Girl Gone Viled

Time Marches On

2011-02-22T11:02:00.004-06:00

So, how's tricks? It's been a long time, I know, but I've been too boring to really expound upon anything lately. Even this is just a plug for my daily photo blog, A Molly A Day.

Never fear, I'll be updating GGV more regularly as soon as I figure out what the hell I have to say.

Turn-A-Trick Or Treat

2009-10-08T16:44:00.005-05:00

Listen up, all you cats and kittens, 'cos Halloween draws fucking nigh. Halloween is tied with Xmas for my favorite holiday. They tie up point for point in most of my categories (weather, month name, pagan roots, color scheme) and each garner a point in their respective wheelhouses (COSTUMES: Halloween 1, Xmas 0; PRESENTS: Halloween 0, Xmas 1). Unfortunately, each has its respective detrimental point (Halloween: sexy costume situation; Xmas: baby Jesus situation). It is on Halloween's downfall that I am focusing today.

I'm all for looking sexy. Seriously. I believe "pretty" is a lifestyle choice and I generally relish the chance to bolster sexual tension. But I can't stand the way 90% of girls dress on Halloween. You're a ghost? No! You're a sexy ghost. You're a doctor? NO! You, my dear, are a sexy doctor. Or, in a stunning display of understanding toward pedophilia, a SEXY GIRL SCOUT. (That exists. As a packaged costume. Google it.)

Fuck those girls. I mean, whatever. You want to dress as a sexy _______ for Halloween, be my goddamned guest. I don't think it cheapens our gender or is demonstrative of a patriarchal whosamawhat. I'm not against this trend for feminist reasons. I just think it's fucking stupid.

I present this year's most hilarious Sexy ________ costumes, available at any Party City:

SEXY SPONGEBOB
Who works as a prostitute under the sea?

SEXY GHOSTBUSTER
If you got some cash, and you're in the mood...Who you gonna call?

SEXY FREDDY KREUGER
(I'm torn between:)
"See you in your wet dreams"
and
"I guess she opted out of the burn victim makeup."

And finally...

Drumroll, please...

Honorable Mention For Total Hilarity

AMY WINEHOUSE COSTUME
I know, right? Awesome! Right??

Your Imaginary Friend Says He Created The *Whole World In 7 Days??

2009-09-22T11:48:00.004-05:00

I'm watching WifeSwap, and the two featured families are on opposite sides of the religion issue. We have a family of 8 who love love love Jesus and the Bible; they homeschool their children with Christian textbooks and pray more often than Muslims. Then we have a family of 5 who are adamant atheists; the father hosts an internet radio show about atheism and they have stickers, posters, and tshirts that espouse their opinions on theism.

What's both surprising and pleasing me is the level-headedness and ready acceptance of both families when it comes time to swap lives and theistic opinions. Usually, the people on this show bitch and moan and throw fits and occasionally even get downright abusive to each other rather than live outside of their comfort zones for 5 fucking days.

I'm pleased on behalf of both families. It's nice to see atheists portrayed in the media as being normal people; conversely, it's nice to see Christians represented as people who are so confident in their beliefs about God that they don't fear repercussions for walking in someone else's shoes for awhile, even if that person is an atheist.

Mike Kopec, one of you fabulous readers, sent me a note on Facebook (please, feel free to contact me at any time, kids; I love reader mail) about the Songs Against Religion post from back in May. He suggested "Halo" by Porcupine Tree. He says it's "maybe not really anti-religion, but more about people twisting religion for their own purposes." I'll have to give that a listen! Thanks, Mike! In that same vein, I'll suggest you listen to "Judith" by A Perfect Circle.

See you all in hell, True Believers! Oh wait, there's no such thing as an afterlife. But yet I believe in ghosts. Man, being crazy is exhausting when it comes to philosophical and theistic discussions. Let's just call it all Ka and be done with it. Thankya big big.

Thank God We Never Stumbled Upon A Murder Scene Because I Don't Think They Made That Figurine

2009-09-21T00:44:00.003-05:00

Holy fuck, I just realized I've not yet told you guys about the Smurfs.I realize you probably think you know all there is to know about the Smurfs. Maybe you even fancy yourself some sort of Smurf expert, having watched all the episodes of the cartoon, or possibly even having read the comics. But have you ever caught a Smurf? Yeah, I didn't think so.

My grandparents bought a cabin on Deer Lake in St. Croix Falls, WI when I was very, very small. It's at the end of a long dirt road, and surrounded by woods on three sides and the lake on the fourth. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep (god I hate Robert Frost) and my mom used to take me and Kevin on walks when we got restless and squirrelly.

When I was 7 or 8, my mom told me that she had made an incredible discovery: the Smurfs lived in our woods! She had seen Smurfsign all over the woods when she had gone up to the main road to get the mail. Did I want to come look for them with her? Fuck yes I did.

The Smurfs possess powerful magical abilities. They can move incredibly fast, so fast the human eye can't follow them. However, the only way they can make this amazing escape is to distract their would-be pursuers. So, they instantly freeze upon being sighted, and then leave a shell of themselves behind as a decoy to buy them enough time to speed back to the Smurf village. As Smurfs are incredibly busy creatures with a variety of hobbies and jobs, they are usually seen while performing some sort of task, and therefore the shells they leave behind reflect these activities.

But how do you know where to look for a Smurf? After all, there was such a large area to cover. Why, by looking for Smurfsign, of course. Smurfs' skin is actually rather dewy and glossy, and they leave a sticky sweet residue on any and all surfaces that they touch with their bare skin. (They wear shoes, so there's no use looking for tracks.) If you find this sticky, shiny, sweet blue substance, you know there is a Smurf very, very nearby.

My mom told me all of this, and I took it for gospel truth. Several times during the many summers to follow, we would go on Smurf hunts, all of them fruitful. I found a Smurf shell in scuba gear in the shallow water of the lake's edge. I found a Smurf shell holding a basket of berries near the raspberry thicket at the end of our lane. I found shells of Smurfs sitting on mushrooms, picking daisies, and shoveling dirt. Each time, I would first follow a short but obvious trail of sticky sweet blue goo to the location of the frozen Smurf's shell.

I can't even begin to describe the thrill that would charge through me upon finding a Smurf. The zinging excitement would stay with me for days. I kept them all on my dresser in my room at the cabin, and once we'd returned home, they'd join my other Smurf shells in the collection. I felt like I'd tapped into some kind of deep magic. And how fortuitous that my grandparents had unknowingly purchased a summer home in woods frequented by Smurfs??

Of course, Smurfs aren't real. (Sorry to be so blunt about it, but I've found that brutal honesty is the best way to banish magical-thinking delusions.) The Smurf shells were just plastic figurines my mom bought at a toy store -- and then planted in the woods/water/logpile/mushroom cluster before taking us out on our Smurf hunt. Not to mention the Smurfsign she'd plant along the way -- it was blue gel icing. We'd find it on leaves, or tree trunks, and then lick it off our fingers to confirm that it was real Smurfsign, and it was always as Smurfsign had been described: sweet, sticky, and bright goddammned blue. Fucking ingenious, diabolical woman.

She also told us that there was a ring of fairies that lived around the edge of our kitchen and dining room tables, and if we put our elbows on the table, we were unwitting murderers, having crushed the invisible and innocent creatures to death with our poor manners, but that's a whole other story.

You Non-Hedonists Can Have Your Faith; I'll Take The Truth (With a Side of Misbehavior)

2009-05-18T17:14:00.005-05:00

Great Songs Against Religion

Heresy by Nine Inch Nails

A little heavy handed, this song lacks subtlety (particularly the chorus) but it delivers its message well despite all that.

His perfect kingdom of killing, suffering and pain
Demands devotion, atrocities done in his name

Dear God by XTC
One of the first songs I heard that backed up my newfound questioning the very idea of religion. I think I was 12... All thanks to my SteveDad for that one.

I wont believe in heaven and hell.
No saints, no sinners,
No devil as well.
No pearly gates, no thorny crown.
You're always letting us humans down.
The wars you bring, the babes you drown.
Those lost at sea and never found,
And its the same the whole world round.
The hurt I see helps to compound,
That the father, son and holy ghost,
Is just somebody's unholy hoax

Do You Realize?? by Flaming Lips
Okay, so maybe this song isn't *intended to be anti-religion, but I think it can be taken as such. After all, the song is all about living for today and making sure the people in your life know you love them right now...not waiting for some magical afterlife where everything is better because you went to some building and said words near a certain statue/altar/painting/scroll/box/landmark/necklace/etc. It also implies our lives and deaths matter not a whit to the grand scheme of things (ie: the Earth and life itself). Besides, it has science-based lyrics and we all know science is the enemy of religion. *smirk*

Do you realize?
That everyone you know someday will die.
And instead of saying all of your goodbyes
Let them know you realize that life goes fast
It's hard to make the god things last
You realize the sun doesn't go down
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning 'round.

Uhhh...hm. Well, shit. Uh...yeah.
Dammit, I totally had a few more in mind and I'm drawing a blank. If I remember them, I'll edit this post and add them to this sad excuse for a list. If you can think of good examples, Dear Readers, please comment and tell me and I will add your song and comments about said song to my list.

La-La-La-La-Lo-la. Goodbye Little Lo-la.

2009-05-01T08:19:00.006-05:00

My ferret Lola died at 7:30 this morning. I woke up at 6:30am and went downstairs to make coffee, and I heard thumping in the girls' cage. Upon investigation, I discovered Lola on the floor of the cage, seizing. She didn't respond to sound or touch and she was freezing cold. (Lola is currently hairless, having lost all her fur as a side effect of her suspected adrenal disease.) I scooped her up and called the Eden Prairie emergency vet (whose number I had *just gotten from our kitten vet 2 days earlier) and raced her to them.

They did a quick diagnostic, came back telling me that she most likely does indeed have adrenal disease and that she is indeed seizing. Treatment of adrenal disease requires surgery, after which there's no guarantee she'd get better or even not get worse. She'd be in pain afterward, too. Basically, she has no chance for a meaningful recovery and so I decided not to be selfish and to let her go when it was clearly in her best interest at this time.

I don't view myself as my pets' "Mom." I find that really idiotic. Rather, I consider my pets to be like retarded family members for whom I have power of attorney; I am also their caregiver. So I always feel that I have to put the best interests of my beloved pet over my own best interests (for example: I would never refuse medical care for my pet because it was expensive if said treatment could result in a meaningful recovery). I know I did the right thing, but I'm so fucking sad about it. I've been crying for 2 straight hours at this point.

And yet, here is this tiny baby kitten sleeping on my chest as I type this. A new life, full of promise and beginnings and firsts. I hate to sound like some filthy hippie, but it is a serendipitous coincidence that my oldest pet died 4 days after we brought home the youngest one. Circle of life and all that, très whatever.

I'll be okay, so don't worry about me. I just miss her so much already, and my heart is breaking for Violet, who is still sleeping and will awaken to find the ferret with whom she has lived her entire fucking life has disappeared and that I have no way of explaining it to her. *misery*

XXXI

2009-04-26T01:20:00.002-05:00

For Mollyday this year, I get a DSi and a kitten. So far, I'm loving thirty-one.

Urban Juror Chronicles II

2009-03-25T17:41:00.003-05:00

No jurors were needed yesterday, so I spent the day cleaning the house and buying groceries. I am now on Call-In Status, which means I have to call the number they gave me at 12:15pm and listen to the recording to learn whether my juror group has been called in, dismissed, or left in the jury pool. If I'm called in on the 12:15 recording, I have to be at the courthouse by 1:30pm that day. If I'm dismissed, I'm completely finished with jury duty. If I'm left in the pool, I remain on Call-In Status until further notice. The latter happened today, which means my next move is to call the same number at 6:30pm tonight and listen to the new recording, which will tell me if I'm called in for tomorrow at 9am, dismissed, or left in the pool (which means I begin the cycle of calling all over again tomorrow).

I have to say, I'm rather impressed with Hennepin County and its efforts to make this as convenient for summoned jurors as possible. Granted, sitting around in the jury room all day Monday was a real drag, but hell...I could have had to sit in said jury room all day, every day. It's slightly inconvenient that I don't know when I'll be dismissed and therefore do not know how long I'll have to do all this, but it's still way fucking better than sitting in that jury room.

Hiatus Terminus; The Urban Juror Chronicles I

2009-03-23T19:15:00.005-05:00

ATTENTION! ... BLOG AUTHOR IS COMPOSING POST ... ACHTUNG! ... SIGNIFICANT BLOG ABSENCE DETECTED ... AANDACHT! ... OBLIGATORY ABSENCE EXPLANATION PARAGRAPH WILL BEGIN SOON ... ¡ADVERTENCIA! ... SIGNIFICANT BLOG ABSENCE CONFIRMED ... AVERTISSEMENT! ... OBLIGATORY ABSENCE EXPLANATION PARAGRAPH BEGINS NOW...

So I had a hypodepressive episode, and spent January and February rather secluded from the majority of the world. (Hypodepression is like Depression Lite. I wasn't bedridden and sobbing, just uninterested in most things and flat.) A lot of things fell by the wayside: email, Ed's Room, housework, and Girl Gone Viled. For those few of you who read GGV, I apologize for the hiatus. But trust me, you wouldn't have wanted to read anything I would have written anyway. The only moments of note were all either private moments twixt myself and my husband or blasé things that were only noteworthy to me because I lived them.

Now that that's out of the way, I can tell you all about jury duty. That's right, Dear Readers, starting today I am doing my civic duty as a vital cog in the clockworks of American Justice. Today, that meant sitting in a chair in the jury pool room from 8am-12pm and then from 1pm-4pm, waiting for them to call my name. So bored was I that I decided to begin The Urban Juror Chronicles (it's a 30 Rock reference, which I modified because I'm in downtown Minneapolis) and delight you all with tales from the Hennepin County Government Center. Strap yourselves in; this narrative is going bureaucratic.

The jury pool room is located on the sublevel of the HCGC, and is positioned directly underneath 6th Street. Because of this, the entire room rumbles and vibrates and shakes every 15-20 minutes. It's so constant that they put an explanation page in the PowerPoint (or whatever the fuck program it uses) that runs constantly on the 8 monitors scattered throughout the room. It's titled "No Worries!!!!" In case someone thought it was an earthquake or a terrorist attack. (Actually, I should reign in the snottiness there; the enormous 20 floor downtown Minneapolis Government Center that serves the biggest county in Minnesota actually could be a possible target for an attack, I suppose. More so than the Maplewood Mall, which they closed after 9-11 "just in case." Just in case what? In case some Sunnis decide to cripple the American devils by bombing what might as well be an official monument to the failing economy? But I digress...)

Other inanimate items of note found in the jury pool room:

A poster with Harrison Ford's picture that reads "In real life, the jury decides the ending."
A collection of "humorous" cartoons about jury duty, the "humor" of which falls in the B.C./Family Circus category.
A gold-fringe-bordered U.S. flag (I saw that Law & Order with the militia group, did you? So I did a little research to find out if the episode's "martial law" defense had any basis in reality).
A large collection of Reader's Digest condensed books.
An even larger selection of Car & Driver magazine issues intermingled with various hunting magazines.
A metal detecting wand that they just leave out on an unattended desk which I really really wanted to steal.

We had to watch a 20 minute orientation video entitled "All Rise: Jury Duty Service in Minnesota" that explained the judicial process of a jury trial, providing only information that one picks up from watching any episode of Law & Order. After the video, a woman got on the loudspeaker and proceeded to slowly re-explain everything the video had just said, but in a terribly disorganized fashion studded with many, many verbal pauses.

There were 55 cases on the court calendar today, any of which was a possible jury trial. But they only called 2 groups of people the whole day and I never got called. So I spent the entire day curled up in 2 side-by-side chairs (there was no arm in the middle so it was like a mini-couch), blatantly ignoring the "Do Not use the Chairs as Footstools" page of the monitor's endlessly cycling display, 'cos I'm such a rebel. I had finished my Jack of Fables trades on the busride there, which left me with nothing to read. I got on Ed's Room using my iPhone and its 3G wonders. I finished the NY Times crossword in 20 minutes and the Newsday crossword (the one under the NYT one in the Strib) in 15 minutes. I texted Nick and Betsie a lot. We were allowed 5 minute breaks whenever this sign on the sign-out whiteboard was green, which it was for 97% of the day, so I wandered around the HCGC to people watch every hour or so. I tried to memorize the order of the monitor display ("You may sign out for 5 minute breaks" then "No Worries!!!" then "Did You Know??" then "Recycling!" then "There are ____ cases remaining") and only made it to 5 screens. I slept, uncomfortably, for around 45 minutes after lunch. And, of course, I made snarky, judgmental jokes to myself about the people around me.

My favorite people in the jury pool room today:

The biker dude with patches on his leather jacket that read "La-dee-FUCKING-da" and "I ain't got no fuckin' attitude!"
A fat Asian skank (the trifecta!)
A guy who goes to Star Trek conventions (or so he claimed)

For whatever reason, they don't need any jurors tomorrow, so we have the day off. Then starting on Wednesday, I have to call in twice a day to find out if I've been called in, dismissed, or left in the jury pool until further notice. Stay tuned for more tales which may or may not be thrilling.

Good to be back.

Brrrrrrrrruuuuuuuce! Don't Bring Me Down!

2009-01-02T16:43:00.005-06:00

So far, today has been a pretty banner day. I'm 100% positive that I'm *not pregnant, I played with Mr. Whiskey (my pet in the Pet Society app for Facebook) all morning, my saved eBay search for an Emily the Strange Red Devil Horned Hoodie turned up results in my size so I bid on that, I celebrated 4:20 in style, I got to see my long-lost friend Dusty for lunch, I got to drive the Prius a whole bunch and used its super-fun GPS navigation system, my hair looks cute, Nick got his paycheck, and it's Girls' Night Friday. The only way today could get better is if I had lost 30 pounds in the night and woke up with bigger boobs. (And as long as we're wishing, I really want a pet pygmy goat named Ginger.)

That's really all I have to say. I'm too momentarily content to be clever and sardonic and self-depracating (beyond the aforementioned bit) like usual. Don't worry; I'm not all "sunshine, lollipops! and! rainbows everywhere!" or anything. A large chunk of my life is still firmly in sad, depressing, and lonely territory. But I just don't care right now. I will soon enough. Right now, I'm all about singing along to the sweet sounds of ELO's "Don't Bring Me Down" whilst happily yet furiously wiggling my way around my living room.

The Most Embarrassing Thing That's Ever Happened To Me

2008-12-29T21:50:00.001-06:00

Sorry this is a day late. I got food poisoning yesterday (never get the scallop nigiri at a sushi place on Sunday...there's a reason sushi places are closed on Mondays) and didn't really feel like posting. But better late than never, right? I present to you The Most Embarrassing Thing That's Ever Happened To Me.

It's February 14th, 1988. I'm in the 4th grade at MPA. My class is having its Valentine's Day party. We've all made little paper mailboxes for classmates to stick shitty glitter-covered, character-themed tagboard valentines in, and there's pop and cookies for snacks.

It's important to note that ever since I was pottytrained, I've had a terrible habit. When I have to pee, I hold it. I hold it for as long as I possibly can, until I'm bursting, and then rush to the bathroom. I still do it. Sometimes, I won't go to the bathroom for 4-5 hours after I first feel the need to. I don't know why I do it, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that I do it in the first place.

Another important point of fact: in our class, in order to go to the bathroom, you had to first ask the teacher and then write your name on the chalkboard before you could leave the classroom. This way, our teacher knew who was out of the room. This will come into play later in the story, so just keep that little tidbit in the back of your mind.

So, the party is just getting started. Our desks are in a big circle, and people are handing out valentines. Since I was teacher's pet, I asked Mrs. Z if there was anything I could do to help. Now, at this point, I'd been holding my pee in for a few hours. I had to go pretty badly, and I probably should have asked to use the bathroom instead of volunteering to help, but I am both a teacher's pet and a dumbass, so I did not. And then, to my chagrin, Mrs. Z asked me to pour the pop.

So, I started making my way around the circle, pouring little cups of pop for my classmates. The rushing sound of pop pouring into each little cup added to my desperate need to use the bathroom. Just when I was at my absolute bursting point, I found myself in front of David Kehr's desk.

Oh, David Kehr. With his black plastic glasses and his dark hair that stuck up all over the place and his skinny 10 year old frame...I was utterly and completely in love with David Kehr. He was sardonic and sarcastic and self-depracating and he and I were the only 2 people in class whose parents were divorced. I had the be all and end all of crushes on him.

Hopping from foot to foot now because if I didn't move around, my bladder would let go, I asked David Kehr if he wanted Coke or Sprite. He said Sprite, so I opened up the 2 liter bottle and started to pour. That was all my bladder could take. The rushing liquid sound filled my head and I lost all control.

I didn't just pee my pants. No, no, that would have been too easy for little Molly. What came out of me was a tidal rush of urine; a veritable river of pee. And of course, I wasn't wearing pants. I was, of course, wearing a uniform skirt, so when I started peeing, it had nothing between it and the carpet besides the flimsy cotton of my panties.

The pee stream made a thunderous noise on the carpet. I couldn't stop; I tried to flex, to squeeze, to do anything to stopper myself up and nothing worked. I thought quickly, though. Within 2 seconds of me starting to pee, I suddenly upended the entire 2 liter bottle of Sprite onto both myself and David Kehr, thinking (with 9 year old logic) that everyone would just think I'd spilled the pop, that if I was lucky, no one had been paying attention for the first 2 seconds and therefore everyone would believe the pop accident scenario.

It killed me to pour Sprite all over the heretofore love of my life, but in wartime, sacrifices must be made. After I dumped the sticky soda all over David Kehr, I raced for the door. Because I am and always have been such a Do-Bee, I even stopped long enough to say, "Mrs. Z I have to go to the bathroom thanks bye" and scribble "MOLLY" on the chalkboard before I raced out.

When I came back in and found the janitor cleaning up the whole mess, I wanted to die of shame. He looked at me and I knew he knew. How could he not? Pee doesn't smell like Sprite. And being the janitor at a K-12 school, I had a feeling he had smelled pee before. The party was going on as usual, so I joined in, trying my best to ignore the sick feeling in my stomach and avoiding any and all eye contact with David Kehr.

As embarrassing as that all is, it gets worse. Fast-forward to June 1996. I'm 18 years old and I graduate high school in a week. I'm at Derek Benz's house for a graduation party. Somehow, David Kehr and I end up sitting on the couch, alone, watching some terribly funny horror movie and sharing a huge bottle of red wine. Eventually, we're snuggled together, practically laying down. When the movie ends, we start making out. We decide to move to one of the bedrooms, and we stumble drunkenly to the nearest one. We're stripping our clothes off and giggling and kissing, and then he says, "This is a little weird...I mean, I've known you since I was 7." I agree that it's a little weird, and then laugh as I say, "You know what's really funny? I had the BIGGEST crush on you when we were little. From like 3rd grade until 6th grade, I swear to god." He laughs and says he knows, that he could tell when we were little. We both get a good chuckle out of it and kiss some more. Then he says, "Shit, remember that time you pissed your pants right in front of my desk on Valentine's Day? Oh my god, that was *hilarious! We all laughed about that for years afterward. You peed so much! It was like you'd been holding it for days."

I froze, that old feeling of shame and horror and misery filling my stomach again. I sort of pushed him away and started getting dressed again. He asked what was wrong and I said that we'd known each other too long and it was all too weird and I didn't want to wreck our friendship. He said that was understandable and then passed out on the bed. I left the room, no longer stumbling, as my embarrassment canceled my drunkeness instantly. I think I left the party right after that.

So there you have it.That's the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to me, punctuated by a terribly embarrassing failed makeout session with a key player in the original story. There's been plenty of embarrassing things in my life, but I think a torrential stream of urine pouring onto the carpet beneath me while my heart's desire watched takes the cake. There's a story that comes in close second, and if you're very very good, I'll tell you that one in a few days.

Merry Xmas, Here's Your Present

2008-12-26T00:42:00.001-06:00

I hope you had a happy December.To all my Christian friends: congratulations on the anniversary birth of your savior. To all my Jewish friends: L'chaim and Happy Hanukkah. To all my Scientologist friends: Oh wait, I don't have any Scientologist friends because I don't pal around with cult members. And to all my fellow atheists: Happy Annual Gift-Giving Season.

I felt very anti-social this Xmas, for some odd reason. I love my family, I love Nick's family, but I just didn't really have it in me to spend tons and tons of time with either. I think I was just exhausted from the overwhelming stress of the last 2 weeks, what with the car troubles and purchasing the new car and buying/wrapping all the presents and cleaning the house...by the time Xmas actually got here, I felt like a wet noodle. But we made it through most of our family events (we still have extended McBride family Xmas dinner tomorrow and a meetup with Nick's dad sometime before the end of December) and now it's back to the usual schedule.

So I got you a gift, Dear Readers. I'm going to tell you the story of the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to me at Xmas time. Enjoy.

It's 7pm on Xmas Eve, 1992. I'm 14 years old. As you probably know, my stepmother and I have never had anything even resembling a good relationship. That year, I decided I would try to give her a gift that would get her to like me. I was big into Fimo modeling clay at the time, so I spent several hours making her a set of Xmas tree ornaments. I even scented them with cinnamon so they'd be fragrant and extra cool.

As I put all of my wrapped presents under the tree that Xmas Eve, I suddenly realized something awful: I hadn't gotten my mom a present at all. I'd completely forgotten about her. Tearfully, I went to my mom and confessed this, begging for forgiveness and apologizing constantly.

My mom was, as can be expected, extremely hurt. Not just because I had forgotten her, but especially because I had spent so much time handmaking a gift for my wicked, mean stepmother. (My stepmother was my father's mistress for 2 years when he was married to my mom. She, understandably, hates her with a burning passion.) To make matters worse, as I was crying, I got all flabbergasted and said, "Mom, you know I love her more than you!" when I meant to say "Mom, you know I love you more than her!" I immediately corrected myself, but it couldn't have been said at a worse time.

My mom said it was ok, and she forgave me, but only after making me feel appropriately shitty for forgetting her. At this point, my great-grandmother, Mamaw, pulls me aside. In her high-pitched Southern drawl, she said, "Cmere, I got something for you to give your mama." I followed her into the bedroom we were sharing for the holidays, and she urgently pressed a $20 bill into my hands. "You take this money, and you buy yer mama a present so she don't get so upset atcha."

I tried not to laugh, and said, "Mamaw, no stores are open. Besides, I would have to ask Mom to drive me to the store, and that seems really silly..." Mamaw set her jaw and snatched the $20 back from me, and said, "Well, then, I got me a 3-pack of nylon panties from the KMart. I ain't even opened 'em yet. You give them to her, I won't even tell that you got 'em from me. You just say you were kidding as a way to surprise her with them panties." I decided my mom probably didn't want nylon panties from KMart for Xmas, so I turned her down.

When I told my mom about it later, she laughed so hard she cried. And now, the whole story is a McBride Xmas staple tale, and has been told at least once a year every year since. *sigh*

So there you have it. Tomorrow, I'll tell you all about my hilarious habit of talking in my sleep and the stories it has wrought. Until then, stay warm, play with your new stuff, and be merry.

My Days Have Been An Endless Parade Of Stress

2008-12-22T23:22:00.001-06:00

I have been neglecting a lot of things in my life lately, and you, Dear Readers, fall into the Neglected category. I'm sorry. You take the time to read my words, and I sit for eleven days in complete radio silence? Poor form on my part. I'll strive for more.

What HAVE I been doing? Well, I've been playing the hell out of Animal Crossing: City Folk. That may sound pitiful, but it's really pretty awesome as far as I'm concerned. I've also been completely stressed to the nines for the last 2 weeks because of the following things:
1) The Forester broke down. Again. This time it was both rear bearings and the rear left hub. $1300 just to get it drivable. Add to that the fact that it needs a new knock sensor and some other engine/electrical work, which would probably run another $1700 or so.

2) Rather than sink another $3000 into the Forester (which is 11 years old, has 170,000 miles on it, and has a shitty rebuilt engine) and *hope that it runs for another year before requiring beaucoup more repairs, we decided to buy a new car.

3) Financing a new car has proved to be quite...tricky. But we managed. It's going to suck having a car payment now when we're used to having no such thing, but we did some budget rearranging and with a little bit of belt tightening, we can afford it.

4) My Nana is here for Xmas and I have to clean the whole house because she hasn't seen it yet and wants to see it very badly. I wasn't planning on having to have a clean house this Xmas, and it's very, very, very dirty. So I've been working on that.

5) Honestly? I've been sleeping a lot. I'm not proud of it. But I think I needed it to stave off my tendencies toward winter depression.

And yes, we *did get the car! We bought a 2005 Prius with 88,000 miles on it. It's a really pretty deep ruby red. Driving it is like driving a spaceship. Or so I would imagine. It's all crazy inside, with an in-dash touchscreen and navigation system and shit. Next time you see me, I'll give you a ride and let you see for yourself. It's neat. And now I don't have to sweat my January 10th drive to Madison for Jaimi's birthday weekend, because I know my car won't break down. Or at least, if it does, it's covered by the 30-day all-things-covered warranty.

Have a Happy Xmas! I'll do my best to post between now and Xmas Day, but considering my ridiculous schedule of family events (we have 6 different groups of people with whom to spend time this year...hurray for divorced families!) I might not actually make it to the computer until Xmas Night, at which point I will bring you a full debriefing of Xmas, for the interested.

One last heartfelt plea: If you have a Wii, go buy Animal Crossing: City Folk. And while you're at it, get it bundled with the WiiSpeak. It's only $20 more and once you play AC:CF over the WiFi just once, you're going to wish you had WiiSpeak. Just trust me. And then we can visit each other's towns, and I can hook you up phat like I did with Jaimi. Just ask her! Ask her and her newly paid-off house! Heh heh.

Would You Ice Skate Naked? Would You Withstand Daily Torture Sessions?

2008-12-10T17:33:00.001-06:00

I swear to you, it does get uglier than the picture of me in my last entry. It comes in the form of my 5th grade school photo, and as soon as I can get a good copy into my computer, I will upload it for your amusement. I'm the Princess of Self-Debasement, after all.

What would you do for a Klondike bar? (Would you...would you kill a man?) I haven't ever had a Klondike bar. I'm not entirely sure what they are. It's a block of vanilla ice cream covered in chocolate, right? Like a chocolate shell? And it's in a foil wrapper? I've seen them in stores but I've never had the pleasure of eating one. I'm not sure if I've done anything to deserve one...in the commercials, people are doing pretty crazy things in order to get one. If they asked me, "What would you do for a Klondike bar?" I'd probably respond, "I'd take a 3 hour nap!" or "I'd drink this whole beer before noon!" You know, attainable goals.

So, what would YOU do for a Klondike bar?

You Might Want To Sit Down For This One

2008-12-03T21:55:00.001-06:00

When I moved from my apartment in NE Mpls back into my mom's house, right after I got out of the anorexia hospital, I had to put everything that didn't come out of my tiny bedroom into storage. I rented a Pod and kept everything in there in boxes. Then, when I moved in with Nick to the Uptown apartment and unpacked the Pod, I couldn't find this one huge Rubbermaid tub. The tub that contained 90% of my Stephen King books, all of my yearbooks, and a few other odds and ends.

I was devastated. For one, the cost of replacing the Stephen King books would have been astronomical, since most of them were hardcover. For two, most of the Stephen King books *couldn't truly be replaced because that cover style had gone out of print decades ago, including one of my favorites, The Talisman. To say nothing of my yearbooks! Those were completely irreplaceable.

My mom called me a few days ago and told me that she'd found the box in her garage! What it was doing there, I have no idea. I can't even figure out how it got there, but there it was, full of books that hadn't seen the light of day in 2 years. My precious! I wanted to clutch them to my chest and weep with joy when I saw them in that dusty purple tub.

This may seem like a boring story with no impact on you, Dear Reader, but fear not! I always have a reason for the rambling. You see, if I hadn't found the yearbooks, I wouldn't be able to bring you this particular gem from 1991.

Oh yeah, baby, that's me in 8th grade. Sexy, huh? What 14 year old guy wouldn't want to get with *that? The answer is all of them. All of them wouldn't (or in this case, didn't) want to get with that. Talk about your chrysalis.

If I Could Talk To The Animals, I'd Probably Still Swear

2008-12-01T16:47:00.003-06:00

Today's been a busy day. I spent an hour fishing, sticking mostly to the river because I'm trying to find a goldfish for Dora. Since I didn't have any luck, I sold all my extra fish and then went to Danbooru to pick up the Triforce I arranged to buy. Came back home and made a quick trip into the city to get the December town charm, buy a painting from the black market, and take in a show at the Marquee. After all *that, I rearranged some of my furniture downstairs to accomodate my new Xmas tree and then wrote a few letters to my neighbors. Confused? Maybe I should have started the paragraph with "Today's been a busy day...in Animal Crossing." Heh.

So yeah, that's what I've been doing. I'm sure I'll grow bored with the game a little bit eventually, but for now I don't see that happening for at least a couple of months. I'll try to keep the AC talk to a minimum here on the blog so as not to bore the living bejesus out of you all.

Fuck shit damn cock hell ass cunt. I linked to this blog from my profile on another website I'm on (an Animal Crossing community, if you want to know) and I got a violation notice and a point on my account (whatever that means) because this blog has "offensive and vulgar content and is inappropriate." I wish I knew how to make HTML buttons...I'd totally make a button with an image of the notification and put it at the top of the blog. I'm damn proud of the fact that my blog is offensive, inappropriate, and vulgar. It's not even that bad, really! The occasional obscenity, a handful of blowjob jokes, and some sex references. Big fucking deal.

Bumblebees Taint Got Nothing On Me No More

2008-11-28T04:45:00.000-06:00

I've been feeling really quiet STILL. It's terribly unlike me, so I apologize for the fact that I haven't been posting at all. Believe me, it's bothering me more than it's bothering you. Since I don't have anything to go on about, I thought I'd tell you a quick and horrible little story from my childhood.

The Bee
I was 3 years old, small and sturdy with a shock of blond curls. I could read, I loved to sing, and I loved to watch TV in the basement while I played with my toys. I had my kitty puppet (the name of this puppet escapes me, but if he had a name, I’m sure it was Mr. Something) and was playing down in the basement by myself. It was summer, and the world outside my door was muggy and thick. Down in the basement, the thin carpet was cool on my bare feet. Clad in only a little girl nightgown, I decided to stop playing and watch one of my favorite shows: The Greatest American Hero. I can clearly remember the theme song playing as I sat down on the couch. Believe it or not, I’m walking on air…then the worst pain ever. EVER. I screamed and jumped up off the couch. Something had bitten me right on my bare naked bathing-suit-area. (We have never worn underwear to bed in my family. My mom says your nether regions need time to air out at night.) I ran upstairs, shrieking like a banshee.

I imagine that I wasn’t saying any actual words. All I remember is noise pouring from my throat as I raced around, trying to think of what would make the hurt stop. This behavior would be repeated twice more before age 10. Both times would occur on our old Woodbury swingset. In this instance, my mom caught me at some point and managed to discover what had happened.

Have you heard of a taint? It’s the patch of skin that is between your vagina (or balls) and your asshole. That’s where the bee that had been hiding in the couch cushions stung me. I lowered my pink little three-year-old butt onto the scratchy sofa and the bee panicked. It inadvertently stung me in the most painful spot it could, and then probably died somewhere. My mom informed me of the bee’s fate, having lost his stinger. This made me cry harder; I loved animals.

For the rest of my childhood, I was terrified of bees. I was the kid you see who flips out when a bee lands within 10 feet of her, leaping to my feet and running away crying “No no no no no!” I associated a bee sting with not only the worst pain imaginable, but also the cold reality of sitting in on an ice pack and having Calomine lotion put on my privates. When I finally did get stung again, I didn’t even notice until the swelling started up on my hand. I was stunned at the realization that the tiny sting I had felt must have been the bee. I’m no apiarist, but I haven’t ever feared bees since. Nor have I seen The Greatest American Hero.

Lacking Loqacity Lately; Alliteratively Advertising Animal Crossing

2008-11-20T22:55:00.001-06:00

Sorry for the week-long wait between posts. I have been feeling uncharacteristically quiet lately. I haven't been chatting with JJ, I haven't called Blake or Jaimi, and when Betsie and I hung out yesterday, we watched a movie and didn't really talk much. I don't know what's up with me, but I don't like it. I get nervous when my behavior changes without me doing anything to change it.

Oh my god, I want to rip down all the Xmas decorations I see. We haven't even had Thanksgiving yet. I think it should be a federal fucking law that Xmas decorations can't go up until the day after Thanksgiving. And that goes for stores and city streets, too. I was in Target and they had one of those stupid machines that plays snippets from 12-15 different CDs blaring, and all of the selections were Xmas music. I marched over to it and turned the volume down until the music was barely whispering out of the fucking thing. And I fucking love Xmas, too. It's my favorite holiday. But we do *not need more than 30-some odd days of preparation and anticipation for it.

Anyone who has Animal Crossing: City Folk (the new Wii version of AC) needs to comment here or contact me through other means immediately so we can play together. I'm totally in love with it; what they've done to enhance the game is phenomenal and really entertaining. I didn't import my AC:Wild World character over from my DS because I wanted to start fresh. Hell, that's half the fun! I might sneak some Bells over, though, to help pay off my home loan. If I can even do that. I don't know the exact ins and outs of DS transfer yet.

JJ's Visit Ain't Dyn-o-mite; Ana Needs To Shut Her Bitch Mouth

2008-11-13T22:28:00.000-06:00

Haven't updated for a few days because I've been a busy little bee. Jason Josephes (who lives in Seattle) came home for a few days and I made it my business to make sure he had a good visit home. I did what I could, but he rated his visit as so-so. I'd direct you to his blog to read about it in his own words, but he recently locked his shit up to private, which means you probably don't have access, Dear Reader. But he reassured me that he had fun when he and I were hanging out, as well as at the bar on Tuesday night with all the Edsers (and Betsie, who gets along with everyone and was game to tag along). Today, I picked him up and we had lunch at the Bulldog in Uptown, then followed that up with a walking tour of Places JJ Has Lived. We drove to Dinkytown for the last 2 stops on the tour, and then I took him home and said goodbye. What sucks is that he may not come home again for more than the standard year/year-and-a-half. It may be a few years, or so he said today. That would really suck. I might have to take a trip out to Seattle to see him before that.

That's the problem with having a dog. You can't really ever *go anywhere. If I want to leave my dog overnight, my mom has to watch him. Granted, my dog has special needs (his aggression thing) so he can't be boarded at a vet or dog hotel, which leaves my mom and the kids or my brother since they're the only people he really trusts beyond me and Nick. People always say having a kid is harder than having a dog because you can't really leave the kid alone until it's 13 or so. But at least you can take kids anywhere you could go. You can't take dogs anywhere.

If you liked Animal Crossing, you should be playing MySims and/or MySims Kingdom for the DS. It's a simple, cartoony, cute simulation/role-playing game in which you have to help villagers and play minigames and collect things to further the plot. Both are really fun, MySims Kingdom more so because it's more complex. The games are pretty short, though, assuming you have any prowess at video games. I beat MySims Kingdom in about 26 hours of gameplay. I'm still trying to complete all the neighbors' wishes in order to "fulfill" them, but I've beaten the plot. So, at 30 hours of gameplay, I still haven't completely finished the game. If I were to set my goal of completion as "getting every item and every fish and every medal and fulfilling every neighbor" then I imagine it will take me at least another 10-15 hours.

I'm having a lot of trouble with anorexic thoughts over the last few days. I've barely eaten the last 2 days, and when I do eat, I'm really self-conscious about what I'm eating. And the "I'm super sexy inside and out" feeling I had awhile ago has really plummeted. I know why...as we met up outside, a friend of mine said something to me, first thing said upon seeing me. What was said was, "Oh my god, you're huge!" When I tried to laugh it off by saying, "Never call an anorexic girl huge, it's kind of a sore spot," my friend responded with, "How can you be anorexic if you're so huge?" I just half-laughed and made some self-deferential comment as a way of hiding how much it killed me to have heard any of that. I later told my friend that it bothered me, and apologies were sort of made, but it got me thinking.

I know it's hard to understand eating disorders; it seems like the solution should be simple. Don't make yourself throw up. Don't starve yourself. Eat normally. It sounds so easy and if you don't have an ED, it seems extremely easy. That's because you don't have the skinny evil bitch Ana living in your head screaming at you constantly to be thinner, that to be thinner is to be better, happier, prettier, sexier, and more liked by others. You may think that because I've gained weight and because I am now able to eat without crying that I'm "over" my eating disorder. Or that they cured it when I was in the hospital. Neither is true. I struggle with Ana the anorexic bitch in my head on a weekly, if not daily, basis. It's taken a lot of effort to get myself in a place where I actually like myself and think I look good the way I am now. What I hate is that my newly built self-esteem is like a fucking Jenga tower...someone pulls the wrong block and it tumbles down. So I'm not upset with my friend, because I have to learn to be stronger than this when it comes to my weight and comments made about my weight.

Things What Make Me Bouncy

2008-11-11T00:03:00.002-06:00

This week is going to fucking RULE. First of all, my friend JJ is coming home from Seattle to visit. He'll be here all day on Tues, Wed, and Thurs, then he leaves Fri and goes back to his overcast coastal metropolis. I haven't seen him in ages even though we talk online a lot, so I'm quite happy to get to spend some time with him in person. On top of that, my copy of Stephen King's new book of short stories (entitled Just After Sunset) will be in my hands on Wednesday, thanks to Amazon and their lightning fast order processing/shipping. And as if those two things weren't in themselves enough to get me all enthusiastic and bouncy, Betsie and I have a date to completely and unashamedly girl out. We're going to the Mall, we're going to do each other's hair, and we're going to talk nonstop.

If you have a PS3, you NEED to be playing Little Big Planet. It's the most inventive, creative, and fun game since the first incarnation of Animal Crossing. It's even more fun with more players, but single player mode doesn't make you feel like you're missing out on the real fun of the game (like it does when you play Rock Band alone, for example). And the little Sackboy character is incredibly cute.

Holy Shit, We Won!

2008-11-06T22:43:00.002-06:00

America, I can't fucking believe it. I mean, I was wishing and hoping that you would open your eyes and your minds and see the light and elect Barack Obama to the Presidency, but in the back of my mind, I had this nagging doubt that you'd actually pull it off. A black man with a brown name, a young guy with less experience than the other candidate, an "elitist" who was unapologetic regarding his intelligence and education...and you elected him President of the most powerful country in the world. America, I never thought I'd say this, but I love you and I'm proud of you. Maybe there's hope for you and me after all.

I spent election night at Xn and Rebecca's place. We grilled and drank and loudly discussed the results as they came in. And when the television screen suddenly showed the words "Barack Obama is elected the 44th President of the United States," we all started hollering and clamoring for Rebecca to change the channel and check the other stations. I believe I yelled, "Is it true? Could it be true??" and pinched myself. Other stations confirmed it, and we cheered our little hearts out. We could hear people cheering in other houses, and firecrackers going off in the distance. Then Nick and I went to his mom's house a few blocks away and watched McCain's concession speech and Obama's victory speech with his mom (Heather) and her wife, Lori. Heather was really happy because in his speech, Obama said, "young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled." Heather clapped her hands and said, "Oh, he said 'gay!' Politicians never address gay people directly like that! Hurray!"

Because I'm about as graceful as a baby giraffe, I burned the shit out of my leg on Election Night. Xn uses a chimney for preparing the coals for the grill, so this metal cylinder had held burning hot coals for about an hour. After emptying the coals into the grill, Xn set the chimney down on the ground off to one side. While I walked to the grill to put our steaks on, I stumbled over my own foot and my calf touched the chimney for a good second or so. I shrieked and jumped away, almost falling over in the process. I limped inside and put some ice on it for a few minutes, but then the ice was making it hurt worse so I stopped icing it. It got darker and darker red as the evening wore on. When I woke up the next morning, it was purple-reddish-brown. I currently have it bandaged up with wet gel burn pads and a gauze pad covering those which is taped down on all four sides. Big bandage. The burn is 3" long and 2" wide and will probably leave a scar. Oh well. At least I can tell my grandkids that I got the scar on my leg the same day that America elected its first black President.

I always get lethargic and lousy-feeling on cloudy and/or rainy days. I can't get out of bed, I sleep all day, I don't feel like blogging or checking Ed's Room or responding to email or anything. It's miserable and boring. So my mom is lending me her Happy Light, which mimics natural sunlight and is supposed to help with seasonal affective disorder. She thinks maybe exposing myself to its light for 30 minutes on days that are cloudy and rainy might help perk me up and give me the energy to live like a normal person. It's supposed to be cloudy and snowy (!!!) tomorrow, so I'll give it a shot and let you know if I see results.

Yes We Can Has Change!

2008-11-04T09:19:00.001-06:00

I just got home from voting! The line was about 200 people long when we got there at 7:30 this morning. But we only had to wait an hour altogether, so it wasn't that bad. I had my iPhone, so I just played Scrabble while slowly shuffling forward. I voted for Obama and Franken and Madia and Pitzrick and then a bunch of people you probably haven't ever heard of (judges and the like). Now I just have to wait...I really fucking hope we get the results tonight. Nick and I are going to Xn and Rebecca's house for an election night party... I don't know how late they're willing to let us stay at their place, but I'm willing to stay up until 2am to hear results. If all goes well, it'll be a slam dunk for Obama. That's what the polls have been predicting.

I read a funny Obama slogan on Facebook. It said, "Of course Obama's part Kenyan...look at how well he ran!" That cracked me up. Pretty clever, internet. Unlike the scads of "Obama is a socialist" and "Obama sure sounds like Osama" bullshit slogans that I found within the same application. (It's the Pieces of Flair application. If you have it installed, feel free to add the button *I made yesterday. It's the one that says, "Atheists For Obama." *smirk*

Today looks like it's going to be a long, boring day of sitting around and waiting for tonight to happen. At least it's the last day that I'll have to hear all the campaign ads on TV. When you watch as much TV as I do, you end up hearing/watching between 4 and 5 political ads during each commercial break. Figure that a commercial break comes every 8 minutes or so, and figure that I watch TV from 11am-6pm and from 8pm-midnight every day... it means I end up watching an estimated 325-410 political ads every day. (And yes, I do watch 11 hours of television a day, every day. Sometimes more on Saturdays and Sundays. It's my favorite thing to do besides fuck around online.) The long and the short of it is I'm fucking sick and tired of political ads. Even the ones for Obama.

I'm all decked out in my "I Voted" sticker and my 2 Obama pins. One of the pins is just the Obama blue "O" with red and white stripes at the bottom; the other pin came in the mail today from my friend Jaimi. It's got a picture of a 50s housewife on it and it reads, "Perfect Women Vote For Obama."(Great timing on the package delivery, Jaimi!) I actually bought an Obama t-shirt to wear on Election Day this year, but with an expected high of 71 degrees, it's going to be way too hot to wear a long-sleeved heavy cotton t-shirt today. Silly me, I ordered it thinking I lived in Minnesota and that it would be cold on November 4th.

Ha, my phone just rang and it was a woman from the DFL calling to find out if we'd voted yet and whether or not we were voting the DFL ticket. Not more than 20 seconds after I answered the phone, the doorbell rang; it was a guy in a Madia shirt canvassing, asking the same question. I told them both that not only did I already vote, I voted straight down the DFL ticket. The woman on the phone said, "Yay! You know, this is our moment. We're going to pull it off, I just know it." And I have to agree. I feel it in my bones. I've been waiting 8 long years for MY voice to finally be represented in the White House, and it's fucking time. If you're reading this and you haven't yet voted, get your ass out there and vote. I don't care if your state is in the bag for Obama. Every vote counts, every vote helps, and we need every voice to be heard today.

I feel like I'm about to go skydiving. My stomach is going to be in knots all day. And man, if you thought I was impatient and anxious on a normal day... you have no idea what's in store today.

What The Cool Kids Are Doing; My Coastal Friend's Visit Draws Nigh

2008-11-03T19:16:00.001-06:00

What do I spend my evenings doing? Watching television and fucking around on the internet (occasionally with delightful results...e.g. this blog) and playing video games. Want to see how your interests match up to mine? Here's a list of my never-miss TV shows, the sites that occupy my oh-so-precious time, and the games to which I'm addicted:

Television

The Sarah Connor Chronicles

Heroes

Sons of Anarchy

The Mentalist

Fringe

Pushing Daisies

The Sarah Silverman Program

South Park

King of the Hill

Family Guy

The Office

Little Britain

30 Rock

Dexter

The Unit

The Soup

Saturday Night Live

The Daily Show

The Colbert Report

Websites

Video Games

My Sims Kingdom (DS)
Wii Fit (Wii)
Beautiful Katamari (XBox360)
Boom Blox (Wii)
Animal Crossing: Wild World (DS)

How do our tastes match up? Are we entertainment soulmates? Are we enthralled by the same fictional worlds and virtual meeting places? Or do you have lame taste in everything?

My friend Jason is coming home in a few days which fucking rules because I haven't seen him in more than a year. And when I saw him a year ago, I saw him for like 45 minutes at a crowded bar. It's been 3 years since we got to hang out one on one and watch Maury while baked. He's home for like 5 or 6 days so I'll have plenty of time to see his Seattle-living ass.

Tomorrow, everything changes. No matter what happens, things are going to change in this country. I'm using every last bit of my energy to think positive thoughts and hope for the best outcome. All the strategists and reputable news sites are predicting an Obama victory by a huge margin of votes, but I just can't let myself get too hopeful until they're actually declaring him President. I am a firm believer in the jinx.

The Dark Man Drawn To Life; Election Day Approacheth

2008-11-02T18:21:00.000-06:00

I had a great Halloween this year! I dressed up like a rejected Miss America.

That was just to hand out candy to kids, though. For Jarrin's Halloween party, Nick and I dressed up like McCain and Palin. We don't have any pics, though, which sucks. But I wore a black suit with red piping over a red turtleneck, and put my hair up in a twist with a tiara. I also carried a (fake) shotgun and we each wore official RNC lanyards with realistic RNC badges on them. (Nick works for Qwest and Qwest did all the telecommunications stuff for the RNC and the DNC.)

Marvel Comics is doing Stephen King's The Stand in a 5 issue run. I've got 1 and 2, going to read them tonight. I'll post my review once I finish them, let you know what I think so far. The Stand is my favorite Stephen King book outside of the Dark Tower series (I separate them when rating his books) and I've read it at least 20 times, so I think I'm a good choice for a reviewer.

ELECTION DAY IS DAY AFTER TOMORROW! I am fucking dying inside. We have to vote before taking Nick to work on Tuesday. Our polling place is the Churchstrosity (aka Grace Church) on Pioneer Trail and Eden Prairie Road. It's bigger than a football field and goes 5 stories deep. We're both a little scared to go in. If I find out any single one of you didn't vote this year, expect me to upbraid you loudly and harshly, most likely in public. If you need a ride to your polling place, call me. I'll be home ALL DAY and I will take ANYONE ANYWHERE to vote. Comment here if you need my assistance on Tuesday and I'll get you my number.

Second Place Pretty, The Root of All Evil, Overnight Guests

2008-10-29T12:20:00.000-05:00

I'm changing my costume for when I hand out candy to the kids on Friday night. I will be Beauty Pageant Runner-Up. I'm going to wear the tiara and my pink princess dress (the one I wore when I was Princess Peach in 2006) and then gob on the mascara and streak it down my face. I want a sash, but I can't find one anywhere. I found a good one at either Unique Thrift or Savers (I don't remember which)...it said "Miss Diagnosed" on it. But I don't remember which store had it and I'm not going to go looking for it. It's not that vital, I'm just handing out candy.

We had our budget all set for our honeymoon/one year anniversary trip to Amsterdam in April. Had money set aside for the tickets (the hotel's taken care of already) and some money in the works for food and incidentals. Then I was browsing through the packet of papers we got when we closed on the house. See, we had to file for homestead status to avoid a property tax hike, and I needed to find our deed and real estate certificate. Found those easy enough and was about to put the whole packet away when I just decided to browse through it on a whim. And what did I find but a piece of paper that said our property taxes were due on October 15th. Fuck. There was a URL so I logged on and found our property ID and discovered that not only did we owe $1500, we had to pay it by Friday the 31st. Double fuck. After some careful financial finagling, we've got everything worked out and managed to pay the $1500 *and pay for the airfare to Amsterdam. For fuck's sake, if those taxes had kept us from going to Amsterdam, I would have had kittens.

Young James is coming over tonight to spend the night. I'm super excited to see him. I'm sure he's excited to have a queen sized bed all to himself in his own room. Shit, he may not want to leave. That is one comfortable bed, believe you me. It was my bed for 3 years and it's dreamy. I miss it terribly; the bed Nick and I sleep in is my dad's old king sized bed and it is a terrible mattress. I put a featherbed on top of it and that allows me to sleep on it. Otherwise it's like a pallet. But it was free and bed beggars can't be bed choosers. Plus, we had to upgrade to king sized; I was tired of having Nick's elbows in my face and he was tired of not being able to stretch out his arms.

So I got a Wii Fit. I got it for two reasons: first, Xn said that he really liked his and was enjoying himself quite thoroughly playing it, and second, when Nick and I went to the Uptown Gamestop for the midnight release of Fallout 3 they had one Wii Fit left. So I snapped it up and took it home and played it immediately. It's great fun, I highly recommend you get one if you have a Wii. There's scores of games to play in the training section and it keeps track of your weight and BMI every day that you play. You can set a weight loss goal and it lets you know if you're on track to make it happen. I'm quite good at the hula hoop game (yes, the one that guys like to videotape their girlfriends playing) and the boxing game. I'm struggling to get the hang of the running game, but that's because I don't often have pockets when I play and so the controller's sensors seem to be off.

Do your hands, feet, arms, and/or legs ever look weird to you? Like, too skinny or oddly mottled in color? My hands look really skeletal to me as I type right now, and so do my ankles and feet. It's really strange. They're also very very cold. I'm probably dehydrated. I have a bad tendency to not drink anything ever. Seriously, I probably ingest 8 oz of fluid per day, and that fluid is usually Diet Mountain Dew. I wish I liked water...when I was at Methodist in the anorexia ward, they made us drink SO MUCH plain water that I will forever associate the taste of water with being locked up and sick. Surprisingly, most of my memories of Methodist are pretty happy ones...except for the memory of being forced to drink glass after glass of water on top of an overly full stomach. Stupid water, being vital to life.

In 7 Days, Everything Changes; A Foray Into Fellatic Funny

2008-10-28T21:27:00.001-05:00

Oh my god, oh my god, it's only a week away! The election is only one fucking week away. I have been waiting for election day with baited breath since the primaries in early February. Nine long months of campaigning, volunteering, donating, attending rallies, and discussing Obama's strengths at length with my friends and family have slowly marched along and now it's finally here! I just hope it's over quickly and doesn't drag along like the 2000 election. All the electoral polls are saying that it's not even going to be very close if the polls can be trusted. In the name of all that is good, please let the polls be accurate.

I don't know what I'm going to do with myself if McCain is elected.Seriously. I'm not going to throw myself off a bridge or move to Canada or anything like that (I'm far too closely bound to my family to leave the state, let alone the country) but I will probably cry. I'm not ashamed to admit that. If McCain is elected President of the United States next Tuesday, I will cry like a little girl with a broken heart because that is what I will be. Don't break my heart, America. I'm far too cute to be so bereft.

I have gotten 2 emails in as many days from old friends who are surprised that I'm married. What's that about? Did I not seem like the marrying type? Ever since I was in high school I've wanted to be married and have kids, and I always thought I was pretty open about that. But I got the same reaction from both of them: "Married? Seriously??" And now that I think about it, another really close but fairly estranged friend asked me today about my new last name. He was confused by it, so I explained that I got married. No response yet from him so I don't know if he was surprised by the news or not. So we're looking at 2, possibly 3, of my old guy friends who apparently didn't think I was the kind of girl to settle down with one guy forever. Listen, fellas, a girl can only give so many blowjobs to random guys before she finds The One. Like Cinderella and the glass slipper...I just had to find the one that fit just right. *smirk*

Oh no, blowjob jokes...what has Girl Gone Viled come to? Oh please. If you're reading this, then you either know me really, really well or not at all. In the case of the former: you really shouldn't be surprised. In the case of the latter: well, shit, the damn blog is called Girl Gone Viled. You're gonna hear about some blowjobs eventually.

Speaking of blowjobs, my dog licked his own penis for 35 minutes straight today. I wouldn't have noticed but he was making a very loud licking noise; I mean, he was really going to town on himself. I'm surprised he didn't have candles lit and a satin robe draped over his furry back. I kept expecting to see an open Dog Fancy magazine between his paws. It was like he was on a date. And I had to just sit there and listen to it. If anyone wants to dispute that dogs are the actual owners and humans the submissive half of the equation, I present you with the following: we pick up their poop, we are forced to standby while they ~~masturbate~~ clean themselves, and we serve them all their meals. If you did that to a human, you'd be called a slave and you'd probably be really active on several BDSM forums. Fucking dogs, lording their many freedoms over us whenever they can. "Look at me, I can reach my own genitals with my mouth! Check it out, I'm going to poop right here, because I feel like it! Hey, I puked on your bed, clean it up while I sleep!"

I won't say blowjobs in this paragraph headline. Oh, wait. If you're surmising that I wrote this entire paragraph just so I could make a third blowjob joke, you're right. My immaturity knows no bounds, baby. You don't want to test it.

The Politics of Dancing; The Politics of Mmmm Feeling Good

2008-10-27T21:00:00.001-05:00

Feds disrupt plan to assassinate Obama
First off, let me just say that there's a big difference between skinheads and neo-Nazi white supremacists.True skinheads are S.H.A.R.P.s--Skinheads Against Racial Prejudice. I have a few very very close friends who are skinheads and they are all voting for Obama, as far as I know. Even if they weren't, they sure as fuck dislike him because he's black. I take issue with the Associated Press' use of the word "skinhead" in their headline. It only serves to continue the incorrect use of the word.

I'm grateful to my mom this Halloween because she's helping us be the cool house on the block.She bought a ton of full-size candy bars wholesale online and gave us 20-30 of them to hand out to the kids on Friday. Rock and roll, man. I can't wait to see their little faces when we plunk a huge candy bar into their buckets. Maybe that will make up for the fact that we're dressed like McCain and Palin (yes, our costume this year is the scariest thing of all...President McCain and VP Palin) and not a scary witch or something more kid-oriented. I might still look for another quick costume that kids can relate to more. They're going to be scared off enough by the horrible barking that Ein makes whenever someone comes to the door. (He'll be kenneled, but he's still loud as fuck).

For an hour or so, I considered blogging for PayPerPost, a company that links bloggers with advertisers and pays the bloggers to post about the advertisers' products/services. Then I decided I didn't need to sell my blogging soul for $5 per post. Not to mention that Google dislikes PPP so greatly that they've removed some blogs' PageRank for participating. And I wouldn't want to bother you all with bullshit about some product or service that I don't even care about. I'm nobody's shill unless I really believe in something.

Speaking of believing in something, if you have the spare time and the wherewithal to help out, you should volunteer for the Obama campaign by making phone calls and taking polling information. It's really easy and you can do it from home. And then you can sleep snugly, knowing that you not only did your part by voting, but you really went above and beyond for the cause. Don't you want to know that you did EVERTHING that you could do this November 4th? Of course you do. None of us wants to be kicking ourselves after a McCain victory, wondering if we could have done more, helped more. Download a list of phone numbers tonight and make those calls tomorrow.

So it's no surprise to any of you that I'm voting for Obama/Biden for President/VP. I'm also voting for Al Franken for Senate. I'm voting for Madia and Pitrick for Representatives. And I'm voting yes on the sales tax amendment. Still wanna be friends?

Fallout 3 comes out tonight at midnight, so Nick and I will be at the Uptown Gamestop to pick up our copy. Now I just have to convince him to let me use his computer while he's at work so I can play it, too. That is, assuming it's still turn-based like Fallout 2 was. I can't handle real-time shooter games. I get all anxious and turned around and I can't aim for shit. The only one I was ever good at was Goldeneye for the 64, and that was just because I played it so much. Maybe I'll just stick to my Beautiful Katamari (only 14% to go to the complete collection!) and Boom Blox and things. Anyone got any good suggestions for XBox 360, PS3, or Wii games that a girl like me might enjoy? Suggest below...I'm looking for a new game.

Now it's time for Television You Should Be Watching. These are the shows that you probably don't watch, but you totally should. (All times Central.)

It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia (FX, Thurs 9p): I don't know how to describe this hilarious, raucously funny show. 5 friends fuck up their lives weekly with side-splitting results. You will have tons of new quotes within your little circle of friends if you watch this show. Seasons 1-3 available on Netflix, season 4 airing now.
The Mentalist (CBS, Tues 8p): A mentalist who is a consultant for the California Bureau of Investigations closes cases while on the seemingly never-ending hunt for Red John, the serial killer who killed his wife and son. Clever, funny, and enthralling.
Fringe (FOX, Tues 8p): A team consisting of a federal agent, a delusional "fringe scientist," and his son. Created by J.J. Abrams...so, think J.J. Abrams does X-Files.
Saturday Night Live: You know it, you've watched it, but what you may not know is that the SNL cast is on its game these days and producing some funny fucking stuff. Give it another chance. If you don't find it funny at all, write me a 500 word essay explaining why not and if you can convince me of your point, I'll give you $5.

So here's your orders for the week, my minions:Carve your pumpkins, register to vote, hand out candy if kids ring your bell, get dressed up, and don't drink and drive after Halloween parties. Oh, and FOLLOW me (on Blogger) or SUBSCRIBE to me (on MySpace) or JOIN my network (on Facebook--the BlogNetworks app). My stats say that a lot of people are reading this blog but I only have a handful of listed readers. Show yourselves, my darlings, so that I can thank you personally for your attention.

Costumes, War Heroes, Shiny Things

2008-10-24T09:24:00.001-05:00

I'm super excited for Jarrin's Halloween party tomorrow night. However, I'm a little annoyed because Nick dragged his feet on getting his costume together and now we have one day to find him a suit, otherwise I don't know how our joint costume is going to work. I can still go as my part, I guess, but it won't be the same without my better half. Maybe we can cobble something together and still make it work.

Young James is coming home on leave! I'm not sure exactly when he gets into town; last I heard he was in Kuwait getting ready to fly into Atlanta (or St. Louis, I can't remember which) and then drive up here to home. We haven't seen him in so long--he's been in Iraq, fighting the war. He's in the Army and is a demolitions guy, so his job is to skillfully and intentionally detonate bombs they find. Pretty dangerous fucking work. I can't wait until he's back in the States for good and safe as houses.

I'm planning on getting a new laptop for Xmas. I want a Toshiba Protege M800 in the pale pink color they're only releasing in Canada. My friend Heidi is going to be my clever assistant and help me to procure one of these beauties (they're only available at Best Buy stores in Canada or online at bestbuy.ca...with shipping only available to Canada). Look how shiny!

We had a lovely dinner with Xn and Rebecca last night at Peninsula, a Malaysian restaurant at 26th and Nicollet. The food was divine! 2 of our 3 shared dishes were served in hollowed out fruit (a mango and a pineapple, respectively) and we had this appetizer that consisted of a crepe-like pancake with a dipping sauce that tasted like really spicy vegetable soup. Go check it out, I promise you'll enjoy yourself. Order a Tiger beer; it's from Singapore and complements the food perfectly. It was a shiny evening all around, even if I did get berated on the way home for talking way too much. I talk a lot. I think my closest friends know that and have accepted it as part of my total package, so I don't usually worry myself about it, but I guess it bothered Nick. *shrug* Hopefully, it didn't bother Xn or Rebecca.

Digg-ing In The Dirt; You Know You Love My Miscellany

2008-10-23T13:04:00.015-05:00

I'm going to start putting a Digg This! button on my posts. If you think a particular post is good, or funny, or horribly embarrassing, please click the button and submit the post to Digg. Just one more way for me to promote my site. I'm such a blogwhore.

So I promised I'd explain my absence.I really don't know what to tell you...the days just slipped by so fast and before I knew it, it had been almost a week since I'd updated. I apologize for leaving everyone hanging in regard to the Dairy Queen story. Better late than never, right? I'll try not to let it happen in the future.

I'm super excited for Halloween this year. You see, last Halloween, I was locked up in the mental ward. I dressed up in the hospital...I think I was a cat. I don't really remember. Nick brought me costume bits and I seem to remember furry black ears, but that could be a false ECT-glitch memory. In any event, I missed out on Jarrin's Halloween party, trick-or-treaters, and carving pumpkins. And Halloween is my second favorite holiday, so I was very sad to miss it all. This year, I'm carving pumpkins, handing out candy to kids, *and going to Jarrin's party (which is Saturday). And I have a great costume, a joint costume with Nick.

I want to take a minute and thank the internet for Facebook.I've reconnected with at least a dozen high school friends because of it, just by clicking a few links and reading through a list of names. It's the best social networking site there is. If you are a MySpacer and you don't have a Facebook account, you're really missing out. I suggest you race over to Facebook and make an account toot-sweet. You'll be astonished at how many of your friends, family, and distant acquaintances you can find (mostly because it asks people to use their actual first and last names, not a made up nickname like on MySpace).

Tonight's plans:Dinner with Xn and his lovely wife Rebecca at Penisula, a Malaysian restaurant in Minneapolis. Tomorrow's plans:Nick has D&D so I'm hanging out with Betsie as usual. This time we'll be rocking out at her place in St. Paul, playing Wii on their 15 foot projection screen. Yeah, buddy.

The Dairy Queen Incident or Why I Hate Peanut Buster Parfaits

2008-10-22T20:19:00.010-05:00

Sorry I haven't been posting. I've been busy. I'll tell you all about it in my next post. For now, as promised, and without further ado, I present The Dairy Queen Incident.

____________________________________________________________________

My Mom The Dairy Queen

When I was 10 or 11, my mother was just beginning her career as an attorney. Consequently, she had to work a lot. My brother Kevin, who is 2 ½ years younger, and I had a few summertime nannies during these years. One of these nannies (I honestly cannot remember which) watched Guiding Light every day. I was an impressionable, nerdy little girl and I decided that if cool high school age girls watched soaps, then so would I. I began to watch with the nanny and soon picked up on characters and storylines. I particularly liked Josh and Reva.

Oh, Josh and Reva. They were young marrieds, hip and rich. I loved how they teased each other with eyes full of love. They always had the better plotlines and dialogue. You could just tell that they were the good couple because the commercials always focused on their relationship, whether it was in peril or not.

I have always been loquacious. (It means talkative. Get a dictionary!) I learned to talk around 9 months and I haven’t stopped since. I especially like to talk about things I am interested in. I talk about these things at great length. So it should be no surprise to anyone that I talked about Josh and Reva non-fucking-stop. I do not blame my mother for what she did as a result, but I cannot forgive the lack of napkins.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.

My mom, Kevin, and I were all in the car at the Dairy Queen parking lot. We were eating our ice cream in the car. I’m guessing there was a reason, but I’m fuzzy on the details. Let’s pretend it was really hot, and since the DQ by our house didn’t have indoor tables, we were misusing the car’s air conditioning system so my mom could eat her ice cream before we drove back home. I was in the front seat, Kevin in the back. I had a Peanut Buster Parfait, which (for the uninformed) consists of layers of air-whipped “ice cream”, hot fudge, and peanuts. It also comes with a long red plastic spoon, perfect for dipping down into the deep recesses of the parfait’s container.

I was prattling on and on about the latest installment of Guiding Light, extolling the virtues of Josh and Reva. “They’re so fun! They laugh all the time and I bet they have all kinds of fun when they go out together and I really think they are so cool and it would be so so cool to have them as parents! I mean seriously, Mom, they are so cool you would really like them if you watched the show.” I stopped to take a bite of my ice cream.

My mom smiled dangerously. I would have known this if I had not been distracted by the ice cream. I only know it now because hindsight is 20/20. Had I seen her grin, I definitely wouldn’t have said, “I wish Josh and Reva were my parents, they’re so totally cool and fun.”

“Oh really?” my mother said archly.
“Yep!”
“They’re super fun, huh?”
“Oh yes,” I gushed. “They’re really just, like, spontaneous!”
“Do they do spontaneous, fun things like this?”

On the word this, my mom reached across me with viper-like speed and grabbed my spoon from my hand. She plunged it into the melty ice cream-fudge-peanut concoction and then shoved it into my face. A peanut went up my nostril, I remember that distinctly. Hot fudge warmed one cheek while ice cream froze my chin. My brother howled with laughter, as did my mom. After a shriek of surprise, so did I. The laughing died down and I turned to my mom. “Ha ha. Hand me a napkin.”
“What napkin?” she said innocently.
“Mom, c’mon, seriously.”
“I don’t have any napkins, seriously,” she mocked my tone. “I guess you’ll have to go in and get one.”

Not getting a napkin was out of the question. I was absolutely covered in stickiness. Not to mention that wayward peanut. I rose to the challenge, lifting my head in what I hoped was a noble manner and walking into the DQ.

Of course, there were two teenage boys manning the counter. I didn’t really like boys that much yet, but I liked them enough to realize how humiliating this was going to be. One of them smirked at me. “Can I help you?”
“I need a napkin, please. I, uh, I had an accident. With my ice cream. In the car. Um.” I must have been blushing furiously; luckily, it wasn’t visible under all the fudge.

“Here ya go,” the other boy said, handing me a thick stack of cheap paper napkins.
“Thanks,” I squeaked. I tried not to run out of the Dairy Queen but I think I lost that battle.

When I got back to the car, I told my mom and brother what had happened, sending them into fresh fits of laughter. I cleaned up my face as best as I could, blowing the peanut out of my nose, using the mirror to make sure I’d gotten all the smears. “Was that fun?“ my mom asked. “Was that spontaneous and cool and oh so fun?“ She was still cackling, and patted my shoulder and said she couldn’t believe I went in like that to get napkins. Thinking over the whole situation, I started to laugh, too. “Okay, okay,” I said. “I’m glad that you’re my mom, not Reva. Just…uh…don’t do that anymore.”

My mom winked at me. “I’m a spontaneous person, MollyCat. I make no guarantees.” And on that note, we drove home.

Dawn May Be Breaking But It’s Still Night To Me

2008-10-18T05:18:00.009-05:00

Told you I'd be back tonight. Okay, so you probably went to sleep and are now reading this in the morning on Saturday, but for me it's still Friday night because I haven't slept yet. Betsie didn't leave until close to 3am, when I went to go pick Nick up from gaming in Uptown. We got home around 4am and I'm still not tired because of the party favors Betsie brought over tonight.

Tomorrow (Saturday) will be a day of doing bits here and there. Watching some TV we need to catch up on, running a few errands, and putting up our new curtains pretty much covers the entire day's worth of activities. But Sunday, oh boy Sunday... Sunday we're teaming up with Stabby and Pavel aka The Russian. We are Team Fhgwgads and we're gonna tear that hotel *UP, scavenger style. I'm excited. I hope it's fun. It sounds pretty fun. And I always love getting up to something geeky in the Sheraton that the MISFITS are putting on. (Except for that gang rape that one time...that wasn't as fun as they said it would be.)

Oh, c'mon, I'm kidding. I'm sorry if you were gang raped by sci-fi geeks and this blog just gave you a flashback that sets you back years in therapy. How was I to know?

I think it's time for another story. Tomorrow I'll post The Dairy Queen Incident, since that was the runner-up in our recent vote. I'll give you a hint: it involves me, my mom, ice cream, and horrible adolescent embarrassment. Confused? You should be!

Oh, by the way, if you're reading this via Blogger, you'll notice a bunch of new widgets along the right-hand side. They are all there to drive traffic to the blog. Click them, if you like, and maybe that will get me more points and therefore a higher chance of being seen by new people. I particularly like the animated one, Scoutle. You have a little Scout (who you get to name and give a catchphrase) and he "wanders the internet" looking for people to match to your blog...I don't really understand how it all works, so if you're the kind of person who needs to know actual facts about things, go to Scoutle and read all about it. So far it seems pretty neat, but we'll see if it actually brings any new blood to the reader's table

You'll also see the newly added Twitter feed near the top right side of the page. My last three Twitter tweets will appear here, updated as often as I update Twitter. If you don't already follow me on Twitter, you should! My username is Voo. Please leave a comment here on the blog telling me your username so I know who to follow back. (I don't just follow *anyone. You kids are special.)

Finally, feast your eyes on my shiny new StumbleIt! button. (It's on the right-hand side, below the animated Scoutle widget.) One click and you'll be transported to StumbleUpon, a site wherein you can review and recommend this blog to the StumbleUpon community. If you find yourself with a spare moment or two, I'd love it if people could do this.

On Dogs and Politics

2008-10-17T20:24:00.002-05:00

I'm anxiously awaiting Betsie's arrival. I'm also surrounded by dogs. My mom is out of town this weekend, so I'm watching Chile and Holland, a Viszla and a Miniature Dachshund, respectively. So I have small, medium, and large dogs, all the same general golden brown color. Luckily they like to sleep a lot. I'm hoping they'll behave when Betsie gets here. The debates are finally over and we're something like 17 days from election night. I am so excited that I'm starting to have stress dreams about it. I haven't had my heart behind a candidate ever before in my life; this election means more to me than anything political ever has. If Obama doesn't win, I'm going to be so depressed and disappointed in this country. More later tonight...Doorbell!!

Bad Dreams: Past & Present, Waking & Sleeping

2008-10-15T08:05:00.001-05:00

I just woke up from a nightmare in which bad men had me tied up and were torturing and dismembering my dog in front of me in order to extract information from me which I did not have. That is to say, nothing I could say or do in the dream could stop them from burning, cutting, and slicing at my screaming dog whose eyes were pleading with me to make the bad men stop. I woke up sobbing and crying out loud, with Nick telling me it was okay. I immediately asked if the dog was okay and he was there on the bed, safe and sound. I stayed in Nick's arms for about 15 minutes, trying to fall back asleep, but the adrenaline rush was too severe and I fear I will be awake for another hour or so, if I go back to sleep at all. It was a fucking horrific dream.

Speaking of bad dreams, today, October 15th, marks the one-year anniversary of the day I went into Station 47 at Abbott Northwestern. Because I had electroshock therapy during the last 8 of my 26 days there, I don't really remember much about my hospital stay. What do I remember? I remember doing lots of occupational therapy projects (aka: crazy crafts) and refusing to go to Religion/Spirituality, claiming that my religion was Nintendo and staying in my room, playing Animal Crossing or MySims. I remember this woman named Jen who was easily in her mid-thirties but acted like she was 22, in an annoying "look at me oh my god" way. She was my "best friend" and bugged me a lot of the time. I remember being so hopped up on Thorazine that I couldn't talk or write. I remember the taste of the sodium citrate they give you right before you go back for the electroshock treatment. I remember the gift shop. I remember all the cards and flowers. I remember the heavy sound of the locking doors on the ward. I remember the world's most uncomfortable bathtub.

Those of you who remember my other lengthy hospital stay back in March 2006 know that I've also struggled with anorexia. (That's why I spent 19 days at Methodist Hospital that month.) Here's a funny little story that my mom told me: After my first electroshock treament (ECT - ElectroConvulsive Therapy) my mom took me into the bathroom to clean me up. (I pissed myself every single time; a reaction from the electric shock.) I was in the tub, she was washing my back, and that's when I finally, truly, "came to." (I'd been in an anaesthesia-induced fog up to that point.) I looked around and said, "Where am I?" My mom said, "You're in the hospital, honey, I'm just giving you a bath so you're cleaned up." I looked down at my naked body in the tub and said, "If I'm in the hospital, why am I fat?"

The warm milk has helped calm me down. I think I might be ready to climb back in bed and try for the 2 and a half hours of sleep I have available to me before I have to wake up and take Nick to work. Then later today I finally get my car back from the shadiest auto place in the Twin Cities: Uptown Auto Care. I will say this: they honored their labor and parts guarantee and fixed my car completely for free this time. But they also took a week and a half instead of the quoted 2 days. And no one ever answers the phone. And they're curt to the point of being rude, at least they are to me, a girl who to them probably seems like a car idiot. Well, I may not know how cars work (seriously, I don't) but I do know the language of broken cars, having put mine through a rebuilt engine, 2 radiators, new head gaskets, new brakes/pads/shoes, and a busted rear main oil seal. Talk about your bad dreams.

Anti-Social Club; Care Bear Stare!

2008-10-14T12:09:00.001-05:00

Kids, I'm sorry it's been so many days. My sickness relapsed for about a day and a half; beyond that, I've just been feeling anti-social and a little apathetic. I know what caused it. It all has to do with my med levels (if you really want an explanation of the psychopharmaceuctical stuff behind it, send me an email and I'll happily get into it) and I am over it now so it's okay. I'm okay. Big double thumbs up.

The final vote tally: 2 votes Care Bears, 1 vote Dairy Queen. Terrible voter turnout for a proven population of 15 readers. But I still love you all and invite you to have your friends come over and spend the night, maybe start following...

Without futher ado:

How I Wrote To The Care Bears...And They Wrote Back

The Care Bears exist. Not in a nostalgic-media way, and not in a kids-cartoon way. They are real. I have definitive proof. You see, they used to write letters to me and my little brother. We had a special mailbox that sent letters directly to Care-a-Lot, where the Bears would read them and then respond the next day.

You look confused. Oh, I'm sorry. Did you not have a Care Bear mailbox? How very droll. I suppose your childhood was filled with things like facts and the truth. Your parents probably told you the way things worked and explained patiently about The World. They probably never even tricked you into doing anything! I was not so unfortunate. My mom spent the majority of my childhood doing everything in her power to submerge me in a fantasy world.

We lived in Woodbury, MN. If you're not familiar, it's a suburb east of St. Paul. We lived there until I was 9, when we moved to a new house in Little Canada. The Woodbury house was red with white trim. We had a swingset and a treehouse in the backyard, and the basement was finished with wood paneling and nobbly maroon carpet. We had a regular mailbox at the end of the driveway like everyone else, but we also had a weird metal box attached to the front of our house. No one else had one; I could not for the life of me figure out why it was there.

One day when I was about 3 years old, I asked my mother what the box was for. "It thayth MAIL on it," I pointed out. "That meanth mail goeth in there, but no mail ever cometh to that boxth!" My mom said, without missing a beat, "Well, you've never written to the Care Bears before. Of course no mail comes to that box."

I shrieked my surprise. I lovedlovedloved the Care Bears. I read all their books, and had myself several bears with whom I slept nightly. I started jumping up and down, demanding more information. At my screams and jumping, my little brother came tottering in. He listened, silently, thumb firmly in mouth, eyes growing wider with every word that came out of my mother's mouth.

"Sure," my mother continued, "that's the Care Bears mailbox. You write them letters and they write back." She shrugged at this, like it was no big deal and had always been a part of the house. Like it was a feature the real estate agent pointed out, and she'd just forgotten to mention it until now. I was conflicted: I was livid for her not mentioning this before now and thrilled at the prospects fanning out before me. I grew very serious.

"Mom. I need you to tell me how thith workth."

She explained that if we wrote a letter to the Care Bears and put it in the Care-a-Lot mailbox, the Care Bears would write back. "At night," she said, "because during the day, they have to be up in Care-a-Lot listening for unhappy children." This cemented everything in my mind. That is exactly what the Care Bears had to do all day. My mom was clearly in the loop; she had information. We immediately sat down to write letters. I have no idea what sorts of things we asked the Care Bears, only that Kevin was too little to write and I had to do all the actual transcription. We folded the paper and put it in the mailbox, and I spent the rest of the day staking out the front of the house, trying to look nonchalant.

The next morning, I raced to the mailbox. It was empty. EMPTY. I slumped toward the door and was about to start crying when out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of color. I turned and looked at the driveway and my heart soared. The entire driveway was covered with rainbows and huge curly handwriting. Handwriting that could belong to none other than the Care Bears. Hearts! Rainbows! Clouds! A response was scrawled across the driveway in huge arcing strokes of color. Who else but the Care Bears could have done such a thing?

We wrote to them daily, it seems. Maybe we didn't, and I just remember it that way. But for a long time, I truly believed they were writing back. I mean, the handwriting looked nothing like either my mom's or my father's. Besides, it happened during the night, when they were asleep! Clearly, this was the work of none other than the Care Bears, and I would not hear anything to the contrary from friends.

When I was about 13 years old, I went to a sleepover at a friend's house with a bunch of other girls. We were sitting up, giggling, trying to decide what do to next (having exhausted the options of Truth or Dare, Eating Things, Talking About Boys, and Changing Into Pajamas). I had noticed a mailbox attached to their house, and I thought it would be really cool to show the girls what it was actually for. I chirped, "We could totally write a letter to the Care Bears, you guys! I saw that you have a CareBear mailbox, but I bet you didn't even *know that's what it was for! We had one at our old house."

Dead silence. Then howling laughter. They thought I'd made a joke. I was always kidding around, said Teresa, and she shoved me. Ha ha ha, yeah, I muttered, that's me. Fuck, I thought, what was I thinking?

The next day, I accused my mother of making up the Care Bears mailbox at our old house. She looked at me like she thought I was insane. "Why would I make something like that up?" she asked. I retold the story from the night before. She laughed, and said, "Well, it's not my fault if Teresa's house isn't magic. Too bad for her, huh?"

Maybe now you understand why I believed in Santa Claus until I was 14. But that's another story.

Canine Alarm Clock; Finally Got My Technology Sorted Out

2008-10-07T10:45:00.001-05:00

My dog Ein woke me up at 8am this morning, desperate to go outside and relieve himself. We don't have to wake up until 9:15am. Upon awakening, I couldn't go back to sleep. And this was after only sleeping for a handful of hours (I finally fell asleep around 4am; my body clock's all fucked up from being sick and sleeping all day and night). Now I'm trying to update the blog with a persistent and insistent gray cat in my lap. He prefers to lay on my hands, on the keyboard of my laptop; I prefer him to be next to me, at my side, on the couch. We have compromised and he is in the 2 inches of lap between my torso and the laptop, his lower half tucked under my right arm. It's not altogether unpleasant as he is warm and purry.

I finally got the fucking Facebook/Blog Networks application thing working. I got sick of being 9/10 confirmations away from being granted authorship of this blog, so I created a new blog on Blogger and copy/pasted all my old posts over there so that I could use that RSS feed and URL instead of the messy MySpace info. The confirmation widget works on Blogger (it does not work at all on MySpace) so now I am the confirmed author of Girl Gone Viled according to Blog Networks and I was able to link everything up all neat and tidy the way I wanted. Now you won't have to hear me whine and bitch and beg for confirmations anymore. (If you're reading this on the actual Blogger site and are one of my followers purely on Blogger, welcome! Sorry for any confusion this paragraph might bring. It's best if you just ignore what you just read, really.)

I'm struggling right now with eating disorder thoughts. I wasn't eating much before I got sick because I didn't seem to have much of an appetite (probably because I was getting sick) and then for the 3 days I was very sick, I didn't eat at all. I just drank juice. Now I'm on the mend and it's very very tempting to just keep starving myself. You see, once you've gotten over those first two days of not eating anything, it's easier and easier every day to continue that pattern of eating. Especially when you've got a skinny, mean bitch in your head who likes to call you names if you eat but encourage you when you don't. I don't expect anyone to understand or sympathize; it's fucked up, I know. Don't worry about me, though, I'll fight her off and make sure to eat a good couple of meals today.

Tomorrow's post I'm leaving up to a vote. Heads up! This blog demands more reader interaction. (Also, I like getting comments because it makes me feel like someone actually is listening.) So, I need you to comment and tell me which of these stories you'd rather read in tomorrow's post:
A) The story of how I wrote letters to the Care Bears as a kid...and they wrote me back.
B) The story of when I sat on a bee...while mostly naked.
C) The story of my mother and The Dairy Queen Incident.

Cast your votes now! I'll be posting the winning story sometime tomorrow afternoon.

Sickness Abounds; I Have Three Requests For You

2008-10-06T21:23:00.001-05:00

Sorry, kids, I've been sicker than sick these last few days, and I couldn't even drag myself to a computer. Did you all miss me? When I was lying there, fever-wracked, hacking and coughing, blowing my nose every 2 minutes...I was thinking about you. I thought, "My lovely readers are probably wondering what happened to me. Their lives are the poorer without my ribald and thrilling tales." Okay, that's a lie. I actually was thinking, "Fuck, I'll probably lose readers if I don't update soon. A sporadic blog is more boring than CSPAN live." So here I am, propped up on Dayquil and coming to you live from the couch.
If you could go back and live one day over again, but you couldn't change anything that has happened, which day would you choose? That is to say, you're reliving the day but you don't have the ability to make new choices or do different things. Like remembering but with your whole existence. Which day? Tell me about it. I'm curious.

Me, I'd go with the day I went to Valleyfair in the 12th grade. My boyfriend and I were together, I rode Excalibur for the first time (which at the time was a crazy tall roller coaster), we went to the water park, I got a sunburn, and then that night we all went out to 1st Ave for danceteria and danced all night long. It was pretty fucking sweet.

While you're at it, why don't you post a comment and tell me the one thing you're drooling over the most right now. You know, that gadget or dress or whatever that you would buy if only you had the money. Maybe it's an iPhone, maybe it's a PS3, maybe it's an Alaia dress...what do you covet? I wanna know.

More stories to follow. Nothing interesting has happened to me in the last few days because first Nick got sick and then I got sick, so I'm a bit empty at the moment. But I'll dig through my files and find you something good to read for next time. See you then, cats and kittens.

PS: If you have this linked through the Blog Networks application on Facebook, please do me a big favor and confirm that I'm the author so I can feature it on my profile. Click the link above and then click "Pending confirmation. Help us confirm the author" in the Information box on that page. Then confirm that I am the author! I only need 2 more confirmations, so please help me out if you haven't done so already! Thanks to all of you who have linked through Facebook (11 people so far!).

I Want To Get Up To The Dickens

2008-10-03T01:36:00.001-05:00

Attention Joe Biden: the word is "principle," not "princible." Clean up your diction, you're on national television asking to be elected the vice-president of our country. If you need some mouth warm-up drills, I learned a few whilst getting my Theater degree and I'd be glad to teach you. (Get your collective minds out of the gutter, kids, I'm not talking about that kind of mouth warm-up.) Repeat after me, Biden: "The lips, the teeth, the tip of the tongue." Now try "red leather yellow leather" a few times and you're good to go. There, Mom, see? My college education *is good for something.

October is my second favorite month. Not because of Halloween (although I do love Halloween) but because of the temperature outside and the word itself. October. Something about it just does me fine. My favorite month, both in name and temperature? December. You heard it here first.

I'm starting to get itchy lately. Which isn't good. Fall is when I usually get manic, and itchy is usually the precursor to mania. I just feel like doing something dangerous. Or naughty. Anyone wanna be naughty with me? We could silly string someone's bushes or trespass, or...

Hey, if you're reading this and you're not subscribed... why the hell not? Subscribe already. I can tell that a bunch of people are reading and yet I don't have many subscribers. (A big thanks to the cool kids who DO subscribe already!) I want to know who's reading me.

Also, if you're on Facebook and want an easy way to read this blog over there, add the Blog Networks application and then add my blog (entitled "Girl Gone Viled" just like my profile page).

Broken Wrist Number Two: In Which I Look The Fool

2008-10-02T01:17:00.002-05:00

Not much has happened to me in the last few days, which is why I haven't posted anything recently. Not wanting to let the blog die on the vine, I've pulled a tale from my past out of my writings folder and have decided to "treat" you to it.

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So, it's 1994, and I've decided to run away from home. Well, from "home." I was at my father's house. He and my stepmother lived in New Brighton, a solid 25 miles from my real home, with my mother, in Little Canada. I was 14 years old, and fed up with all the bullshit that went on at my father's house. Granted, I was 14 years old and therefore prone to hypersensitivity, but a reexamination of the base facts in my adult state has led to one conclusion: my father was an ass, and my stepmother just doesn't like me. It's nothing I did, or she did. She didn't and doesn't like me, and that's just that. No pity, please. It's really a non-issue. I wouldn't even bring it up, but you must realize that I'm not the type to run away from home, let alone on a ten-speed bike I could barely control.

You see, I'm fairly short. 5'6 to be exact. The ten-speed was a gift from my father on my tenth birthday. He thought there was some interesting thing involved with the ten years old and the ten speeds, which is quite clever on his part. However, in a gesture of his usual thoughtlessness, he failed to realize how large the bike was compared to my 10-year old body, which was around 5'2 at the time. Therefore, the bike lingered in his garage until I was 14, when I stopped growing and reached my giraffe-like height of 5'6. I learned how to ride the bike, despite being terrified of them after a crash when I was seven. I was determined to use the gift. Besides, it was a wonderful escape from the hellishly boring weekends I spent at their house.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me preface this entire tale with the following statement: I'm over it. No pity needed. I only hope my humiliation can be your belly laugh for the day.

So, I'd decided to run away. I can't quite pin down the reasons; they're lost in my foggy memory. It should be noted that I wasn't running away to nowhere. I'd decided to bike home to my mother's house in a flouncy, That Will Show Them way that only 14 year olds think is a good idea. Granted, I had no idea how to get to my mother's house without taking the highway, but I figured if I got near the highway, I'd figure it all out. How hard could it be? It's just roads, right? Right.

I set off without a word, no clothes but those on my back, and feeling slightly guilty for abandoning my brother, Kevin, back at the house. I reasoned, though, that when I got to mom's, I'd convince her to rescue Kevin in the car, and all would be well. This was what I was thinking about when I hit the sign.

See, I was riding my bike on the wide asphalt bike paths that lined Silver Lake Road. It is important to note that I did not quite grasp the idea of a handbrake; as a result of this, I would always backpedal and then experience a moment of sheer panic when backpedaling did not brake the bike as it had on my pink Huffy. Then, my brain would kick in, remind me of the handbrake, and all would be well. Usually. (If you are an avid reader of my blog, you may have gathered that I tend to be a bit of a scatterbrain, using my thoughts for things like "I wonder if they have licorice in Africa?" and "What does a beanbag factory look like?"

Normally, this tendency toward scatterbrainery just bothered my teachers and family members, but had little affect on me, personally. This time, however, I chose to blank out while hurtling toward unforseen disaster. After pondering candy supplies in third world countries, I realized that in front of me, blocking the path entirely, was a group of 4 or 5 boys on bikes. They were stopped, just shrieking and talking as boys this age are wont to do. This wouldn't have been a problem, but they were parked directly parallel to a large group of metal traffic signs, leaving me no way around whatsoever.

I snapped to, and backpedaled furiously. Oh, fuck. Right. Handbrake! I squeezed the handle, proud of myself. Nothing. Not only did I cease to slow down, the gentle slope I was on caused me to speed up, hurtling toward the group of boys on bikes. Panicked squeezes provided the same result: nothing but gathering speed.

I had to make a split decision: hit the group of boys on bikes, or hit the outcropping of traffic signs. I shouted "LOOK OUT!" and veered toward the signs. The teenage boys, being the vapid creatures they were, did not move one single inch. Instead, they watched me crash headlong into the sign.

I assume I went over the handlebars. I only remember the curious sensation of flying toward the ground and catching myself on my left hand. The came the crunches: my bike, my wrist. The boys, demonstrating the absolute death of valience, laughed and then drove off. I really think I could have handled one or the other, but the combination left me bereft.

I was 3 miles from my father's house, and my bike was broken. I was pretty sure that my wrist had suffered my bike's fate. This was in the days before cell phones were prevalent. Christ, my father and stepmother still don't have call waiting in 2005. I had $3.36 on me, and I limped to a gas station a few blocks away and called them. Whaddya know? Busy.

I didn't think there was an indignity that ranked much higher than walking your broken bike one-handed back to the place from which you were attempting escape so that you can beg for medical care. I discovered just how wrong I was. Upon my return, and the telling of my tale (minus the Running Away Because I Hate It Here and replacing it with A Lovely Bike Ride In June), my father and stepmother took it upon themselves to joke that I had crashed into the sign because I was "staring at those boys, probably daydreaming about a date."

Let me give you a few of the myriad reasons this was horrific to me at the time. 1) I had never even kissed a boy yet. My first kiss would come 2 months later, quickly followed by my first damn-near-everything-else. 2) I was not very attractive. (I have pictures. Just trust me. I'll upload one if need be. 3) MY FUCKING WRIST WAS BROKEN.

My stepmother told their opinion to *everyone, including the ER tech, and she even went so far as to say that I was "probably making it all up to get attention." Guess what? Broken wrist. Cast for 9 weeks. I would have felt utterly vindicated, but it just itched too damned much.

On Scarves and Sweet Sixteens

2008-09-28T06:29:00.001-05:00

Today was a day for reconnecting with long-unseen friends. I saw Jessica (mamagoth to those in the know) at Jeremy and Amy's housewarming party. That was fabulous; I haven't seen her in something like 6 years. Her daughter Raven was there as were her husband and brand new baby daughter, Lenore. (I love those names together as sisters.) She looks just as I remember her. And Worm and Thaadd were also at the party, as was Mr. Jarrin Jambik himself, who was part of our little kitchen politics discussion gang. Then I assaulted Worm with a hug and chatted with he and Thaadd on my way out.

After the party, I went back home and finally managed to wake Nick up out of his restorative nap-coma. We went to our friend Shannon's (whom we hadn't seen in months; I hadn't been to her house in a year...I missed her cute kids!) and partied with her and her husband and my best friend Betsie and a couple of other people I didn't really know before tonight. We played Mario Party and jumped on the trampoline in the dark. Also, I finished knitting my bastard of a scarf.

You see, when I was in Methodist for anorexia back in March 2006, I knitted this scarf out of this killer gray woolly yarn. It was soft and knobbly and thick and tightly knit and the perfect length. I wore it everywhere in the hospital. It sort of became my security blanket. And when I got out, it made me feel safer to wear it. Summer came, and I left it in the closet til fall. Then I lost it that winter, at my grandfather's funeral no less. I was so distraught. I decided that scarf was cursed from the start, having been created in a sad place. So I started an identical scarf, using the same yarn and same sized needles. But whereas in the hospital all I did was sit around and knit, in my normal life I only knitted sporadically. So it's taken about a year, but I FINALLY FINISHED IT. And now I have my security blanket back. So now you know my secret. If I'm with you, and the temperature outside is below 65, and I'm not wearing my scarf, it means I'm completely comfortable being around you.

And finally, this little blog entry serves as a big shoutout to my baby sister, Madeleine.Happy birthday, Mad! She turns sixteen today. I remember when she was born, she was so tiny and hairy all over. All squinty faced with a furrowed brow and a fierce little puckered mouth. She's my favorite sister and I hope she likes the presents I got her.

Yes, Virginia, There Really Was A Santa Claus

2008-09-27T10:32:00.001-05:00

You've been a faithful reader thus far. Or maybe you just stumbled upon my blog today. Either way, you're about to be rewarded with a blogful of my embarrassment. It's time I made a confession to you, Dear Readers. For this, I shall abandon my usual embiggening of certain words within a paragraph.

Ahem.

You see...

Alright. I believed in Santa Claus until I was 14 years old. When I say this, I'm not exaggerating in the slightest. In fact, it's quite embarrassing to admit. But it's the truth, and I had my reasons. Of course, I now know that my reasons were directly caused by my mother's zealousness for holiday magic, but that doesn't change the fact that I bought into it with everything I had.

First, I need to explain the way Christmas works at my house. I daresay it will be vastly different from your experience. In fact, I can damn near guarantee it.

In my house, my parents only gave us each one or two gifts. Usually it was something large-ish that we'd asked for and then some small funny gift for laughs. These presents were wrapped and placed under the Christmas tree. We opened them on Christmas Day, after we "did Santa stuff." As far as any of us knew, my mom and dad only bought us 2 things per year.

Santa, on the other hand, was more than generous. If we wanted something really cool, Santa was the one who brought it. Santa brought my Ballet Doll that danced on its own, Santa brought my kitten, Santa brought Kevin's Nintendo. We also each have a stocking, of course, and when we woke up Christmas morning, the stockings would be removed from the mantel and placed in various spots around the living room.

Our stockings were always *stuffed with an assortment of small things: socks, toothbrushes, candy, books, small toys…and giant fruit. These oranges, bananas, and apples were FAR larger than their everyday counterparts. Like, three times larger at least. They clearly had been grown somewhere grocery stores just couldn't access, for if they could, all fruit would be this enormous.

Surrounding each stocking were the bigger toys. All toys were always unwrapped, fully assembled, out of any packaging, and without tags or prices or any of the trappings of store-bought merchandise. These toys were clearly made by elves. The batteries were already inside of things! The dolls were dressed in their outfits! You don't get that in a store. You just do not.

Finally, Santa left handwritten thank you notes beside the plate of cookies. His handwriting was magical and curly, full of flourishes and stars. It was distinct and unlike anything we ever saw outside of Christmas.

One year, my brother said that kids at school said Santa wasn't real. My mom said, "Well, that's your decision to make." That Christmas, when we went outside, there were sleigh tracks in the fresh snow on our roof, surrounding by hoofprints. HOOFPRINTS. And no footprints or any other human evidence could be found. Kevin and I were gobsmacked back into utter belief.

For these reasons, I was convinced that Santa was real. As I got older, my friends would always tell me I was wrong. "It's your parents," they'd say. But I had solid evidence to the contrary, evidence that could not be disputed. "The handwriting doesn't even look like my mom's," I'd counter. "And try to explain the fruit!"

No one could ever explain the fruit. And when they said that Santa wrapped their presents, and that their stockings lacked giant fruit, I was convinced that Santa clearly didn't visit them anymore because of their lack of belief. I felt bad for these kids; their parents were forced to pretend Santa came because the kids stopped believing. I'd shake my head and stand my ground, despite mocking. Because of the evidence. I've always been a sucker for incontrovertible evidence.

This all continued until I was 14. No, I'm serious. I know you don't believe me, I know you're thinking, "But you *had to know. Part of you *had to know, right?" I swear to you that no part of me knew. I believed the evidence in front of me, not the lies and whispers of kids I knew were, in general, stupider than I.

One day, around December 23^rd or so, my mom told me to run out to her car and grab something out of the trunk. When I opened the trunk, my heart plummeted. There, in front of my eyes, was a grocery bag filled with giant fruit. I knew in that instant that it was all a hoax, and that it had been my mother all along.

I won't lie to you. I cried. I had a boyfriend, and we'd made it to third base, and I was in the 9^th grade, but I cried when I realized Santa wasn't actually real.

I confessed to my mother and she confessed back to me. It was less traumatic than I'd anticipated on the walk from the garage to the living room. She said I could help with Santa stuff this year, and I did.

"I have to ask, though, " I said.

"Yes?"

"How the hell did you do the sleigh tracks??"

She laughed and told me that she'd thrown broomsticks up, two of them, side by side. Then, she'd tossed rocks for the hoofprints. In the deep snow on the roof, they just looked like tracks.

The woman is nothing if not diabolically, magically wicked. But, you know, for a good cause.

The Weird World of My Body

2008-09-26T19:30:00.001-05:00

Something you might not know about me: when I was little, I had a terrible lisp. Theriouthly, it wath tho bad that my mom put me in thpeech therapy to fixth it. I have distinct memories of sitting at the kitchen nook table, concentrating really hard and trying to say, "Six silly snakes slithered slimily in some slippers." Stephen King wrote a book, It, which has a main character who used to stutter, and his little mantra was always "He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts." So I started using that one, too. When I get really drunk or too excited, I'll start lisping slightly.

I had a little bit of a lazy eye, too. After a few beers, I'm told my eye wanders (literally) just the tiniest bit. And sometimes, when I'm tired, I have a hard time getting my eyes to focus together when I read books. Books specifically; the internet is not a problem, most likely because of the light-up background.

What else? Oh, when I'm under the influence of mind-altering chemicals, my right pupil dilates more than my left. It's slight, barely perceptible, but if you're looking for it, you can see it pretty clearly because my eyes are so blue. I won't go into the story about how *that came to be because Madeleine and Riley might read this blog and they only need to know that DRUGS ARE BAD SO STAY AWAY FROM THEM, either altogether or just until college. Suffice it to say that when you're laying in the dark watching Run Lola Run and you feel something in your brain just kind of...let go and then you are unable to move or speak for the next 15 minutes, you might have overindulged.

Hmm... OH! Of course! I have an extra bone in my right thumb, causing it to be all stretched out horizontally. It looks like a big toe. It was supposed to be two thumbs, but it didn't separate fast enough in the womb, so I ended up with a regular thumb that has a forked tip like a snake tongue. Like this: --< instead of this: --- I found this out when I broke my right wrist in the 9th grade. My children have a high chance of polydactlysm now.

I have a major leg vein that stretches up and over my shin bone instead of going underneath the bone like everyone else's. I have to be really careful when I shave my legs because it would bleed like a motherfucker if I ever hit it with the blade. My mom taught me how to tie a tourniquet when she taught me how to shave. Just in case.

I have an extra vertebrae, which my family calls my tail. In reality, it just gives me what I call "a Y butt" because the top of my ass crack makes a Y shape instead of just a | shape. The extra bone rubs when I sit and when I was terribly thin from anorexia (we're talking 60 lbs thinner than I am now) I had a baseball-sized bruise covering the top of my ass and I couldn't sit down on anything harder than a pillow. My sister has the same thing, only hers has all this light blond hair on it, so it really looks tail-like.

And finally, a recent development: my torso is somewhat covered in tiny red beauty marks/moles (whatever you call them). They're flat, and the size of round pen or pencil marks. Maybe they'll develop into darker brown spots like the rest of mine (I'm covered in them, hundreds of flat round dark beauty marks), maybe they won't. Either way, they look weird right now. Tomorrow: All about my mother and the magical world she created in order to trick us and keep us in line.

Jenny The Homicidal Maniac

2008-09-22T04:08:00.001-05:00

As promised, here's another little story from my past. This one concerns my first non-college roommate, Jen. It's funny...at the time, I thought it was so fucking heavy that she had to be in the mental ward for a week or so. And here I am, having spent a month and a half in various mental wards (45 days when you add up my two inpatient stays). I will say this: I may be crazy, but at least I'm not a homicidal cunt.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Read on.

____________________________________________________________________________

It's 1997. I'm 19 years old. My roommate Jen and I are looking at her 3 pairs of shoes. She doesn't want to wear any of them. "Can I borrow those?" she asks, pointing to my wool clogs. "When they take your laces away, it's hard to wear sneakers. They flop around. Those will stay on." "Sure. Anything you want. Let's go."
We are driving to the hospital where I am checking my roommate into the psych ward. Why? Because she tried to kill me. Let me back up to the beginning. After my freshman year of college, I didn't want to live in the dorms anymore. I went to an all-women's college, and I couldn't handle living in a building with 55 other girls for 3 more years. I told my parents I needed to live off-campus, and they were willing to help me out. My mom gave me a dollar amount that she would kick in toward my rent. It was pretty low, so I needed to find a roommate.
I went to one of those roommate finding services. The woman there had me fill out a long questionnaire about pets, smoking, drinking, the hours I stay up, what I do, where I went to school, and other hobbies. Then I was able to check off my preferences in roommates. The service took the application and ran it through their computer to find me the best matches. They found me Jen.
She was 27, attending my college, and an artist. My mom and I went to meet her and see the apartment, and were surprised to find that it was a really big place for not very much money. I had my own bedroom and bathroom, there was a sliding glass door that opened onto a tiny, fenced-in patio, and there was even room for a large dining room table and chairs.
Jen seemed a little weird, but my mom and I both assumed she smoked a lot of pot. She was an artist, after all, and 8 years older than me. Her voice wavered in a crackly way when she talked, and her eyes were big and sort of glassy. "I think you'll love it here," she warbled to me as I left the apartment. I decided to go ahead and move in with Jen. My mom and I had been fighting all summer about my decision to move off campus, and this place was only a 10 minute walk from school.
6 days after I moved in, Jen knocked on my door and said we needed to have a talk. I followed her to the dining room table and sat down. She hauled out a huge Ziploc bag filled with prescription bottles. As she talked, she set them down one by one. "Molly, I want to tell you some things about me. I wasn't sure if I could trust you with this information, but they said I could, so I will. I have epilepsy, and a form of manic depression. I also have been diagnosed with a few other psychological conditions, but I don't remember the exact terms. So these are my medications. I have a tendency to get violent and black out. One time I fought with my mom, and when I came to, I was standing over her unconscious body with a candlestick in my hand." (I found out later this was true.) She waited for me to respond. I tried to keep my voice calm and assured her that I didn't mind that she had…problems. She nodded and continued.
"My old roommate, Nicki, was a lot like me. She had some psychological problems, too, I think. We met in group. Anyway, she told me she couldn't eat anything that had a face. She was vegan. So I drew little faces on all her food and she didn't eat for a week! They had to take her to the hospital." Jen laughed as she recounted this. I tried to laugh with her, but all I could see was my year-long lease flashing before my eyes.
"Anyway," Jen continued, "I just wanted to tell you about that, and to tell you that you have to label all your food with your name or I'll kill you." Then she got up from the table and shuffled back to her room.
I immediately called my mom. She's a nurse and a lawyer. I told her some of the medicine names I'd seen and she sighed heavily. "She's definitely pretty crazy, but if she's got all that medicine, she should be harmless. You don't have to be friends, just roommates. Just stay in your room, keep to yourself when you're home. You have school and work, you should be plenty busy." I took her advice, and things were fine for the next few weeks.
Now it was mid-September. I was feeling more comfortable with Jen, even though she had a tendency to have her fuck-buddies over in the middle of the night and liked to walk around in just her underwear and a scrunchie. I had my then best friend Meghan over a few times, and we always made sure to keep it down after midnight.
One night, Meghan and I were a little drunk and giggling madly over something I can't recall. Jen came out of her room, pale as death. She had both hands behind her back. She asked us to please keep it down. She said she could hear us in her room, and she couldn't sleep. We apologized, and she turned around, keeping her hands out of our sight. Meghan decided to leave ("Your roommate creeps me out, babe.") and I went to sleep.
Three days later, I came home from work to find Jen sitting on one end of our couch. "Molly. Sit down," she said in a monotone. I came in to the living room and started to sit near her. "No," she said, "you'd better sit over there." She pointed to the far end of the couch. "For your own good."
Now I was scared. Jen pointed to the sliding glass door. "Did you leave that unlocked?" I admitted I had, accidentally. I must have forgotten it last night. "You know I'm terrified of being raped! You did that on purpose to scare me, didn't you? You wanted me to get raped!"
My eyes wide, I told her I didn't want that, and I had just forgotten about the door. It wasn't intentional. She threw a CD case at me and screamed, "LIAR! You lying bitch!" Then she shut down completely again, and kept on speaking in that scary monotone. "I can't keep hold of myself any longer. I'm going to kill you. I want to kill you so badly. When you and your little bitch friend were making all that noise the other night, I had to cut myself so that I wouldn't come out there and beat you senseless with my belt." She rolled up her sleeves and showed me the multitude of small, angry red cuts on her inner forearms.
"Um, Jen, I…" "Shut up. Shut up your stupid voice. The sound of your voice makes me want to start hitting you. I have to finish telling you. Last night, I stood over you while you were sleeping. I had a butcher knife. I wanted to kill you. I was going to, but your cat woke up so I went back to my room and cut myself some more. But I wanted to warn you because if you talk anymore, I'm going to do it. I am going to kill you. Probably while you sleep. Or I could always poison your food. If I haven't already." She stopped, and seemed to be done.
My mind was blown. I calmly said, "Jen, I think you need to go to the hospital. To get some help. What do you think?" She agreed, and it may be one of the reasons I'm alive today. We called my friend, borrowed her car, and drove to the hospital. Because she had threatened to kill me, I was able to check her in involuntarily for a maximum of 24 hours. After that, it was up to her if she stayed or not.
The doctors talked to me for a long time while Jen was being checked in to the psych ward. I told them everything she had said, from that first scary encounter at the dining room table to this night's events. They told me I should probably try to find a new place to live. Duh.
Before I left, the doctors told me Jen had decided to stay in the hospital for at least 2 weeks. I went home that night and I bought all new food. I slept with my bedroom door locked for the first time in my life. After all, she could decide come home any day. I had terrible nightmares, and missed most of my classes. I did terribly that semester. Living with Jen had been too taxing. Even after she was committed, I had to deal with all the phone calls.
In the hospital, Jen was allowed to use the phone, so she called me twice a day. I never picked up. She called once at 3 am. I have no idea how she managed that. One of the messages she left: "Hey Molly, it's Jen. Things are fine here. I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry for everything, and I am looking forward to coming home so we can be roommates again. But my mom told me that you are moving out. You little bitch. If you move out, I'LL FIND YOU! I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL FIND YOU--"
I found a new place before she was released. But before I was able to move out, Jen called the phone and power company and had all our utilities shut off. Everything was in her name, so when she told them she wanted them cancelled, they did it. I lived without a phone and without power for 2 days before I could move into my new place.
The roommate finding place claimed they had no idea that Jen had psychological problems. They refused to refund my $50 application fee, but told me they would be happy to try and find me another roommate.
I paid rent on both my new place and the old place until the lease was up. My parents helped me, and I eventually repaid them. The landlord was scummy to begin with, and he definitely didn't care that one of his other tenants had tried to end my lease on life. I get nostalgia chills just driving through that neighborhood. I never saw Jen again.
And I never did get those shoes back.

In Which I Rock and Roll All Night And Party Every Day

2008-09-21T16:54:00.001-05:00

Betsie came over Friday night and we got up to the dickens. That had me awake all night, so I messaged JJ for awhile before he went to bed (sleep is for the weak!) and then just put the finishing touches on the cleaning Betsie and I had done earlier. Eventually, morning came and it was time to run errands for the party. I did the grocery and beer shopping, I got ice and a cooler, I got balloons, I dropped off the dog, and then I went home and assembled everything.

The party was a smash. Our families all came around 2 or 3 and hung out until 4 or 4:30. They all get along really well, which is nice. Then Dan (Spiral Architect/Shalda) and his wife and 5 year-old-daughter came right as my brother Kevin and his girlfriend Elisa were leaving. Then no one showed up for about an hour, and then it seemed like someone arrived every 20 minutes or so for a long time. In addition to the aforementioned, we saw Erika, Ashley and her little sis Kelsey, Jeremy and Amy, Regina, Felix, Hedgie, Mike and Lauren, Betsie and Jeremiah, Dustin and Sarah, Alis and her new man, Martin and Gwen...and I'm probably an asshole and I've probably forgotten someone so if I did, I'm sorry in advance. I drank a lot last night at the party and didn't sleep the night before because of our shenanigans.
Anyway, everyone was gone by midnight, and then Nick and I slept on the downstairs couches, I guess, because that's where I woke up.

My hair looked really good last night; I wore it down and curly/natural. That put me in a really good mood all night long. So I'm either really shallow or just really easy to please. Or a darling combination of the two. My self-esteem issues bring all the boys to the yard...

I have a confession. The tank top straps in my profile picture are drawn on. I'm actually wearing a strapless dress in the photo, but you can't see any of it, so I look naked. So I drew on some tank top straps. Did I fool you? Or are you currently thinking, "Uh, yeah, *duh."?

Oh, and today I got an email about a horse. His name is Jake and apparently he's doing just fine, enjoying walks and resting while his sores heal. The email wished me a good school year and implored me not to worry about Jake's wellbeing, I'm pretty sure they had the wrong Molly. Did you like the talent scout agency story? I've got a couple more things that I wrote years ago, stories that you have to read to believe. Tomorrow I'll tell you about the roommate I had who threatened, then tried, to kill me.

I Recount My Talent Agent Tale Part II

2008-09-20T08:10:00.001-05:00

For those of you joining us late, beware that you've arrived at a story already in progress. Go back an entry and read Part I first (you'll find it just below this post). Then this post will make more sense.

We now return to True Tales Of Scammery!

_____________________________________________________________________

Day Three

I got to the office in record time, speeding along the Kennedy expressway with the minimal Saturday morning traffic. I wore the shirt I'd purchased at the trendy teen store and my hair was scraped off my face in a bun. I felt smart and neat, and was prepared to put every event of the day down on paper. I was renewed.

Ann assigned us places for the open call. Mine was measuring. My experience with the costuming department at my college meant that I was allowed to actually take the measurements of each model and call them out to a girl with a clipboard. The six of us assigned to measuring went to another big empty room in the office. There were height charts on the wall and measuring tapes on a chair. I looped one around my neck and listened to the instructions. Stand perfectly still until talent is ushered to you. Do not chat with the talent. Do not compliment the talent. Address the talent by name, found on their forms. Do not talk to your co-workers. Do not tell the talent that you are also a scout. For men, measure jacket size and height. For women, hips, height and ask their dress size.

One by one, skinny girls teetering on stacked-heel boots lined up for pictures and measurements. Guys with crispy hair and too much cologne argued their heights when I called them out. Girls always insisted that their hips were smaller than my measurement. One girl with large breasts gave me an astonished look and said, "Don't you want to know my bust size?" Ann buzzed around, reminding us in a harsh whisper to act professionally. Once everyone had been measured, photographed, and returned to the waiting room, Ann told us to go stand in the kitchen until further notice. It was time to give the talent the presentation on TransContinental Talent. Jessica was convincing them to part with their $900 while we waited in the tiny kitchen.

I sat on a box along with Emily, a tall redhead from my training class. There weren't any chairs in the room. Nor was there a table. Just a linoleum floored 10 x 10 room with a whiteboard and a sink. "Can we get anything to eat?" Emily asked me in a whisper. I shrugged. When Ann returned, we asked her. "You can get something from the vending machine if you must, but you cannot leave the building."

"Why not?" I asked. "What are we doing after the presentation?"

"You may not be doing anything. I've already assigned all the post-presentation jobs. But we have a meeting afterward and so you must wait."

"When's the meeting?" said Emily.

"Sometime between 1:30 and 2 is my estimate," Ann said.

"It's only noon! Can we leave and be back by 1?" asked a guy I didn't recognize.

"No." With that, Ann left the room.

The vending machines were down the hall. I bought a bag of chips and a Mountain Dew. I hadn't eaten all day, and wouldn't get home until close to 4. This would have to suffice. "You know," said Emily as she munched on some pretzels, "I looked up this place on the net last night and you wouldn't believe how much bad publicity there is."

My interest piqued, I asked what she meant. "Oh, lots of consumer complaints, of course. The BBB has a list a mile long of problems that haven't been resolved. I asked Bruce, and he just told me to look up Walt Disney Corporation and see how many complaints they had. Then he told me that if I thought Disney was a reputable company, I should think the same of T.C.T" She rolled her eyes, letting me know what she thought of Bruce's speeches.

"Are you going to keep working here?" I asked.

"I think so," she said. She looked down at her hands. "I don't like it. I don't like scouting. But I think that if I scout for awhile, maybe I could get promoted. They promote people pretty fast around here."

"Yeah." I trailed off, not knowing what to say. "I don't know if I'm going to stick around long. I'm going to try to give it 2 weeks. Maybe it will be better scouting at night? I don't feel comfortable during the day."

She nodded. We ate our ridiculous lunch. When we got back to the office, we had to walk through a crowd of 50 people waiting for their names to be called for the exit interview. They all turned and looked at me with hopeful eyes. I scurried to the kitchen and sat back on my box, finishing my chips. Ann poked her head in and pointed to me. "I need you," she said. I got up and followed her out.

"Stand outside the door here. When people come out after the interview, let Jessica know that you need another person to stand in line. We need 2 people in line for every door at all times. Keep them talking because these walls are paper thin and we don't want them hearing other people's interviews. And for god's sake, keep them focused on why they're here. Compliment them, tell them they are going to be famous, talk about how much success we have, whatever you have to do. If they say they want to leave, or that it's taking too long, ask them if they're willing to wait 5 more minutes to change their life. I'll come get you when you're done." She clicked off down the hall and disappeared around a corner.

An hour and a half later, my feet were aching and I was sick of smiling. Two mothers asked me if this was legitimate. Another asked me how much money her daughter could be expected to make. (I answered with the standard response for this question: "That depends on how much you're willing to commit to her future.") Lisa, one of the middle management paper dolls, came hurtling around a corner following a woman and her small child. "Why should we stay?" the woman snapped. "I don't have $900 to throw away." Lisa took her aside and spoke in quiet, firm tones. "I don't consider your child's future garbage, do you?"

"Of course not," the woman said. "But--"

Lisa held a hand up. "If I were a bank, and you were giving me $900 to invest in a possible college education for your son, would you consider that throwing the money away?"

"No, but this--"

"I am giving you that and maybe more. You give us this $900 and you are buying a future for your child. This could be his moment. He could start making thousands of dollars a month, all of which you can put away for his college education. How can you stand here and tell me that you don't want to invest in his future?" Lisa opened her eyes wide and smiled at the little boy. "This kid's got star potential. I know these things. I've been doing this for a long time."

The mother looked at her son, and then at Lisa. "Alright," she said. "I'll finish up the interview process and then we'll see." Lisa, beaming, walked them into an office down the hall. I don't know if they enrolled or not, but I'm betting they did.

When a 19-year old girl from Indiana (let's call her Delia) told Lisa that she was going to leave, Lisa asked why. "I don't think I'm going to do this. I really don't have the money right now. I'm sorry." Lisa asked her to just stay for the interview. "No," said Delia, "I have a long drive and I need to get back for something this evening." Lisa called me over and handed me Delia's form and picture disk right in front of her. "Throw this away for me, please. And then erase her name from the list and show her the way out, okay?" She then wordlessly turned and walked away from Delia. I smiled apologetically and showed her the exit door down the hall. The form and disk went into the trash. There was no list, that was part of the guilt trip. Disgusted, I went back to my post.

After everyone had left and all the interviews had been conducted, we all gathered in the only room that had chairs and discussed the weekend. I asked how we were supposed to file our bookings since we weren't in the computer yet. Three people gave me three different answers, and then argued with each other as to who was right. Through email to Ann, said one. No, on paper submitted daily, said another. The end result was "do this for now, and then later we'll have you do something else." However, if I didn't do it right, I wouldn't get credit for my enrollments. This was made perfectly clear. What was murky was what "right" entailed.

We were thanked for our time and sent out to scout for the rest of the day and that night. I drove home and then ran a few errands. In Target (again) I thought I could scout while shopping. I saw at least 10 people that would have been perfect material, but I couldn't bring myself to approach them. I couldn't even walk over near them, let alone actually start my spiel. I saw Lisa's hard face in my mind saying "Throw this away and show her the exit." I saw the tired mother trying to decide if she should spend the money on her child's future, a future that both Lisa and I knew was unlikely to yield any money for college. In fact, that future would 9 times out of 10 barely cover the expense of traveling to the job and back. I saw pre-teen girls becoming obsessed with their looks because they had to if they wanted to make money. I saw myself, slick with a card, ready with a compliment, quick to smile and reassure, knowing all the while that I would never list with T.C.T if I were on the flip side.

Exasperated and completely frustrated, I drove home. When I got inside my apartment, I tossed my purse on the floor and sat down at my computer. I flipped the laptop open and clicked on the little blue e that takes me to the internet. I typed "TransContinental Talent Talent" into my Google search box and awaited the results. I skipped past the page of results that were from T.C.T's own website and found what I'd been searching: articles about the company that were not paid for by the company.

The first was entitled "TransContinental Talent: A Eye on Tampa Scam Report." It concerned T.C.T's Tampa office and a protest that had happened there a few months ago. A photographer was protesting the company, claiming they were scamming people out of money. He said he used to work in the industry before T.C.T hired him to take pictures exclusively for them. He told the reporter that 80% of the people T.C.T enrolled didn't have any business being in the modeling industry. This was a passing concern for me; I didn't really believe what one man said. Most likely, he wanted more money from T.C.T or had been fired or something. I continued scanning the results page.

I found 4 links in a row that originated from something called RipOffReport.com. There were 100 reports filed by consumers that came up when I entered T.C.T's name. (ed- this is a real site, and everything I found was actually reported by consumers. TC Talent is now known as Wilhelmina Scouting Network. When I enter their URL (tctalent.com) into my browser, I'm redirected to Web Style Network. It houses a company named Fashion Rock, LLC.) One of the reporters for RipOffReport has been assigned to T.C.T and he wrote that there have been more than 1,500 complaints filed with their company about T.C.T What really got me was reading the reports from just a few days ago.

Most are from people who were scouted and then reported T.C.T as a scam. Others were from models or their mothers who enrolled with T.C.T, paid the money, and have not yet received a single job offer. But roughly half were from employees, past and present, claiming sexual harassment, missing wages, and tax cheats. One woman wrote that she was forced to keep her independent contractor status after the 120 day probationary period, despite management telling her that once she passed that time, she could become a regular employee. (Tax status was one of the big problems I had with T.C.T myself.) Another scout wrote that he wasn't getting enrollment credit for the people that he brought to open calls. Somehow, he said, the credit was being given to other people in the computer and he had no way to prove otherwise without getting the models to testify. Since most of the models didn't care or didn't remember, he was screwed. Report after report listed women being asked to sleep their way to the top, scouts being denied benefits and money owed them, and clients never receiving a job offer after more than a year of paying monthly fees.

My mind made up, I decided never to return to TransContinental Talent. I couldn't imagine working 75+ hours a week for the next 4 weeks for a company that is known to withhold payment from its employees. Every time I asked a hard-line question to any of the T.C.T management, I received a derisive look and a fast-talking lecture that danced around the question. Example: I asked Bruce if any of the pictures on the office walls featured models from TransContinental Talent. He said, and I quote, "I don't know how you want me to answer that question. Do we supply models to advertisers? Yes. Are all of these models on the wall girls and guys that came from T.C.T? I don't know. I could look up every single one of 'em, spend 5 hours paging through lists and books just to say, 'Yup, Molly, she works for us' and ease your little mind. Am I going to do that? No I am not because my time is valuable and so is yours. Just realize that our agencies gave 2.1 million jobs out to models last year and do the math yourself."

I was supposed to attend a mandatory meeting at T.C.T that night. I never went back, and now I'm telling my story. I'm going to finish this up with a tribute to Bruce in the form of a little cliché of my own: When something seems too good to be true, it usually is. These scouts are here, in Chicago. They hold open casting calls in the city, in the suburbs, in their offices. If a man on the street tells you he can get you started on a modeling career, ask yourself I'm 25 (or 35 or 45) years old; why hasn't anyone ever said this before? Remember that agencies don't require money to get you work. TC Talent isn't an agency, and they will be the first to tell you that. It's their way of avoiding responsibility. Ask the right questions, ask the tough questions, and be uncompromising in the answers you will accept. Bruce told us that scouts for TransContinental Talent were in the business of showing people the truth in themselves, the truth that they could be models. If TransContinental Talent was in the truth-revealing business, why wouldn't they ever let me see what was behind that curtain?

THE END

I Recount My Talent Agent Tale Part I

2008-09-20T08:05:00.001-05:00

JJ wrote in his blog a few days ago about a shady telemarketing job he had, and it reminded me of this shady job *I had. So when I was in Chicago, I was really drifting. I was just out of college (it was 2002 and I graduated after 5 years in 2001) and I had a Theater degree. I tried to get hired at a few local theaters, but no dice. I had no money for fancy headshots, so I couldn't do the acting thing, either. So I tried on a lot of different jobs to see if I could find my future career.  I ended up getting a job as a scout for a talent agency. "Wow," you're probably thinking, "what a cool and interesting job!" You are incorrect. "Wow," you might also be thinking, "that job sounds totally above the board and legitimate!" Again, so so wrong.  Here's the story. I wrote this previously for a magazine in Chicago (it didn't get picked up). I hope you like it. It's pretty fucking outrageous, I must say. Oh, and "Transcontinental Talent" IS the real name of the agency.

Enjoy the story! Sorry it's so long!

____________________________________________________________________________

Dreams For Sale

"Excuse me," I say to the woman standing in front of me. "Your daughter is absolutely beautiful."

The woman smiles and her daughter blushes. "Thank you," she says.

"I'm sorry, but I just have to ask: has she done any modeling or acting before?"

"Why, no!"

"That's surprising! She really should. She has the perfect look and god! Those eyelashes! My name is Molly McBride and I'm a talent scout with TransContinental Talent. I'm not even working today…I was just here doing some shopping, but I couldn't resist approaching you. Talent like hers is hard to just pass by. We're having an open call at our offices. I'd love to schedule you an appointment. Which is better for you, 2 pm Tuesday or 2 pm Wednesday?"

"Um, Tuesday, I guess. You really think she could model?"

"Absolutely. I'm going to give you my card. You have to bring the card to be allowed in to the audition. It's very exclusive and we don't just let anyone in." With that last bit, I lean in and show her my card. "I'm going to put your confirmation number on the back so that they know that you are legit and not just someone off the street." With a winning smile, I hand the woman my card. "I'll see you Tuesday at 2 pm! It was wonderful to meet you," I say to the little girl. Shaking her mother's hand, I thank them for the chance to speak with them and head out to my car. I do not buy the items in my hand. I was never planning on buying them. This is my third day as a scout for TransContinental Talent. It will also be my last.

DREAM JOB!

Have you ever wanted to work for

the entertainment industry?

Want to spend your days surrounded by

beautiful and talented people?

Do you want to help people make

their dreams come true?

TransContinental Talent has immediate openings

for Talent Scouts in your area!

Positions fill quickly, send your resume today!

No experience necess. We will train!

Begin your amazing new career today.

Salary: 45,000-75,000 a year.

I found the job posting while searching online. I moved to Chicago in September 2002 because I wanted to get my life started. Back home in Minneapolis, I had friends and family and thousands of excuses not to take any risks. Since I want to write, I knew I had to get out of my comfortable routine existence and give myself some inspiration. My boyfriend and I moved to a great apartment a mile from Wrigley Field. He started attending Columbia College and I…well, I watched a lot of television.

I tried my hand at freelance writing, reviewing movies and books and sending my articles off to various free papers here in the city. The responses, when they came, were the rejections I had expected. I tried to get an internship with the Tribune, only to be told that internships were reserved for college students and people with degrees in Journalism. (My degree is in Theater and English.) I applied for dozens of waitress jobs and never got an interview. I tried to start up my own dog walking business before I realized that most Chicagoland dog walkers are insured and bonded. Meanwhile, my savings were running dry and I was running out of things to tell my family when they asked how my new life was going.

The above ad seemed like the answer to my money problems. I'd put writing on the back burner until I could make some money. It was exactly what I had done in Minnesota, but after almost 6 months of unemployment, no friends, talk shows, and Playstation, I could barely afford to live.

I applied for the job on Monday, sending off my resume and a lovely cover letter. I received a reply Tuesday night. A woman named Theresa Goodland* (ed- I have changed all the names of people, but not the name of the company) wrote and asked if I could make it to an interview that Thursday morning. She apologized for the short notice, saying that the reason for it was that she needed to fill the position immediately. The interview, she informed me, would take 6 hours and I would know by day's end if I had the job. Was I available? I was indeed. I let Ms. Goodland know that I would be more than happy to attend and asked if there was a way to reach the office through public transportation. She never responded, so I was forced to plan to take the Jeep. I hate driving in the city, but I was more than curious about this Dream Job that needed to be filled right away.

My car wouldn't start the morning of my interview, and I had no way to reach the office, which was out in the IllinoisOdd, I thought. "May I leave her a message?" I asked. suburbs. I looked online and found TransContinental Talent's phone number. I told the receptionist who I was and what had happened, and asked to speak to Theresa Goodland. "She hasn't made it in yet," said the receptionist. I glanced at the clock. It was 9:15 am. My interview was set for 10 am.

"No. You need to reply to the email you were sent."

"I've done that and received no reply for the last 2 days. Will this get to her? I want to reschedule and I'm quite excited about the job."

"Just send her an email. It'll be fine." The receptionist said goodbye and hung up. I was puzzled, but did as I was told. I never heard anything back that day, nor the next. By the following Monday, I realized that I'd missed my chance, and was pissed that Ms. Theresa Goodland would be so rude as to not even dignify my email with a quick reply.

On Thursday afternoon, I received another email from Ms. Goodland. It apologized in a generic way for our inability to meet up last week and asked if I was available that Friday. Again, the letter blamed the short notice on the need to fill the position immediately. (This set up a red flag in the back of my mind, but I ignored it in the name of employment.) I let her know I was available Wednesday or Thursday of next week. She wrote back and confirmed Thursday as the scheduled day. I was pleased at this second chance. The car was fixed, I knew how to find the office, and I knew that I could nail this interview. The thought of being gainfully employed by week's end buoyed my spirits.

Day One

When I reached the offices of TransContinental Talent, I was dressed to the nines and caffeinated to the tens. The anteroom was a large, bare space with gray carpeting and blank walls. I was directed to a room to my right. Inside were 30 other people dressed in their interview best, watching a DVD of American Idol. I chose a seat near the front and settled into my chair. This is unexpected, I thought, looking around at the motley crew assembled in the big room. There were advertisements on the walls, Calvin Klein and Tommy and Guess?, models with glossy pouts and long legs carefully assembled. At 10:20, I grew impatient. I'd woken up at 8 am and left my house with over an hour to reach the offices to ensure my timeliness. My interviewer was now 20 minutes late and I was listening to 10 shiny might-as-well-be-teenagers sing "I Just Called To Say I Love You."

The door at the back swung open and a portly man in a black suit walked in to the room. He turned off the TV and gave us a large grin. "How y'all doin today my name is Bruce and I'm the man who's going to tell you all about TransContinental Talent, now how many of you are here because you saw our job posting online?" He said this all in one breath, startling most of us as we raised our hands in answer to his last question. "That's great I tell you what we're going to go around the room and get to know each other because this interview goes both ways you get to know us as a company and we get to know you as people how does that sound?" I wanted to start counting his words to see how many he'd get out in the next run-on sentence.

We started getting up one by one and giving our names and other information. Every person said "Entertainment's in my blood" or some variation. Most people were recently laid off from desk jobs, customer service positions, or factory work. Everyone had been brought to the interview the same way as I: the online ad, an email from Theresa.

After we had all introduced ourselves, Bruce went into his pitch. He was wearing a cool-daddy black suit, tie and shirt and jacket and all. It wasn't Johnny-Cash-cool, but he was definitely bordering on Samuel-J-cool. His face was open and earnest, but everything about him seemed forced. When he got excited, his Tennessee accent deepened and his grammar went downhill. "Folks," he said, "I want to tell you about TransContinental Talent. I want to tell you all the great things about this company and what it's done for me and what it can do for you. But first I need to know, are y'all serious about making some money and making people's dreams come true?" There was a murmured assent. "Folks, I couldn't hear that. Now if you're serious, let's hear it!" A slightly louder assent. "That's great to hear. Let me tell you, three years ago I was just like you. I came in to an interview and I wanted to change my life. Did I change my life after that interview? Folks, yes I did. Yes. I. Did. And I did it with TransContinental Talent. How many of you are right now wondering if this is a scam? Some kinda pyramid thing or something' where you have to pay us or who knows what? Huh?" A few of us rose our hands, myself included.

He continued: "Folks, it's okay to feel that way! I'm here to tell you that it's not like that. This is a legitimate business and we do legitimate things for real people who want to change their destiny and change their lives. You'll change your own life and also the lives of others. How many jobs can say that you do that, make money, and have fun, too? How many? Probably none, folks, and that's the truth. You will never find a job as wonderful as this one and I'm living proof. 3 years ago I was just like you and now I'm the national director of scouting offices. I make 100,000 dollars a year and I drive a nice car and I did it all starting just like you're starting…"

I could write about Bruce's speeches for the next 2 years and not capture the hilarity. He was the SNL character Matt Foley on speed. Every time the man opened his mouth, I felt like I was playing Three Card Monty at some seedy fair. Even though I was pretty sure this company was legitimate (the receptionist's computer had a BBB Member sticker on it and Bruce said they traded on the open market), Bruce makes me feel like something's being covered up. He's the barker distracting my attention away from the curtain, and I can't for the life of me figure out why TransContinental Talent (herein known as T.C.T) would have such a shyster as their front man.

The rest of the interview day consisted of multiple propaganda videos about how amazing it is to work for T.C.T. The video bombarded us with beautiful, tanned women dancing, grinning men straddling jet skis, and a guitar wailing in the background. The narrator of one video actually said "But it's not ALL work" before a particularly funny montage of nightclubbing dancers. I expected this. Most businesses have some sort of video or brochure to convince you that they are absolutely thrilling employers.

After lunch, the overheated room smelled like onions and more than half of us were gone. They had either been sent home by Bruce or chose to leave of their own volition. Bruce smiled widely and let us know that we were the chosen ones. For a shining moment, I felt special, but I still didn't know what the hell this job entailed.

Bruce quickly outlined what TransContinental Talent expected us to do. We, the scouts, go out into "the field" (read: anywhere and everywhere) and scout for talent. T.C.T insists that we are looking for people who meet "industry standards," but since industry standards for print and commercial modeling barely mention looks, we can scout anyone who isn't too fat or horribly disfigured. Wide face, good skin, good teeth, even features. That's all we're looking for. We then approach these people and give them our cards, inviting them to an open call. They come to the open call, and are given a presentation by fast-talking people like Bruce. TransContinental Talent isn't an agency; they are an agency liaison. Models list with T.C.T and hope that the agencies who also list with T.C.T will see them on the website and choose them for various modeling jobs. This costs $900 and a monthly fee. There are no guarantees of employment.

Bruce told us that we had to be back tomorrow morning by 9:30 for another day of training. (At this point, I'm assuming I have the job, but since it's only 2 pm, I'm really not sure.) He then went over the pay schedule. It's ridiculously complicated, so allow me to boil it down. We do not get paid for the first 30 days other than the commission we receive when a person that we scouted agrees to enroll with T.C.T Our salary relies entirely on the decision of strangers to spend $900 for the chance to possibly model. After that, we receive a weekly base pay as long as we continue to enroll 5 people per week. We are independent contractors for the first 120 days, after which we can choose to remain IC or become employees. But for 30 days, it's all about getting people to pay that $900.

Why didn't I get up and run? Because Bruce let us know that 30% of the people we can schedule for an open call will enroll. Flat numbers, statistics gathered over the last 3 or 4 years, folks these numbers don't lie. 2 or 3 other employees come in and tell us the same thing. "Get them in the door and we will do the rest," said Bruce. "Don't worry about the enrollments; you get us the numbers and it will all happen." Sounds simple, I thought. I'm excited because the commissions are high and it's likely that I'll be making upwards of $1000 a week.

There were still 13 of us sitting in the room. We had never been interviewed separately. The email I received from Theresa said to bring my resume, which sat on the chair next to me, untouched. I wanted to raise my hand and ask when the actual damn interviews would start, but before I could Bruce said we all have the job, and we needed to fill out tax forms and give him our resumes. We did so in assembly line fashion, passing everything to the left as if we were in a classroom. When it was time to leave, I was happy. I had a job, I was going to make some money, and I finally had an answer when Scott's classmates and friends ask me, "So what do you do?"

Day Two

Friday morning, I was absolutely exhausted. I had to change my sleep schedule around in order to attend the interview at 10 am the previous day. (I hadn't woken up before noon for weeks; my days consisted of cleaning the apartment, working out at the gym, running errands, and searching for jobs online.) I drank a cappuccino on 4 hours of sleep, dressed myself in my other business-professional outfit (I have 5 articles of mix-n-match clothing that make up my entire winter business wardrobe) and dragged myself to the office. I got there with moments to spare thanks to the dreadful traffic on the Kennedy expressway. Jessica Bonner, deeply tanned and made up within an inch of her life, came in to the room and greeted us all. (She has the largest fake breasts I have ever seen up close.) She informed us that she is the office director and that she and Ann, the Director of Scouting, had just over 2 hours to teach us how to scout before the company-wide conference call at 12.

We learned the following maxims: Always compliment the potential talent 3 times. Always let people know they have "a great look." Do not let the P.T. know that you are scheduling them for an open call; refer to it as an appointment to make them feel unique. Use the words "invitation only" and "select few." Hand them your card and then take it back to write something on it. Tell them that if they can't make it, you'll have to "give their spot to someone else." (Ann insists we use those exact words. She says that human psychology dictated that fear of loss was a strong motivator. "If they think this is their only shot and that you could possibly give this shot to someone else, they'll be more likely to show up.") Give a firm handshake, but not too firm. Ann told us that pretending that you weren't even looking for talent is a great way to really convince people to come to the open call. "They'll think that they are so amazing that you stopped during your personal, non-work time." Don't answer too many questions. If someone wants to know if this costs anything, tell them that the evaluation appointment is completely free and don't say another word about cost. "You're not a salesperson," said Ann. "You're not selling anything. You're in the business of giving people the chance to make their dreams come true. Now everyone into the lobby because it's time for the conference call!"

We all gathered around a phone sitting on the desk in the anteroom I'd seen yesterday. Office by office, the entire national network of T.C.T scouts chimed in on the call. Once everyone had checked in, a man began giving a speech. He announced a few bonuses for top scouts, and then gave us what he called his Commandments of Scouting. "Get out of your car. I know it's comfy in there, but you have to get out and walk around to scout the most people. Always be scouting, people. There's talent everywhere, just open your eyes. Stay out of the impoverished areas; we don't need to have anything to do with them. They can't pay and therefore we can't help them. Go to rich neighborhoods and hit up those parents with more money than they know what to do with. Find college kids, find anyone, and get them through that door! If you don't get them through the door, we can't do anything for 'em, so let's get out there and scout some talent!" With that, the call was over and Jessica turned to us. Before I could ask about the offensive "Stay out of the poor areas" remark, Jessica said, "You heard the man! Get out there and scout! You guys go hit the streets and then be back by 4. I know it's only your second day, so I'll set an easy goal. Get 10 people signed up for an appointment! Don't come back until 4 pm, even if you have 10 cards out. Alright, get moving!"

I got into my Jeep, practicing my approach out loud as I drove. I was out in the suburbs and had no idea where I was, really. I knew how to get here and how to get home and no idea of what was in between. Deciding to stay in the area to keep from getting lost, I went to the nearby Target. I approached a woman and her daughter in line, and convinced them to show up for the open call. Feeling like a superwoman for scheduling my first contact on my first try, I practically skipped out to my car. I headed over to the mall and scouted a few more people. Within the hour, I was just wandering around from store to store, my high heeled boots clicking on tile as I strolled through displays, half-heartedly shopping. I bought a shirt from a trendy store aimed at teenagers, and easily could have scouted the cashier or the three girls shopping together. But I didn't. I couldn't.

I felt so incredibly false approaching these people, barely believing my own words about modeling and opportunities. And even though I knew that I wasn't lying when I said it was free, I also wasn't telling the truth. I spoke to six people, and three of them agreed to take my card. On each occasion, their face lit up when I mentioned that I was a talent scout and I had chosen them. I knew they were thinking that I was offering them a career in modeling, a change of life, a shot at fame. In my mind's eye, I could see those same faces crestfallen as Bruce or Jessica or Ann explained the $900 fee and the cold hard fact that this wasn't even anything close to fame. I couldn't bring myself to approach anyone else, not with that bit of shame scratching against my cheerful façade.

Dejected, I got back in my car and drove to a few other stores. The stores were either deserted or populated with people who didn't meet the standards. Not wanting to spend any more money, I drove back to the office fighting back the tears of failure. I was not cut out for this, I said to myself. I do not have killer instincts. I went to the lobby and read a book, curling into myself on a bench and trying not to think about what would happen when we reconvened at 4. Everyone will have given out all their cards, I thought. I'm the only one who has a problem with this. I'm the only one who can't ignore her scruples and just get the job done. I'm a complete failure, doomed to waitress while I claim that what I really want to do is write. I'll end up working at an office somewhere downtown, chained to a desk under bad lighting, given the trumped up title of "Service Specialist" or "Assistant Director of Management." I'll write the weekly newsletter and tell myself that I'm using my talents in the best way that I can. My ass will grow to twice its normal size and the most exciting thing that will happen to me on a daily basis will be lunch.

4 o'clock came and I went back to the main room. People started to filter in slowly. Everyone had the same look on their face as I did. A few people said they were going to quit. We all laughed a little, happy that everyone was as depressed as we were. I started to feel better. Maybe it just takes a little bit to get comfortable, I thought. Then Bruce came in to the room.

We hadn't seen him all day, and he was dressed down in jeans and a polo shirt. He asked us how we'd done, and everyone said something along the lines of "not good." He asked how we felt and I said, "Incredibly disheartened." He gave me a pissy look and said, "Attitude is everything and with yours, I'm not surprised you did poorly." I felt like I'd been slapped. He promptly turned to the rest of the room and began to give a speech that came down to little more than a series of Successories™ punctuated by horrific grammar lapses. "Folks," he said, "take a look around you at this office. This office don't pay for itself. TransContinental Talent don't own this building, we rent it. And I'll tell you, you go to any office in the world and you ask them how much it costs to rent this much square footage and they'll tell you it don't come cheap. Plus, we got bills for power and heat and all that stuff. You wanna know if a business makes money, you take a look around. You think we could afford all this space if we didn't make money? Folks, look up. Are those lights on? Yes they are, folks, yes they are. I'll tell you something' else, I been working here for 3 years and I make $100,000 a year now. I ain't sayin' that to brag, it's just the cold hard facts, folks. I ain't guaranteeing you'll make that much 'cause my results aren't typical, but if you believe in this company and you believe in yourself and you believe in your talent, then I guarantee you will make money folks and you'll make it fast and you'll make it often. Just remember, this office is big and them lights are on, and we only make money if you make money so what does that tell you?"

My spirits, emboldened by the accounts of my peers' difficulties, sank quickly. He was fast-talking again, find the red queen and win big, distracting us from the curtain. Anytime anyone asked a question, he shot them an irritated look before dancing around the answer with more cliché and fast-talking. He said over and over that if we "got him the numbers," he would do the rest. He sent us home after giving us the schedule for the next few days. By my calculation, we'd be putting in 35 office hours in the next week. We were also supposed to scout at least 5 hours a day for the next 6 days. That meant at least 75 hours of unpaid labor, excluding the commissions we might receive.

I went home and called my parents. I told them everything about the job, about Bruce, about my misgivings. My dad suggested I stick it out for two weeks. "You've just tried one day, and it was your very first day. Maybe it will get better?" I agreed; I was very tired and crabby, after all, and I was just starting out. My mom backed him up, and added that I should write about my experience. "Think of it like a journalist's assignment," she said. Scott agreed with both of them, and told me he knew I could do it. I went to bed early, thanked my boyfriend for being so supportive, and tried to forget about how shady I'd felt that afternoon. Tomorrow was my first open call, and I wanted to be rested.

(TO BE CONTINUED IN PART II)

A is for Awkward Family Lunch; Wherein Go Game 2 Is Cut Short By Emesis

2008-09-19T20:39:00.001-05:00

I wanted to post last night, but around 4pm I became violently ill. I'll spare you the details of my horrors. Suffice to say it was crippling. So I spent the rest of my evening/night curled up in the fetal position on the couch until bedtime. So no blog yesterday.

Before the awful sickness, I had lunch with my birth father, Wayne. If you were at the wedding, he was the curly haired guy with my same eyes standing next to a bitch-faced woman, the couple who no one was talking to the entire night. That's Wayne and my stepmother, Pat. (For those of you who aren't in the know: I call my stepfather, Steve, my "dad" because he raised me from age 12 on and my father, Wayne, never really cared much about me beyond the bare minimum you'd expect from the embodiment of half of your genes. I call Wayne "Dad" to his face but I will never refer to him as "my dad." That will always mean Steve, my stepdad. Anyway.)

Okay, so I'm having this lunch with Wayne. We go to Ruby Tuesday here in Eden Prairie. It was a fine lunch, slightly awkward but not too terrible. I managed to do the small talk thing, which I'm normally terrible at. Especially when I'm with someone I don't really like very much. He's just...to borrow a line from The Royal Tenenbaums: He's "an asshole. It's sort of a personality trait." He doesn't even *realize what an asshole he's being when he does it, too. (My father also has Bipolar Disorder, as did his father before him. It's where I get it from. So I try to forgive him his assholery as much as I can, mostly because holding on to hate is hurtful only to the holder.)

My brother Kevin, who also has Wayne for a father (Riley and Mad's father is Steve) hates Wayne. Hates him so much that, before my wedding, he hadn't seen or spoken to Wayne in 7 years. He said maybe 3 words to him at the wedding to be polite and then avoided him all night, which was extremely gallant of him. I know he was itching to make a scene and just lay in to Wayne.

You see, Wayne was really shitty to us during and directly after our parent's divorce. He married his mistress even though we said we didn't like her and would cut our visitation days drastically if he married her. (He said she was more important to him than we were and that someday we'd understand. Yeah right.) Then, when she got pregnant, he sat us down and actually said, I shit you not, actually said, "Well, Pat's pregnant so you guys are going to have to get used to coming in third now when it comes to my heart." Our own FATHER. And Kevin got more hurt by all this because he's a boy and Wayne was his dad and then he just ditched us for a new family and a new life. And to top it all off, he's clueless about why we're so angry and hurt over all of this. He really doesn't think he did anything wrong. *sigh* He's an idiot. And Kevin doesn't get why I don't just sever him out of my life, too, and the reason is: I don't care about Wayne at all anymore. To hate someone, you have to care about them. You do. And I... I nothing Wayne.

So yeah, lunch. It was fine, we went through the motions of a father and daughter. We're not close. He and Pat didn't even really meet Nick until a month before the wedding. He knows about my bipolar disorder (I had to tell him when I was in the hospital last fall because I was getting electroshock and there was the possibility of a complication being fatal, so I felt I owed it to him to know what was going on with me) but is in denial about having it himself. He doesn't know I have anorexia or that I was hospitalized for that. He wouldn't care. He's the one who used to tell me I was coming in second in my races because I had to "haul that big ass up and down the course." (Please, spare me any "your father caused your anorexia" comments. I firmily believe you are born with anorexia/any eating disorder and it's a matter of whether or not it blossoms to an extreme or just stays in the "I have weird eating habits" realm.)

Oh, one last thing about my father. He didn't take me out for my birthday like usual this year because he was mad at me. He looked at all the wedding pics on Flickr and the names of the pictures made him super pissed off because I had referred to Steve as my "dad" in all of his shots and I'd referred to him as my "father" in the *one picture that I have with him. 6 or 7 years ago, I would have felt guilty and backpedaled and apologized and tried to placate him. But instead, I just said, "Yep. He's my dad. He was there, you weren't. Sucks, but that's the way it is and I'm not going to pretend differently because that does Steve a disservice. Got a problem with that?" And he was so shocked by my attitude that he didn't know what to say, so he just kept repeating himself while I held my ground and refused to apologize. I said, "I'm sorry that it hurt your feelings, but I'm not sorry that I did it. You're going to have to get over it. The chance for you to complain about this shit is loooong gone." And all he could do was feebly say, "Well, I'll always be your only daddy, no matter what happens." Trying to play the daddy card. I haven't called him "daddy" since I was 8 years old. See? Asshole. Manipulating asshole and I bet he didn't even intend to be that way.

Alright, on to slightly more interesting things. I was scheduled to do a GoGame today. I thought I felt well enough to do it, but when I got there and was in my position in front of the IDS center...after about 10 minutes, I suddenly felt flushed all over and I raced to a trashcan on the street and puked my guts out. So I called the organizer and bailed out. I felt awful doing that but there was no way I could stay standing up, let alone do the singing role they had for me. Hopefully they won't hold it against me and I'll get cast again sometime. *sigh*

I took a 4 hour nap and it was curative. Seriously, I woke up feeling just fine. And now I'm waiting for Betsie to come over. We're going to clean for the party tomorrow. Nothing crazy or heavy-duty, just straightening up and vacuuming and stuff. Making the place presentable for house tours.

I'm super excited for the party! But I wish my friends who don't live in the Twin Cities could be there. (JJ, Blake, Jaimi...I wish you could come. I miss you guys.) My mom and the kids and my dad are coming, and Nick's family is coming, so it will be fun to have our families get together again. They haven't since the wedding. We're having them over earlier, around 2pm, before our friends start showing up at 4pm.

You know, Steve Jobs promised "far fewer dropped calls" with iPhone software v2.1, but so far I've noticed an actual *increase in my dropped and otherwise-fucked-up calls. WTG, Jobs. Doesn't he realize that *I'm the most important person with an iPhone in the world and if the software doesn't improve *my phone, it's useless? Sheesh, get on the Molly G-Train, Jobs.

If you're on Twitter, you should follow me. My username is Voo. Comment here with your Twitter name if you both read my blog and have a Twitter account. Then I'll follow you back and we can all keep in touch every second of every damned day. You'll know the most intimate idiocies of my brain! You know, the stuff that's too contentless for the blog. Things like "I'm at Cosi, getting a sandwich" and "Does anyone else like the show True Blood?" and the naked pictures I constantly post. Just checking to see if you're still paying attention. Besides, any naked pictures I have of myself are horrible Auschwitz-like pictures of me when I was anorexic. I'm just skin, ribs, bulgy knees, and knobby elbows. It's no good. You want naked, you're going to have to figure out a way to get inside my husband's head and see what he sees, 'cos I'm a one-man show these days. For realsies!

Time to take a shower so I'm not a slob for my #1 girl. Not that she cares...and I suppose we are going to be cleaning the house...maybe I'll take that shower after she leaves. So get your minds out of the collective gutter, you hooligans. I'm keeping my clothes on for now.

In Which I Change Up The Style Of Things

2008-09-16T03:09:00.001-05:00

From now on, I'll make the subject of each little paragraph slightly larger so you can see them better and know what I'm going to talk about. I think it looks cool, so shut up.

SNL sketch about Sarah Palin and Hillary Clinton. Very hilarious. Tina Fey's impression is dead-on. "Please. Ask this one about dinosaurs." Too fucking funny.

I bought a new dress at Target. While I was unhappy at what size I had to buy (that's the anorexic in my head putting in her two cents) I'm thrilled with the dress. It's perfect for Christmas parties.

So I'm writing this book. It's about living with bipolar disorder and specifically my experiences in the hospital last fall, particularly what it was like to get ECT. It's self-deprecating, darkly comedic, and isn't going to contain a lot of facts/figures about bipolar disorder. I think there's a market for it. Now I just have to get the damned thing written.

If it's a existing condition, I think I have tarsal tunnel from driving so much. (Carpal tunnel being in the hands, and your tarsals being in your feet.) My left ankle, on the left side, hurts ALL the time. It aches. It feels like I've pulled the muscles in my ankle, while at the same time feeling weak. It sucks. I don't know if I should go to the doctor or not. I don't know if they'll be able to do anything for me or not.

I have to clean the house this week before the party on Saturday. (It's a housewarming party at our new place. If you're reading this and you didn't get an invite and you'd like to come out and celebrate, please message me and I'll get you the details.) Need to clean up all the clutter and at least stuff it in a closet. Plus I need to do all the laundry and hang it all up, which means a trip to Target for more hangers.

Why doesn't someone shoot Sarah Palin in order to get Jodi Foster's attention? God, I'm sick of that dumb Caribou Barbie bitch.

An Irritated Bovine Wanders Minneapolis

2008-09-10T03:08:00.001-05:00

So I got this acting gig with a company called Go Game. Nick turned me on to them; I guess he's on their mailing list for actors but never actually did any acting with them. Anyway, they're a company that puts on scavenger-hunt-type games for corporations and businesses as a team building exercise for their managers and employees. They're divided into teams and given clues and "missions" and they have to get around (walking, driving, whatever...depends on the game) and solve everything. You get the idea.

The job I do, as an actor, is to either be a "plant" or a "runner." Plants sit in one spot, in costume and in character, and give out their assigned information. Runners do the same thing, only moving around.

So I had my first game tonight. I met the organizer, Chris, at the Starbucks at 9th and Nicollet. He gave me my role: Mad Cow, a runner role. I had to put on a full body cow costume (complete with hood) and I was supposed to act "very angry." Because, you see, I was a mad cow. The teams, when they found me, had to do "something to make the cow happy" and take their picture doing it. Then I was to give them the password. I was assigned to wander Nicollet Mall from 6th to 12th for 2 or so hours. Hilarious, dude, seriously. I was tickled pink. Especially since Chris told me that he knew I'd knock the role right out of the park.

I donned the costume and proceeded to stomp down Nicollet. I occasionally muttered to myself, usually cursing the "goddamned farmer who put me out to pasture" or "the lack of hay in Minneapolis." I chewed on geranium leaves. I mooed very aggressively at anyone who looked twice at me. I barked "What the hell are *you looking at? Ain'tcha never seen a cow before?" to anyone who was openly staring or commenting. I kicked lampposts and crossed my arms and generally sneered/grimaced/grumbled my way around.

The game went from 6:45 to 8:30pm, so Nicollet Mall was in full effect, the restaurants overflowing with people just off work and the bus stops crowded with commuters. TONS of people interacted with me. Most of them tried to get me to break character, but we'd been told to stay in character above all things. Plus, my specialty is improv, so I had no trouble staying in my mad cow mode. Several people said, "Look, okay, what's the deal?" or "What are you doing this for?" trying to get me to just break character and tell them I was involved in a game, and I would always reply that my farmer had put me out to pasture, but since I'm a city cow, "pasture" meant Nicollet Mall. "Oh, and people don't stare!" I'd add, angrily.

The teams all found me, and when I told them what they had to do, 5/6 went for the same idea: tugging on my rubber udder teats comically. So somewhere out there, there's 5 pictures of me in a cow costume with various strangers pretending to yank or suck my fake teats. Yeah buddy. One group was stumped and so I told them to ride me, and got down on all fours and demanded that one of them climb on my back. In all the pictures, I'm smiling a HUGE smile to demonstrate that they made the Mad Cow happy. I bet the pics are hilarious; I wish I had access to them.

Here's me in the cow costume. Nick was with me downtown because I had to pick him up from work just before the game. He killed time elsewhere so as not to cramp my style. He took this picture.

Coming To You Live From My Bed; Adventures In Ink

2008-09-07T06:37:00.001-05:00

I fell asleep early tonight and slept on the couch until Nick woke me up to come to bed. Then I spent 20 minutes lying here with my brain wide awake before I decided to give up the ghost and get the computer and spill the beans to all my adoring fans. (Ha. Does anyone even read this?)

Friday night, we decided we wanted to try to get our tattoos done at Uptown Tattoo the next day. We got to the place just a little bit after they opened, expecting to get an artist's consultation and a couple of appointments. Hoping for same day service but not expecting it.

However, the fates aligned and there had just been a cancellation. The appointment time was enough time to do both of us. We seriously lucked out. So now I'm the proud owner of a Black Hearts Elimination Agency tattoo and Nick has his Guild of Calamitous Intent tattoo. Both are from the cartoon The Venture Bros. and we got them on the same arm in the same place.

I have decided to volunteer for the Obama campaign by making phone calls to registered Democrats and polling them. Want to help? It's pretty fun. It's an easy interface online. You signup, you're assigned 25 people, and you call them and ask them if they're voting Obama or McCain (or undecided) and you read them a little spiel about why Obama should be president. Then you ask about Franken and Coleman, just a poll question, no spiel. Then you record the data and submit it and move on to the next call.

Fuck, I'm hungry. Tomorrow is grocery shopping day, so we're pretty much out of food. Bah. Somebody bring me some beef massaman curry from either Tum Rup or Chang Mai Thai. Eden Prairie has no curry.

My iPhone Is A Little Fucker; My Absence Ends

2008-09-06T04:54:00.001-05:00

Why am I still awake, you ask? Because my fucking iPhone decided to die tonight and I've been spending all night/early morning trying to fix the goddamned thing. There's no hope of restoring my contacts or photos or anything. I have to start fresh and new, like I just bought it. Which means that the last month and a half of effort I've put into the phone to make it like a personal assistant is now completely wasted. Fuck. FUCK. Whatever. I'll deal with it. Maybe restoring will finally get mine to run right, without lag and stupidness.

In other news, I AM BACK BECAUSE WE ARE FINALLY MOVED. It took 2 truck rentals on different days, and countless car trips, but all our shit now dwells within the walls of our abode and the old apartment can burn down for all I fucking care. We cleaned that place within an inch of its life (I did most of the cleaning because Nick has a job) and if we don't get back at least 85% of our deposit (if not the whole thing) I will raise serious hell.

Today (Friday) was Nick's last day at Visi. We had a big send-off at Black Forest, which was wicked fun. Lots of people showed up, very cool conversations were had, and we left a nice big tip to compensate for the racket we made on the patio.

I'm glad as fuck that the RNC is gone. Get the fuck out and stay out. Militarize MY hometown? Arrest people without warrants in MY hometown? Assholes. It was officially the most militarized convention in history. I'm sure you've all heard the stories by now: cops in riot gear marching in downtown, a cop on every corner, the "Forbidden Zone," the cops pulling the plug on Rage Against The Machine (who continued acapella with the whole crowd chanting "Fuck you I won't do what you tell me")... yeah, buddy, it was pretty rough times. Glad I'm not Betsie and Jeremiah or Chris and Ginny, all of whom live in downtown St. Paul.

This Palin woman is a fucking trip. At first I was astonished, then I laughed for a whole day. Possible pros: her inexperience and idiocy will drive undecided voters away from McCain and her insane anti-abortion views will alienate the female Hillary supporters that the Republican party is obviously hoping to capture. Possible cons: Really stupid women who just want a vagina-any-vagina-at-all in the White House will now vote McCain, and militant crazy anti-abortionists who thought McCain was soft on the issue will now vote for him (although it's not like this group was going to vote for Obama anyway, so no loss there really).

Personally, I think she's a huge detriment to McCain's chances of winning. I really think that Obama's choice of Biden bolstered his campaign and will shut up those people who clamor that Obama doesn't have enough experience since Biden's got it in spades. Shit, he's been in Senate longer than McCain. You compare Obama's choice to McCain's choice and it's just like...I mean...come on...it's like....are you kidding me?

Our House...In The Middle Of Our Street; Princess Leigha Returns

2008-08-22T09:38:00.001-05:00

We've moved everything that really matters from the apartment into the house. All that's left are the contents of the coat closet, the rest of the bedroom closet, the stuff on the laundry room shelves, and a few bits and pieces laying around. 2 car trips, tops. I'll be doing that on Monday and Tuesday, then cleaning Wednesday and Thursday. Thrilling. I can't wait put my back to that place and never have to return.

Betsie and Jeremiah came over last night. They are officially our first guests. We've got everything arranged properly and put away and decorated except for the guest bedroom. I'm going to make Riley come over and help me assemble the bed in there so I can finally put that room to rights and be done with the whole goddamned house. But all the other rooms look great, save for Nick's office, which is still mostly boxes. Pictures on the walls and everything.

Hancock was a much, much better movie than others have heretofore led me to believe. Jason Bateman made the first 2/3 very funny, and the twist made the last third damn entertaining. Kevin said it was "what you'd expect from the trailer" and reviews were lukewarm, but I thought it was good all around.

I reconnected with an old friend from college, Leigha Horton. She and I were really close (dare I say best?) friends the first semester of freshman year back in 1996. Then we got into a huge fight over nothing after J-term (I was swinging into a bad manic episode after an entire winter's worth of depression and she was homesick for California and therefore touchy) and didn't speak after that beyond the times we were forced to do so. (We both ended up in the Theater department, so we had to collaborate a few times.) I've always regretted how we ended; the fight almost came to violence on my part, it was that bad. But I found her through Facebook and emailed her and told her my whole sordid story and apologized for how things went down and she apologized for her part in it and we're going to hang out sometime soon.

Which is cool for a reason beyond rekindling a 12-year-old friendship...Leigha is living the dream and actually working as an actress. More to the point, she does voice work, which means she knows people in the industry and knows what it takes to get said voice work. I've been dreaming of doing voice acting/voice over work since I was in high school, and it's something I think I have a natural talent for. If you've ever heard me talk, you know I have a very distinctive voice that's quite low pitched. I think it's unique, which is the name of the game when it comes to acting jobs. You have to stand out to get noticed, and my voice definitely stands out. I just don't know how to get started. So I'm hoping she can give me some tips and point me in the right direction. Maybe I won't end up being "just a housewife" after all.

Betsie and I are going to watch Planet Earth on her 15 foot high-def projection screen and be giggly and chatty all night long while our fellas are out doing their respective activities. (Nick plays D&D on Friday nights til 2 or 3 am.) I'm totally excited. Planet Earth fucking rules, particularly the ocean parts.

Blame Jason Josephes; A Day Worth Detailing?

2008-08-21T00:45:00.001-05:00

After reading JJ's blog, I've been itching to write. Not many of you know this, but I've written about 30,000 words of a novel for which I have no ending. I tried to pick it back up again, but I'm just stuck for ideas. Stephen King's book On Writing says that the best way to get yourself unstuck is to write, no matter how inane. So welcome to my den of inanity. (I won't bite on JJ's killer Larry-King-like, ellipsis-separated style, though. It's paragraph breaks and a loose semblance of sequitur for me.) So, here we go.

Yesterday was the kind of day after which you feel like a character from a book or a movie.

I took a shower for the first time in our new house, somehow managing to shave my legs in the world's tiniest standing shower. I went to my mom's house intending to pick up my bookcase that has been housed in her garage for the last year and a half. Since my mom's been feeling down lately, I stopped in to say hello and chat a bit. She talked me into running errands with her.

These errands somehow culminated in a trip to Mystic Lake, where all the full-time daygamblers gawked at my admittedly unusual & short dress. My mom handed me something like $140 in twenties and we played various machines, losing but losing slowly enough to have fun. Then she sat us down at the $1 slots and immediately hit a $200 win. Soon after that, I got three blue 7s for $300. She told me I could keep it if she hit another big pot in the next few pulls and sure enough, she did.

So, fuck yeah, $300! It couldn't have come at a better time. We're down to our last dollars. And I don't usually operate without a thousand dollar cushion, so I'm super nervous. But I digress.

Mom and I got back to her house, Riley and I loaded the bookcase in my car, and I drove back home. I wrestled the thing into the house (it's 6'5x3.5), stabilized it against the wall using nails and the stud finder (yow baybee), and cleaned off all the dirt. Then I filled the fucker with books.

By now it was time for me to drive up to NE Mpls to drop off this iPod that I wiped and rehabbed for a friend's daughter. I had only been to his house once before, and it was nighttime then, so it was weird approaching in the day. Especially when there's a big BEWARE OF DOG sign on the 6' chain link fence surrounding the house and 2 Rottweilers staring me down from the porch.

I don't fuck around with dogs, dude. That is to say, I don't encroach on a dog's territory. Least of all the territory of two dogs who each possess a jaw that could crush any of my bones with ease.

So I called my friend and asked what the fuck the deal was with the dogs. He laughs (laughs!) and tells me they're behind yet another gated fence and I can easily skirt around to the back stairs and gain access to their half of the house. Fine. Done.

Except there's no one answering the door. My friend insisted his girlfriend was there, yet my knocks remain unanswered. I try the handle (yeah, they live in the kind of house you don't bother to lock up because no one gives a shit about it beyond the residents) and let myself into the kitchen. No one.

Fuck this, I decide. I call my friend one last time and he assures me his old lady is there. He tells me to knock on her bedroom door. Fighting every single Minnesotan bone in my body, I walk through this woman's kitchen, through her tschotschke-filled living room, and knock on her bedroom door, calling out her name. She bursts out the door, freaked out to the nines, possibly because someone was in her house.

iPod delivered, back into the Juggernaut for the long haul back to Eden Prairie to pick up Nick from work. Then back to my mom's house so Nick could help Riley fix his new laptop and so that my mom could talk at me for 2 hours, snarking "shut up and let me talk" at me anytime I tried to add to the conversation.

And then, just to add to the weirdness of the day, I couldn't sleep AT ALL and didn't drift off until close to 2am. Then I woke up at 5:15am.

Now I get to move all day. Dontcha wish your girlfriend packed a crate like me? Dontcha wish your girlfriend moved a couch like me? Dontcha?