingredients:
6 tbsp. shortening
1 c. sugar
1 egg
1 1/2 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. vanilla
1 c. milk
2 c. flour
5 tbsp. cocoa powder
1 tsp. salt

Preheat oven to 350F. Cream together shortening, sugar, egg and vanilla. Blend in milk, flour, baking soda, cocoa and salt. Place tablespoon-sized dollops onto lightly greased cookie sheets and bake 5-7 minutes.

Filling Ingredients:
5 tbsp. flour
1 c. milk
1 c. shortening
1 c. butter
1 c. sugar
vanilla and salt to taste

Combine flour with milk in a saucepan over low heat with a wooden spoon until it is a thick paste. The spoon should stand up in the pan. Cool in refrigerator. Cream together sugar, butter and shortening and add to flour mixture (as well as salt and vanilla.) Blend thoroughly with a hand mixer. Sandwich filling between two cookies.

I'd love to tell you how many this makes, but everyone's idea of a tablespoon-sized dollop is a little different, and when I first posted this on the internet, my sister wouldn't let me lay hands on my mom's actual copy of the recipe, so I had to try to decipher her handwriting and figure out what language half the directions were in. (My sister speaks only English, but writes fluent Gibberish.)

Vegan Chocolate Cake

2009-05-20T14:51:00.001-04:00

AKA Poor Man's Chocolate Cake

Ingredients:
2/3 c. cocoa
3 c. flour
2 c. sugar
2 tsp. baking soda
2 tsp. vinegar
2 c. warm water
1/2 tsp. salt
2 tsp. vanilla
1c. vegetable oil

Preheat oven to 375F; mix all dry ingredients together as listed. Stir in liquid ingredients, pour into 2 greased 8" cake tins (although we usually use a bundt cake pan.) Bake 25 minutes or until done.

This is a moist, rich, delicious chocolate cake that I, personally, don't feel needs to be iced. However, if you'd like to ice it, The Vegan Chef has some tasty looking recipes, including this After Midnight Glaze made with maple syrup and coffee liqueur.

I'm not actually vegan, but I am trying to go vegetarian after 27 years (or at least semi-vegetarian,) so if you have any favorite recipes, I'd love to hear them. Sometime this week or next I'm going to attempt some vegetarian haggis, which I used to joke was just a condom full of oatmeal, but actually looks quite interesting and tasty.

Fia's Famous Fudge Cookies

2009-05-20T13:46:00.005-04:00

This recipe began its life as we know it about twenty years ago, when I was a little kid and my mother submitted it for inclusion in a local church group's cookbook, under the name "Felicia's Favorite Fudge Cookies." It's remained more or less unchanged over the last two decades, except that it's my signature cookie recipe instead of my mom's, and the only people who call me Felicia are my family and old friends.

It originally called for nuts and semisweet morsels, but in this day of allergies and other similar dietary requirements -- and because as a child, I hated nuts with a fervor -- the nuts have been phased out in favor of my own addition to the recipe, milk chocolate chips, and the semisweet chips have been replaced with chunks, purely for aesthetic purposes. And as you might be able to see from this photograph (and might not, because it was taken with my cell phone) they are very pretty cookies indeed.

Fia's Famous Fudge Cookies

1 1/4 c. oleo
2 c. sugar
2 eggs
2 tsp. vanilla
2 c. flour
3/4 c. cocoa
1 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
3/4 bag of Nestle Toll-House semi-sweet chocolate chunks
3/4 bag of Nestle Toll-House milk chocolate morsels

Cream butter and sugar in a large bowl. Add eggs and vanilla; blend well. Combine flour, cocoa, baking soda, and salt; blend into creamed mixture. Stir in nuts. Drop by teaspoonfuls on an un-greased cookie sheet. Bake at 350F for 8-9 minutes. Do not over-bake. Cool on cookie sheet till set, about 1 minute. Remove to wire rack to cool completely.

Cookies will be soft. They will puff during baking, then flatten upon cooling.

I made a batch of these for the guys in Enter the Haggis, and ended up sharing them around with the folks at the after party Sunday night. Piper Craig Downie claimed not to like cookies, but he tried one anyway, and he liked it (or at least told me he did, possibly to spare my feelings.)

If anyone's interested, I also have a great recipe for vegan chocolate cake that's moist and sinfully delicious, and the New England confection known as a whoopie pie.

The Sex Post.

2009-05-20T10:10:00.003-04:00

I like to think that I have a very healthy relationship with sex. Healthier than many, at any rate. I don't feel that sex should be the kind of thing that our kids find out from their friends in the schoolyard, and I definitely don't approve of abstinence-only sex education. (Do you know what abstinence-only sex-ed gets you? It gets you babies, with parents who are too young to know what to do with them and very little clue how they ended up with them.)

I also like to think that I am a very open-minded person. I've always felt, since I became aware of myself as a sexual being, that sexuality was very much a fluid thing. You don't get to choose the vessel in which the world hands you love, and if you're smart, you don't turn it away just because it wasn't what you were expecting. I'm beginning to understand that gender, too, is fluid. I don't quite get it, yet, but I'm trying to understand. The willingness to try to accept things we don't understand is something the human race could do with a hell of a lot more of, frankly.

I wish that we lived in a society where everybody was comfortable enough with sex that it wasn't a big deal. I don't mean to say that any kind of intimacy between two people should be treated lightly. Intimacy and sex aren't always the same thing. I just mean... it's like, there's two extremes. Sex is either something we don't talk about, or it's something we flaunt. I wish there was a happy medium, where it was neither something we dust under the rug nor something being shoved in our faces.

Sex is messy and gross, but it can also be beautiful and spiritual, just like anything else in life. And as relationship-phobic as I am most days, I do kind of miss having someone to share that with. Y'know, other than the clerk at the Treasure Chest II as he rings up my purchases.

Fia Fortune: Biographer? It could happen.

2009-05-19T21:29:00.005-04:00

I swear I'm about to stop spamming this blog and go to bed. Really. It's just... I miss writing. Writing writing, not bite-sized blog writing. Oddly enough, I really want to write some nonfiction, honest and earthy and funny and real, but I don't have a topic, and I don't know how to start.

Short of a stodgy university degree earned by sitting through a bunch of painfully boring writing classes that failed to hold my attention during my previous attempts at college, how does one go about becoming a biographer? Just find someone interesting and say, "Hey, can I write about you?" and then follow them around for a while asking them a bunch of really intrusive questions about their lives?

Actually, that could be kind of neat. I even know a few really interesting people -- and not just interesting to their friends. But would anybody allow me to put their lives into my words and myself into their lives?

Onomatopoeia pants!

2009-05-19T20:14:00.010-04:00

Now I'm going to tell you about my underwear.

No, really. I saw these great underpants yesterday, men's briefs covered with brightly-colored comic book onomatopoeia like Zap! Bam! Ka-pow! Bonk! and Ka-blam! and I thought to myself, "Now, see, now I wish I had a boyfriend, because I would buy these for him and then I could look at them all the time." And then I realized, I don't need a boyfriend for that. I bought them for myself! I'm wearing them as shorts. Well, booty shorts. It's nearly obscene. I went to check the mail in them and my mother was scandalized. It was great. I can't look at them without being really happy. I think everyone should own a pair of vibrant onomatopoeia pants.

There's a very short list of men I like well enough to let them wear my onomatopoeia pants, anyway, and the top three are completely unattainable, so... more comic book undies for me! Ha!

Enter the Haggis Real Room Picspam

2009-05-19T19:24:00.000-04:00

First, allow me to preface this mad picspam by saying that I'm fairly sure, as I tweeted earlier, that my utter lack of photography skill actually has a corrosive effect on the quality of photographs that any camera that I own is capable of taking. What do I mean? I mean, these are the best of the crop of shots I took at Sunday's Enter the Haggis concert at the Real School of Music, and they are blurry as heck. I bought my camera because it had blur control. Maybe, as I speculated about James, the rest of the guys just move too fast for my blur control to keep up with, too. Or maybe I am destined to take crappy pictures for the rest of my life. I can really learn to live with that, if I get to have as much fun taking crappy pictures as I did Sunday night.

Let me further say that this will probably be the last ETH-centric post in this blog for a while. A day or so at least. While I'm sure some of you come here for my embarrassingly enthusiastic Enter the Haggis fangirling, most of you do not. You come here for me, and the schadenfreude that my day-to-day life inspires in you -- don't lie, you know it's true. And that's okay, because I'm laughing with you. Don't worry, we're cool.

Aha! Craig also has laser eyes! The band is being taken over by cyborgs! Who will fall next?

I know I included this one in my post about James, but it's the only decent on-stage candid I got of him.

Look out, now, Fia's getting artsy with her B&W photog skills. I have no idea how everything but his shoulder is in focus. I guess that's my particular skill. I want to trade for a new one.

Sharing the joys of Moxie with the drummer from the Abrams Brothers! And a decent candid of James to boot. Score!

Moxie boys! The disembodied arm belongs to my fellow Mainer and Moxie enthusiast James Treadwell, better known to Haggisheads as Dag.

There goes James, moving faster than my camera can handle again.

Me! With the entire lineup of Enter the Haggis and four of the five members of the Abrams brothers. And everyone's behaving...

Second shot, this time with the flash on. Less behaving going on, however. Craig got ice down his collar for pulling that stunt, by the way. That bottle was cold, and this picture was snapped about half a second before my shriek.

There. Now that that's out of my system, I'd like to thank you all for bearing with me. We now return you to your regularly scheduled schadenfreude.

IDK, Something Controversial?

2009-05-19T15:49:00.001-04:00

So, the main reason for my recent absence in all my other internet ventures is that, when I haven't been trying to clean, organize and generally rid myself of all the clutter and crap in my life, I've been glued to ETH TV, Enter The Haggis' live video stream on Ustream. Even when there's no video streaming, there is a chatroom associated with the stream that, for the last two weeks (at least until ETH ended their current tour on Sunday) was packed full of Haggisheads.

I know what you're thinking. "But, Fia, you're terrified of Haggisheads!" Well, you're right, but you're wrong. So was I! It turns out that most of the fans are actually a really cool kind of crazy, not the creepy kind who take pleasure and/or pride in terrorizing and/or stalking the band members! Actually, the title of this blog post came from something one of the chatters said during a downtime when there was no stream, and we were trying to find a topic to chat about. I said, "That sounds like a great title for a blog post!" And it is, don't you think?

Anyway, this chat has sucked up a lot of my free time -- free time being time not spent either looking for a new job, driving my sister around, babysitting Dad or attempting (and failing) to get any actual writing done, let alone blogging. Now that the tour is over, the chat lies sad and empty, its patrons all returned to the real world for at least the next two weeks until the next tour starts. I'm sad. We've had some good times. We've had some awkward moments, which I think bring people closer. And I've met some great people, several of whom I was able to meet in person on Sunday. It's nice to put faces to the online personas, even if I'm terrible with names.

I've come to the conclusion that I'm going to have to temporarily rent my soul out to a customer service call center. Maine seems to have lots of them, and the work is so soul-killing that there's almost always demand for customer service representatives, but I need a source of income. And then I will have less free time for chat, but more money for shows and the other things that will keep my spirit thriving in a soulless environment, which is all anyone can hope for most days.

Paging Dr. Frankenstein...

2009-05-19T12:08:00.000-04:00

I think I've created a monster. My sister Desiree and my friend Margaret concur that after my tongue-in-cheek post about James, the rest of the band are going to expect me to poke a little fun at them. Apparently, it's only fair.

It's an interesting challenge, at any rate. Am I capable of skating the fine line between affectionate teasing and unintentional meanness? I hope so. Will they think I'm funny? Sometimes I don't even think I'm funny. Will I be able to find things to muse on, like where on earth Mark's center of gravity is, that he doesn't manage to fall over while playing, or whether the only reason Trevor's stuck next to the often-misbehaving Craig is because he drew the short straw in a band meeting early on? (Seriously, Trevor, if you're reading this, I'm really sorry for giggling through Cameos on Sunday. I really do love the song. It's all Craig's fault. I was a little drunk and he was miming sawing his hand off to the lyric "won't you take my hand.")

Maybe I'll think about it.

Ooh, lazy blog post.

2009-05-19T01:23:00.003-04:00

I'm not really lazy, just exhausted. So in lieu of that post explaining my recent absence (I'll get to it, I promise) or talking about the awesome show I went to, here are two songs from Sunday's Enter the Haggis show to tide you over. There will be pictures, but I'm just too tired to deal with Firefox's apparent allergy to Blogger and Picasa right now. (Maybe I should ditch Firefox for Chrome and complete the process of selling my soul to Google?)

Congress:

The face Trevor made at my camera at about 3:24 KILLS me with giggles. He is such a good sport.

Long Way Home:

Things that also kill me dead: BLUES-Y BAGPIPE, disgusting loads of talent with a guitar, and the fact that I can make my embedded YouTube video match my blog. Just FYI.

Um... so, I'm going to bed now. I've had four hours of sleep, total, since this concert, and it concluded over 24 hours ago. So... yeah. Pictures and stuff when/if I am ever conscious again.

In Search of the Elusive James "Seamus" Campbell

2009-05-18T17:07:00.013-04:00

It's long been told that the band, Enter the Haggis, thrives on a primal beat, this driven by a man clad eternally in a black t-shirt and shorts, regardless of the season or inclemency of the weather. Those who have seen the band perform know this to be true, because we have witnessed his presence and rocked out to his righteous syncopation, but the non-believers say to us, where is your proof? Show us this man, and we will believe you. But James "Seamus" Campbell is a mystical creature, akin to the yeti, and his image is difficult to capture on film.

Dude, I'm not kidding. Look at all the crappy pictures I took last night while trying to get one good one of him. The man moves WAY too fast for my camera's blur control function to compensate for:

Come on, that's not proof. That could be anything. A smear on the camera lens, a TV weatherman, even an actual yeti!

He makes the things around him blur, too! No fair camouflaging!

Are you serious. How is it possible for one man to move so quickly?!

That's not a finger, by the way. That's a UFO. What do I look like to you, an amateur? Still blurry and out of focus, not quite what we're looking for...

Ha! Caught you! You appear to actually have LASER EYES*, but you're IN FOCUS.

Now to go remove my tongue from where it currently rests -- firmly in-cheek. James, I hope that if you read this, you're not offended. I think you're awesome, and I am continually amazed by the energy you consistently bring to the stage, and to the fans after the show is over. Of course if you're not offended, you'll probably think this is funny, and I'll be able to hear you laughing from here.

*LASER EYES, by the way, supports my "crack-pot" theory that James is actually a CYBORG, which would account for his imperviousness to the weather, and also the way he never runs out of flippin' energy.

Great news!

2009-05-18T11:55:00.000-04:00

I'm working on posts about where I've been lately (lost in the intertubes!) and the show I went to last night (AMAZING!) but I just had to make a quick update to say...

YAY MORE CHUCK!!!

Yesterday, while I was chilling in MA, preparing to listen to the musical stylings of the adorable Abrams Brothers (think the baby-faced tween marketability of the Jo-bros and their ilk, but with a modern yet traditional bluegrass sound) who opened for Enter The Haggis, I got word from a friend on the inside that Chuck has been renewed for a minimum of 13 episodes! And then of course, I heard it from everyone and his brother about two seconds later. But still! Yay!

I cannot help but be thrilled that Vik Sahay (and the rest of the amazing, talented cast) will continue to be on my TV screen in the fall. He's joined the ranks of Alan Tudyk and Seth Green, as far as I'm concerned -- anything he's in is made more enjoyable simply because he's good at what he does and he's doing what he loves.

Speaking of people who are good at what they do and are doing what they love, I guess that means I'll be packing off a copy of Enter The Haggis' Gutter Anthems to Chuck's music producer now. Fingers crossed!

Star Trek: OMG

2009-05-09T19:11:00.004-04:00

SPOILER ALERT.

IF YOU PLAN TO SEE THE NEW STAR TREK FILM, BE WARNED THAT THIS BLOG POST MAY CONTAIN PLOT ELEMENTS AND CASTING REFERENCES THAT COULD RUIN YOUR ENJOYMENT OF THE MOVIE IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO SPOILERS.

IF YOU CONTINUE TO READ, YOU DO SO AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Like many fans of Star Trek, I went into the new film, which stars Heroes' Zachary Quinto as a young Spock and genre newcomer Chris Pine (The Princess Diaries 2) as a young James Tiberius Kirk, with a certain amount of reservation on its opening night. I referred to the film glibly as Star Trek: 90210 and expected nothing more than a pretty space romp with lots of delicious eye candy (the aforementioned Quinto and Pine, plus John Cho of Harold & Kumar fame as Hikaru Sulu, LOtR's Rohan hottie Karl Urban as Dr. Leonard "Bones" McCoy, the adorable nerd-favorite Simon Pegg as Montgomery "Scotty" Scott and Zoe Saldana -- who I've not yet forgiven for signing onto the Americanized remake of Frank Oz's genius comedy Death at a Funeral -- as Nyota Uhura.)

I got what I came for, in spades; the special effects were as attractive as the cast. But we also got a reboot to a classic story that I think can breathe new life -- and new fans -- into the franchise. There were nods to many lines so classic that even non-Trekkies could recite along, such as Bones' "Dammit, I'm a doctor, not a [physicist]!" and Scotty's "I'm givin' her all she's got, Captain!" as well as the familiar "Space: The Final Frontier" monologue delivered by (I believe) Leonard Nimoy just before the end credits. But best of all, as far as I'm concerned, is that the film acknowledged that rather than a retcon (retroactive continuity) for the events of the original series and the ensuing films, this Star Trek is an unexplored timeline, separate from the existing canon.

This is a timeline that is altered as a result of the familiar Ambassador Spock (Leonard Nimoy) and the villain Nero (Eric Bana), a man who holds Spock responsible for the loss of his wife and child, when they are transported back in time. Nero's attack on a Starfleet ship (sent to investigate the event caused by his arrival in their time) culminates in the death of Kirk's father, and from that point on, everything is different, and it's up to this timeline's Kirk to set things to rights, with himself in the big chair and Spock, his friend and second in command.

It was so good that my sister and I walked out of the theater, got to the car, did an about-face and went back to see it again.

Starting over... again.

2009-05-05T19:52:00.005-04:00

It's been over a week since I posted here. A number of things have happened in my life since then. I had a birthday. My state legalized same-sex marriage. And I got fucked over by the first job that I ever loved.

Let's start with the birthday. It didn't suck, contrary to my expectations. I even got presents! But in true Fia style, the very day after being gifted with a car of my very own, I was suspended from work, and a week later found myself without a job entirely. To cap it all off, I was fired for doing my job. It's sort of poetic, really.

I never loved a job the way I loved this one. I loved my coworkers, I loved my regular customers. (I really loved my discount.) I put everything I had into it, just like I do when I'm in love. And just like when I'm in love, I thought it was forever. (Well, maybe not forever, but the foreseeable future.) I'm crushed. I'm heartbroken. Work was my refuge from the insanity of my family. It was the hub of my social life. It was part of how I defined myself, and now it's been ripped away from me. Like every man I ever gave my heart to and stupidly formed my life around, my job has left me broken and insecure and scared.

A friend of mine suggested in an email last week that "someone" was trying to tell me something. I think he's probably right. I have no idea what his spiritual beliefs are, but I do know that I wish I had a clue what "they" were trying to tell me. I suspect it's not actually that I should find another job straight away, no matter what it is, but of course that's my instinct. I've been putting out feelers (okay, applications and resumes) since the suspension came down last week.

I can't be unemployed! I have a life (read: concerts and conventions) that needs financing, and the line of people waiting to be my sugar daddy (or mama) is... non-existent, as far as I can tell. I can't even find a nice, nerdy guy with a healthy grasp on the concept of personal hygiene (and no thinly-veiled, overwhelming hatred of women) to buy me dinner!

But you know what? At least now I'll be able to go to my big sister's legally-recognized wedding, which is HUGE, huge news (assuming I can afford to fill my gas tank to get there.) So, the week hasn't been a total loss after all.

More on LD 1020...

2009-04-24T11:45:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I showed you a picture of my sister and my future sister-in-law at the judiciary hearing in Augusta on Wednesday (and that crazy lady with the signs.) Today, I'd like to send you over to my sister's blog, to read her account of the day, in all its hateful ugliness... and inspirational beauty. Thank you.

Save Chuck!

2009-04-24T10:47:00.000-04:00

There are at least a handful of campaigns out there to help save Chuck, but the one I am most fond of involves sending letters to NBC Universal... and buying Subway on Monday, April 27 (which happens to be my birthday.) You can read more about it on my Chuck blog, The Intersect, but I think it's a really great idea -- what better way to illustrate the impact of the show and its fans than by influencing the revenue of one of its sponsors?

A few days ago (it may have been longer. I've been busy and time has been blending together a bit) someone in one of my varied internet communities posed the question, "What will you do when/if Chuck is renewed?" My answer took some thought, but ultimately it was influenced by something one of the guys from Enter The Haggis said to me last weekend. I had mentioned to them that I was acquainted with one of the actors from Chuck, and that when I'd told him that I was seeing them perform, he had expressed admiration for their music. I think it was Brian who said, "Great! Tell him to get one of our songs on his show!" I told him I didn't think he had that kind of sway, but the seed of an idea was planted.

People who are familiar with Chuck know that the show's music supervisor, Alexandra Patsavas, has a reputation for featuring amazing music -- and much of it from independent bands, just like Enter The Haggis. And here I am, with this extra promotional copy of Gutter Anthems, sent to me by the band's label, United For Opportunity. So my answer to the question, "What will you do when/if Chuck is renewed?" seems fairly obvious now: Write an impassioned letter to Ms. Patsavas, enclose the band's press release and that extra copy of Gutter Anthems, and attempt to bring my favorite band together with my favorite show for a union of unmatchable awesomeness. I think the Captain would approve.

Wait... what?

2009-04-23T14:08:00.000-04:00

Yesterday here in Maine they held the LD 1020 hearing, regarding legalizing same-sex marriage. I was unable to attend, but my older sister was there (with a busload of folks from out Ellsworth and MDI way) and the pictures she brought back, showing an ocean of people wearing red in support of marriage equality, were nothing less than inspirational. I don't know if you have to be signed up with Facebook to view them, but her photo album from the hearing is here.

Here's a picture of my sister and my future sister-in-law, rocking the red look:

And here's the fun part. Some crazy lady apparently assaulted Mary Donauto, the lawyer for GLAAD who helped organize the hearings, with her signs, and narrowly avoided a smackdown at the hands of my big sis. I just want to know what the hell her signs are supposed to mean:

"Same-sex marriage-Sweden 8 other Partners"?! Seriously, WTF does that even mean?! (I've mused on the other one -- "Obama supports hate crimes law that criminalizes religious conviction -- and I have to say that if you can't tell the difference between hate crimes and religious conviction, you need to STFU, STFD and GTFO of society.

I think it's ridiculous that opponents of marriage equality are crying religious persecution. Really? Really, really? Get over yourselves. We don't want to convert you or change your tiny little minds, we just want you to get out of the way of our civil rights. One of the first pieces of American history we are taught, in kindergarten, is that this country was founded on freedom of religion. It's what drove the Pilgrims to the New World on the Mayflower.

Freedom of religion does not mean freedom to impress your own beliefs upon others, especially by violent, hateful means. Freedom of religion means just that: the freedom to believe what you want to believe, what you choose to believe, what you're raised to believe -- whatever works for you -- and to live in (relative) peace with others, who are free to do the same damn thing. Live and let live.

Religion is a deeply personal thing, and you are entitled to your own beliefs, but respect is a two-way street. If you condemn me for disagreeing with you that homosexuality is an abomination, then I condemn you for picking and choosing which so-called abominations to persecute. If you really want to argue Leviticus with me, just let me grab my Old Testament, slip into a nice cotton-poly blend, and get out the chips and clam dip, because we might be here a while. (Or you could just go read this blog post at Atheist Ethicist, which makes my point much more quickly and clearly than I would probably manage.)

And in any case, if you haven't noticed, this is America. We practice separation of church and state here, and shockingly, yes, that means your church too.

Okay. Whew. Putting away my soapbox now, really. But seriously, I want to know what the crazy lady's sign means. Eight partners? I can't even begin to work out the logistics of that one, but it sounds like a party to me.