Thanksgiving Leftovers.

WARNING: THIS IS A COOKING-RELATED POST.  FEEL FREE TO SKIP IT IF YOU FIND SUCH THINGS BORING.  I WOULDN'T DO THIS SORT OF THING IF I DIDN'T HAVE FRIENDS THAT ASK ME FOR RECIPES.  OR IF I WROTE THINGS DOWN WHILE I COOK INSTEAD OF POURING ANOTHER GLASS OF WINE.  WHAT'S THAT?  DON'T MIND IF I DO...

 

I love the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.  It sort of represents the best and worst of American culture - Broadway...cheerleading...bands of both the marching and boy varieties...Hannah Montana and tacky, cheesy capitalist excess.  Where else can you see an authentic Ojibwe tribal dance AND Spongebob Squarepants?  I can't remember the last time I actually sat down and really watched it - I think it is best consumed as background noise while furiously whipping things up in a kitchen that is only used to its full capacity approximately 3 days out of the year.  I think I believe this because in my house, I only ever watched it as a kid when I was still small enough to get shooed out of the kitchen, but when I was spending Thanksgivings at my aunt's house in Chicago during grad school and I was big enough to NEVER get shooed out of the kitchen, the parade always had to be on because she HAD to see the Rockettes.  She could care less about the rest of the parade, as long as she got her high kicks, and the cooking would be put on pause while she watched them. 

 

That being said, this year Rick Astley was on a float, surrounded by giant imaginary friend puppets. 

That's right - the Macy's parade got Rickrolled.

 

God bless America, y'all.

 

Why am I bringing this up now, when us Americans done had our Thanksgiving three weeks ago?  It really has nothing to do with anything; however, my flight home for Christmas got snowed out today, and since there is no reasonable way for a girl without a car to get from Scarborough to Pearson Airport at 4:30 on a Sunday morning (two...three hours on the Night Bus?  No thanks.  $50 cab ride?  I'll pass.), I just went ahead and booked a seat on a Monday flight in hopes that by then the airport will have recovered from the OTHER storm that's headed our way on Sunday.  So, I'm at home.  When I'm supposed to be having drinks at the Virginian with Will and seeing Sweeney Todd at Live Arts and having lunch at Cafe Europa and mourning four years of Milky Ways at the now-defunct Espresso Corner and EATING A BAGEL AT BODO'S ON THE CORNER and generally marveling at how much things have changed since I graduated almost 10 years ago.  The one blessing I can count is that they cancelled my flight BEFORE I left the house, saving me hauling my very heavy luggage (lots of liquid presents this year for Dad and Brother) to the bus stop in the worst part of the storm and God-knows-how-long on the GO bus before getting the good news.  And, as Em not-so-subtly points out, one of the best things to do while snowed in is blogging.  And, since it's apparently not allowed to be Christmas yet, it must still be Thanksgiving.  Because in addition to being in holiday travel limbo, and despite all of my last-ditch cleanup efforts, there is STILL duck in my fridge. 

 

The most pressing problem with being snowed in when you're supposed to be headed out of town for a week and a half is not one of inconvenience, or of having your vacation cut short, or of losing time with family and friends that you haven't seen in months (or, in some cases, years). 

It is one of groceries.

See, I don't HAVE any.  I thought I was going to be gone for 11 days, so I used up everything I could in the last week or so.

I can't GET any.  IT'S FUCKING SNOWING.  There's like...I don't know, a crapload out there.  And there's Christmas lights and glogg and egg nog in here.

I personally believe snowstorms are the reason wine racks were invented.

Anyway, a girl's gotta eat, right?  Gots no groceries.  Gots no car.  Gots no way to get takeout because roti ain't worth snowboots, and delivery will take forever and the delivery guy NEVER seems to get that whole "come around to the back door" instruction.  So I have no choice but to rummage.  Which brings me back to Thanksgiving. 

 

And a Tale of Two Recipes.

 

Thanksgiving poses a unique problem to singletons, even those of us who have bona fide boyfriends.  That problem is one of Leftovers.

 

"But Wahooty," I'm sure you are saying to your computer screen, "we all have Leftovers!  Leftovers are a part, nay, a veritable necessity of the Thanksgiving experience!"

 

But a single girl doesn't just find herself with leftover poultry and pumpkin pie.  She finds herself with leftover....ingredients.  Because sometimes you can't find a small can of pumpkin.  Sometimes all you can find are the big cans, that are big enough for TWO pies.  And ONE pie is more than one girl needs, especially when her favorite pumpkin pie recipe is made for a deep dish tart pan and thus makes enough filling for four little mini pies in addition to one regular pie.  Now, The Boy is remarkably helpful when it comes to disposing of excess pie, but what, exactly, is he going to do with the excess pumpkin?

So this half of a can of pumpkin had been sitting in my fridge for a week. 

Taunting me.

Luckily, food and drink is one of my major hobbies and so, if you catch me in a leisurely mood, leftover ingredients are like toys.  And one night, I felt like playing.  So I henceforth present my newly-developed guidelines for pumpkin soup.  It's a work in progress, but so far, it's like crack.

(I should preface this by saying that I have had pumpkin soup in a few restaurants, but it tends to be on the sweet side and generally contains coconut milk.  These are the two things I am looking to avoid, because a) not a fan of sweet soup and 2) tummy doesn't like coconut.  Stupid fructose.  Anyway, this is a savory soup.)

 

Take 2 strips of really good, smoky bacon.  Cut up into little strips, and fry in a pot until the fat renders and it starts to crisp up.  Throw in one onion, diced.  A couple of cloves of minced garlic.  About an inch of ginger root, grated.  A generous layer of garam masala.  Curry powder would probably work too, but in a totally different way.  The bacon and onions and spices are leaving a brown layer on the bottom of the pan...let's deglaze that with a little bourbon.  Once that boils down, add half of one of those big cans of pumpkin (or one 15-oz can, although, in retrospect, a whole big can would've been good too) and three cups of beef broth (wanted to use chicken, but only had beef).  Taste it.  It could use something herbal...green.  Still have piles of fresh thyme left over...throw a few sprigs in.  Maybe a little more garam masala.  Wait, chop up and throw about 3 of those shiitake mushrooms in there too.  Hmm...a liberal grinding of fresh pepper.  Let's just let that simmer for 20-30 minutes.

Still have some cream left after making that pie...and some milk...add a little of each (or, if you're doing it sans leftovers, about 1/2 a cup of half and half...you could probably get away with 1/4 of a cup).

Fuckin' tasty as hell.

Of course, that's probably just because I'm an MSG whore and typically use a jar of "soup base" (aka boullion, just not in cube form) as my source of "broth".  In the interests of full disclosure, instead of adding salt, I added more of the "beef soup base" beyond the amount required to make the broth, which effectively means I added salt, beef fat, and MSG.

 

Fuck off, it still tastes good.  It's like Fall.  In a bowl.  (Seriously...MSG is a cheap trick, but it fuckin' WORKS.  Especially on a Thursday.)

 

Serve this with a fruity white wine, like a riesling or a gewurztraminer.  Preferably one that's a little on the off-dry, slightly sweet side. The garam masala somehow makes the soup taste vaguely coconutty to me, but without being sweet.  So if the wine's a little sweet, that satisfies the conventional pumpkin soup profile that's obviously tasty if every restaurant makes it that way, but the soup itself is still savory, which satisfies...

 

...me.

 

And isn't that really all that matters?  Yeah, I thought so.

 

Leftover duck leg?  I'm lookin' at you next... my shirataki noodles will OWN you, bitch!  I will henceforth refer to this as Snowday Soup:

 

Start with a good, heavy pan (I use cast iron) and heat up a good layer of olive oil.  Toss in some onions.  Not a whole lot - I've only got one leg leftover, after all.  This was about half an onion, sliced about 1/4 of an inch thick (or roughly half a centimeter for you metric kids).  Slowly caramelize on medium-low heat.  While this is happening, boil some water in a pot big enough to hold the soup.  Drain the shirataki noodles (my new obsession that will be getting a LOT of love once I'm eating sensibly again after the holidays), rinse them well, and par-boil them for 2-3 minutes to "reduce the authentic aroma."  (That's verbatim from the package, BTW.  I believe "authentic aroma" is Japanese for "ass-funk.")  Drain the noodles.  Return pan to burner, and bring stock to a boil (I used half beef "soup base" and half chicken broth from a tetrapak because that's what I had).  Go ahead and throw the duck leg in there whenever you want.  Meh, throw the noodles in too (they are weirdly gelatinous and apparently benefit from as much time in things with flavor as possible).  Once those onions are nice and dark brown, toss 'em in.  In your frying pan, start frying bacon.  Like before - 2 strips, cut up into very small bits.  Render 'til crispy and brown.  Put bacon in pot.  Use leftover bacon fat to start sauteeing the 4 shiitake mushrooms that have kept remarkably well since Thanksgiving, chopped fine.  Add some thinly sliced cabbage - I used Napa, because that's what I had.  Baby bok choi would have been better (but whole, not sliced).  Throw in a few cloves of chopped garlic and maybe a drizzle of sesame oil.  Lose track of how many different varieties of fat you have now included in this meal.  Dump the veggies into the pot.  Deglaze that pan with some water or broth to get the browny goodness into the soup pot.  Add some soy sauce if the soup isn't salty enough.  Toss in a few sprigs of that thyme, because, yep, it's STILL THERE (even if it is now somewhere halfway between fresh thyme and dried).  Let this simmer for a half hour to an hour... shred the meat off of the leg and pull out the bones... and finish with a splash of Chinese black vinegar (balsamic and/or malt vinegar would work if you don't have it).

Eat with chopsticks and an Asian soup spoon, like you would pho.  Even though it tastes weirdly European.  It's fusion food.  And WAY more fun if you eat it with chopsticks.

 

And...ah, crap.  Now I have Leftovers. 

Talk Nerdy to Me.

Over the last several months, I've undergone The Change.

 

No, not menopause, you assholes, I'm not THAT old.

 

I have embraced...The Nerdy.

 

Don't get me wrong...I've always been a nerd.  But I have worked at cultivating a careful balance between the Nerdy and the Relatively Cool.  In high school, I was the smartest girl in my class (hate that I have to add that "girl" qualifier, but it is what it is - our valedictorian and salutatorian were both boys, while I was #3, i.e., "none of the above")...I was in the orchestra, and drama...but I was also captain of the dance team.  I wore spandex and shook my pom-poms while doing the splits on the football field with the best of 'em.

 

I am often fond of telling students, "look, I realize that getting a Ph.D. in chemistry puts me a few rungs up the Nerd Ladder.  But there are those who choose to climb higher than they have to...and those who spend their whole careers trying to dangle one toe to as low a rung as they can reach.  I don't want to be either one of Those Guys."

 

But there are certain Nerdy things that I have to own up to. 

Namely, I now listen to NPR.

Now, I'm sure you're thinking, "But Wahooty, you live in Canada.  Surely you can't get NPR up there!"  But on the Eighth Day, God created podcasts.

And it was good.

This is primarily thanks to my Monkey this summer - he gave me an mp3 player as a parting gift that has become an appendage, and is always loaded up with episodes of This American Life, Wait Wait Don't Tell Me, and Fresh Air.  I am a bona fide addict.  To be fair, the habit started before the Monkey, but he was the enabler, because my new mp3 player has more memory and, more importantly, a longer battery life.

If it weren't for NPR, I wouldn't know what naked shortselling is, or credit default swaps.  And I wouldn't know how hard it is to write the ultimate breakup song, or how dangerous a little bit of knowledge is.  And I never would have heard Paula Poundstone say, in regards to our current president, "Now that the dollar is worth so little, we could put him on it."

The nightly news, the Daily Show, and CNN.com don't spend an hour explaining to you how Wall Street got into its current mess.  Meanwhile, whatever you might say about its liberal bias, NPR has spent several, and the blame is non-partisan.  With credible experts.  Frankly, we're all in some way responsible for fucking this country up.

So pardon me while I toss my virtual panties onto the NPR stage. 

 

Ah, hell...here's my bra too. {toss}

 

I love it when people take the time to explain the most fucked-up things in a way that I can understand.  And, while I might not be the most well-informed American...

I AM PRETTY FUCKIN' SMART.

If I ever get asked in a job interview, "What's your greatest strength?"  I'll probably answer, "I wholeheartedly believe in my ability to learn anything.  It may take me time, but there isn't anything for which I cannot cultivate a basic understanding."  I don't care if it's cliche, I don't care if you've heard it a million times, my greatest strength as a person is my capacity for learning.  I am eager, and I am motivated.  All of my greatest passions can be boiled down to that one fundamental truth - acting?  Check.  Food and wine?  Absolutely.  Teaching?  If I didn't believe in my own voracious hunger to absorb information, I would never be able to expect as much of my students.

And, as I have watched this presidential election unfold over the last couple of years, I have slowly arrived at one conclusion:

I am apparently part of this "intellectual elite" that Americans, as a whole, are supposed to fear. 

I've never had a formal IQ test.  I know my SAT scores, and I've taken a few of those online IQ tests that are supposed to give you a pretty good approximation of the results you can expect from a real one.  I know enough to know that I would probably qualify for MENSA, albeit by the skin of my teeth. 

No big deal - I could give a shit about joining MENSA.  I think MENSA is bullshit - I have no desire to socialize with people solely on the basis of their IQ.  Do you have any idea how BORING most people with high IQs are???  I would have found it insulting to my intelligence if I DIDN'T qualify for MENSA, quite frankly.  But, according to their manifesto, qualifying for membership means you must be in the 98th percentile on one of their sanctioned IQ tests. 

That means, if you buy into the whole IQ test thing, that I am quite possibly among the smartest 2% of the general population.

Even if you DON'T buy into the IQ test thing, and if you give the approximation tests a generous margin of error, I probably still fall into the top, oh, let's say 5%.  Maybe 10% when I'm drunk.

And I am still FAR from the smartest person I know.

Okay, fine, I realize that I probably know more people with Ph.D.s/law degrees/medical degrees/whatever than the average person.  So my perspective may be slightly skewed.  However, that doesn't change the fact that I tend to assume that everyone in a given group that I am hanging out with is just as smart as me.  I have friends that are fond of introducing me to people by saying, "This is my friend Beth - she's really smart, she has a Ph.D."  Dude, whatever.  Usually, while going through customs at the airport, I'm asked the usual questions of where do you live, what do you do, what is your bra size, etc.  My standard reply is, "I work at the U of T, I'm a postdoctoral fellow (as my work permit says), I do research."  I once got the response, "Oh, you have a Ph.D.?  So that means I'm in the presence of great knowledge and wisdom."  My response?  "No, it just means you're in the presence of a Ph.D. - there's a BIG difference."  I'm educated enough to be able to occasionally stump my dad for an answer, but not so much that I don't think that my parents/older brother are the smartest damned people I've ever run across in my life.  When I hang out with my friends, I think they're all brilliant.  Which is why I find it hard to believe that the rest of the world isn't as bright as the clever people I surround myself with.

Now, I'm sure you're thinking, "But Wahooty, you watch too much MTV to overestimate the intellect of the American people.  You just watched Paris Hilton's My New BFF this very evening!"  But this is exactly why I watch the MTV - because I am constantly befuddled that such people actually exist in reality.  It's like going to the Zoo of Intellectually Challenged Individuals - I can't bring myself to admit that these people are a closer approximation of the Average American than I am.  I'm much more content to feed the animals their tequila shots in their man-made habitats than to admit that they actually roam among us, buying Budweiser and Jell-O shots when left to their own devices.

As normal as I have always felt, objectively speaking, I have never been Average.  I had straight A's all through grade school and high school.  I went to UVA - it is an extremely competitive school, and I worked my Wahooty off to maintain the most rock-solid B-average you've ever seen.  Seriously...no matter how hard I worked, the best I could achieve was...meh, barely above average.

I got only one B in grad school.  But C's are rare in grad school, so again, I'm not the top of the class...just Above Average.

And when it comes to voting...God help me, I actually WANT to elect someone that is smarter than me.  Because I do NOT feel like I am well-informed.  I feel thoroughly unqualified to run one of the most powerful governments on earth, and would like to entrust that ability to someone with more insight and greater mental capacity than me.  I'm sorry, but I want someone in charge who is articulate, and uses big words...correctly.  Who doesn't sink to the lowest common denominator of human society...doesn't pander to those who don't know any better...AND WHO KNOWS HOW TO PRONOUNCE THE WORD "NUCLEAR" WITHOUT HAVING IT SPELLED PHONETICALLY ON A TELEPROMPTER.  This is why I love our current election slate - we have a choice between TWO people, both of whom I feel are smarter than me, whether I agree with them or not.  I can feel good about that - it is a refreshing change of pace.  But there's good smart and bad smart - Nixon was scary muthafucka smart, and look where that got us.  I don't think we have anything close to another Nixon on our hands, but there are some scary prospects in our future, on both sides of the ticket.  I'm not a fortune teller, I can only go with what my gut and my heart tell me is right.

 

So vote early, and vote often.  Vote Nerd in '08.  And whichever way you go, have a drink with me on Nov. 4th, in celebration of Intellectual Elitism in practice.*

 

*And pray that whoever comes out on top survives his first term.  Seriously.  People frighten me.

I'm f---ing Matt Damon.

My Republican friends might want to skip this one, unless you are seriously dissatisfied with your party's VP candidate.  I love you all dearly, and you know how much I hate to talk politics, and I DEFINITELY don't want a political debate in my comments, but I had to share this because it kind of makes me hot:

I actually have a great deal of respect for John McCain.  I like that, for possibly the first time ever, I actually think both parties have managed to pick candidates that I wouldn't be mortified to have representing me as my leader.  I can handle having a President that I disagree with, I just can't handle having a Commander-in-Chief who doesn't know how to pronounce the word "nuclear."  However, I must thank Matt Damon for putting so successfully into words why I will be very, VERY frightened if McCain is elected. 

That, and on the teleprompter during her speech at the convention, they actually felt the need to spell the word "nuclear" phonetically for her.

I am definitely too old to be watching MTV.

Yeah, I admit it.  But my lust for all things pop-cultural and my desire to not, in fact, fold my laundry or do my dishes means that I must watch the increasingly-irrelevant VMAs.  And, since I did it last year, according to my brother's and my defintion as kids, that makes it tradition.  Therefore, I must share my thoughts.  Read my stream of consciousness at thine own risk.

 

Okay, first of all, how stupid is it that the VMAs are not, in fact, airing on MTV here?  I thought they might be on CTV, since they license a lot of MTV shows, but no, they are on Much Music.  Which is the most asinine thing I have ever heard of.  We have MTV in Canada, but they are not allowed to air the MTV VMAs.

 

I am so thrown by Kim from ANTM being a VMA personality - she did the throwaway fashion special, but so did Fonzworth Bentley.  But now she is on the red carpet.  Fuck the what?  She is looking strangely hunchy and hippy.

 

Why is Sway in a helicopter?  And why is he asking Katy Perry, "Have you received any backlash from the 'moral authorities' across the country?"  Dude, even Evangelicals know that that song is fluff and has nothing whatsoever to do with homosexuality.

 

Why...WHY is John Norris still pretending he is young and cool?  Dude, you have been ON MTV as long as I have been WATCHING it.  Which is longer than either one of us would like to admit.

 

Love how when Sway says to Benji Madden "we haven't partied in a while, Benji" it sounds like "we haven't partied in a while, bitch."

 

God, if you love me, you will make the Jonas Brothers go away.

And Miley Cyrus.  Who has apparently feuded with Katy Perry.  Apparently.  Who knew?

 

Okay, I have no idea who Paramore is, but they just arrived in SmartCars.  Two of them, because they can only fit half the group in each one.  Holy crap dude...do you look like a wenus, riding bitch in a SmartForTwo.

(I kind of want a SmartCar, but not so much that I don't want the man in my life to feel inadequate when climbing out of it.)

 

Who knew Alexander MacQueen made maternity wear?  Ashlee Simpson, that's who.

 

This is what I like about MTV.  They let people use backing tracks, but you can still tell when they're actually singing and when they're not.  Rihanna, I'm looking at you.

 

Russell Brand's monologue is...weird.  I think something was lost in translation.  He seems to think he's talking to a sophisticated, well-informed, and non-American audience.  This is MTV, Russell.

WOW is the Best Female Video category lame.  No wonder they no longer show videos on MTV.

Awww...Britney finally won her first VMA.  For one of her worst videos.  I think MTV is officially an enabler.

 

Much...was it really necessary to replay Britney's speech?  I think not.

 

Demi Moore IS the Bionic Woman.

 

Okay, the male nominees are pretty lame as well.  But Chris Brown IS hot.

 

Somebody please shoot Russell Brand.  Yes, we get it, not a fan of the "virginal" Jonas Brothers.  Please let it go now.

 

Oh, Jonas Brothers.  I can forgive backing tracks on voices when people are dancing, but backing tracks on guitar?  At least TRY to look like you're actually playing that thing in your lap. No wonder you're still a virgin.  Everyone knows that playing guitar is a good way to get laid.  And then there's the one with the tambourine, in that oh-so-Tracy-Partridge kind of way.  Okay, I must confess that I had passed judgment on you without ever having seen you perform or hearing one of your songs.  And now I have to say...my hasty judgments were RIGHT ON THE MONEY.

 

Have I mentioned how much I hate the MuchMusic host?

 

Michael Phelps, I appreciate that we share a fondness for the ghetto fabulous, but please learn to enunciate.  You always sound like there's a wad of spit somewhere around your molars that needs swallowing. 

And then do me in a most Olympic manner. 

Leona Lewis, thank you for actually singing.

Why is Paris Hilton on my TV?

 

WHAT is Lindsay Lohan wearing???

When a group named "Fanny Pack" outclasses you, you know you've got problems.

I can't believe I am actually rooting for the Pussycat Dolls.

AND THEY WON!

To be fair, that asnine song is one of the few songs that actually makes me enjoy running.  For approximately three minutes.

 

Number of winners that have thanked God: 2

Because I'm sure God was on the edge of His seat, fingers crossed, pulling for a bunch of half-naked floozies to win Best Dance Video.

 

I think if I had to vote for Best New Artist, I would actually vote for Miley Cyrus.  Because I actually kind of like that "7 Things I Hate About You" song.  I realize that that completely blows all of my indie cred, but it's not like I ever had any in the first place, so I am at peace with that.

 

Oh, so that's who Paramore are.  They sing that song.

 

Love how MTV Canada is actually airing socially relevant programming during the VMAs.  Why must MTV Canada be so much classier than the original?

 

WHY...are Slash and Shia LeBoeuf presenting together?  One of the greatest metal guitarists of all time and...well...someone whose name means "follow the beef"?

 

I do heart Pink.  Even when she's relegated to performing on a cheesy soundstage, she's still hot.

I am kind of enjoying how MTV seems to be embracing the "we're in Hollywood - everything is artifice" dynamic.

 

An even better odd couple than Slash and the LeBoeuf?  Slipknot and McLovin.  Oh yeah.

I am officially rooting for Lupe Fiasco, merely because I am convinced I love him even though I don't know any of his songs offhand, but would probably recognize them if you played them for me.  He is just one of many artists I feel like I need to explore more, because all logic dictates that they are right up my alley.

 

Um...seriously, Jordin Sparks?  Seriously?!?  Sugar, just because you don't wear a promise ring, doesn't mean you're a slut.  I mean, I don't wear a promise ring, and I AM a slut, but my choice of lifestyle does not necessarily reflect on the moral codes of other non-promise-ring-wearers.  Please...PLEASE do not make me go to the abstinence-only-sex-education-is-CRAP place.  This is supposed to be a fun evening.

 

My spellcheck is apparently Republican, because it is taking issue with that ENTIRE LAST PARAGRAPH.  AND THIS ONE.  Fuck the what?

 

Rihanna, I will give you props, because not just anybody can get a crowd going with a mere silhouette.  Sweetheart, you look good.  And this time, you're doing more of the singing.  Good on you.

 

Who the hell are these kids introducing the Aguilera?

Speaking of which, Christina...how very...Blade Runner of you.

 

Holy crap, Britney just won her SECOND ever VMA.  And wow, she just gave the EXACT SAME SPEECH.  Am thinking she has, in fact, been programmed and/or heavily medicated via Larry Rudolph.

 

Yep, kinda in love with Lupe Fiasco.  Moving on.

 

You know, Kid Rock is a cocky, greasy muthafucka.  But the Kid knows music.  And can play multiple instruments.  Not like certain Jonas Brothers I could mention that can't even figure out the right way to hold the tambourine.

 

Oh my God, I almost had to root for the Pussycat Dolls again.  Thank God for the TingTings.

Fuck the what???  BritBot just won again!  No shout-out for God this time, but it is, again, for the fans.

 

So help me, I do love Kanye West.  Even though I find him obnoxious.  He is that rare breed of rapper that can sing on-key.  And make pop-py rap that is still somewhat intellectual.  Good on ya, 'Ye.

 

And this is what I love about the VMAs.  Short, sweet, and very lacking in actual, tedious awards.  Everyone knows that nobody tunes in to see who wins these silly things anyway, and it's nice to see the producers have seen that gauntlet thrown, and responded with a bold, "I'm rubber, you're glue."  God bless you, MTV!  I shall be your cougar slut as long as you'll have me.  MWAH!

This is so cool.

Okay, only readers from my college years such as Em, Will, and Dave can possibly understand why.

This showed up on Entertainment Weekly's main page Wednesday:

Yeah, that's Sarah Drew.  And while I never watched Everwood (although I've been meaning to on DVD - I always heard it was v. good, Sarah's performance in particular), and I DEFINITELY haven't watched Private Practice (I watched Grey's Anatomy for all of about 3/4 of a season before I decided that even I don't have enough self-loathing to sustain that habit), I actually RENTED the movie Radio because I KINDA SORTA USED TO KNOW SARAH DREW.  You know, not in a Facebook-friend kind of way, but in that I-was-on-staff-you-were-in-the-cast-so-we-didn't-really-talk-much-but-were-always-friendly-and-I've-actually-had-dinner-with-you kind of way.  She is ludicrously talented, and an incredibly sweet person, so I'm so glad to see that there are entertainment media types getting as giddy about her getting work as I am.

 

With as many theater folk as I've goofed around with over the years, I actually know more than my share of people who have managed to find gainful employment in the entertainment industry.  But it never fails to blow my mind that they were able to do it.  I recently got the urge to Google one of my old, old friends (I'm not sure what grade we go back to, but I think it was 2nd or 3rd or so when I used to run away from him on the playground because he was Gross) and found out that the guy I was voted Most Likely to be Rich and Famous with...okay, may not be Rich and Famous exactly, but is a Working Actor/Singer with North American tours and reviews and shit on his resume.  He's certainly a hell of a lot closer to Rich and Famous than I'll ever be (I've always been mystified as to how I got that superlative...what did people think I would do, win the Nobel Prize or something?  That's the best shot an uber-nerd like myself has at being Rich AND Famous, and it's a long shot at that.  Rich?  Sure - start a biotech company, sell it right before it goes belly-up, there ya go.  Famous?  I think the only way I could become famous among the general public would be to do something horribly scandalous, like selling my students' kidneys to pay the overhead on my methamphetamine production facility powered entirely by un-neutered kittens.  Even if I DID win a Nobel Prize, the cash prize is only about 1.5 million dollars - which hardly qualifies one as terribly rich in this day and age - and the fame is...well, how many of you have actually heard of Kary Mullis or Herbert C. Brown?).

 

So pardon me if this makes me a wee bit giddy.  Because, while Fearless Leader just told me I'm getting a raise (YAY!), this is probably about as close as I will realistically ever come to being Rich and Famous myself.  And I am thrilled.

Letters from the front: Day 3.

Sunday starts much the same as Saturday did: I am up early, with very little to keep me amused.  But there's one small difference this time: now I have friends other than Brother and Girlfriend.  Two of my new friends (Ashlyn and Luphin) are also up early, and headed up to the Merchants to get coffee.  They invite me along. 

This is the only War I know of that has coffee shops.

Sitting and chatting with these people over my very Period German Chocolate coffee, it's weird to think that I've known them for less than 48 hours.  In fact, that's a common theme with the people I met at War - it's hard to imagine that there was a time when I didn't know them.  There's no small talk with these people...just conversation.  It's easy, and interesting, and fun...right off the bat.  It's rare to find a group with that kind of chemistry.  I want to do a little bit of shopping now that it's daylight and I can actually figure out where the hell I am, but the Merchants aren't really open yet for the most part.  Ashlyn asks what I am looking for, and my top priorities are a belt and pouch.  These are essential - pockets are not very Period, so a belt is the primary means of transport for money and all of the other things one needs to carry around.

When we come back to camp, Brother and Girlfriend are stirring, and making breakfast.  I sit down to have another cup of coffee and some cereal with them, and Ashlyn appears with a belt and a pouch for me to use until I can buy my own.  This is the same girl who helped Girlfriend make some of my Garb without even knowing me - seriously, these are awesome people.  Girlfriend is going to a Persian Veil class in the early afternoon, and I figure that sounds like fun.  Plus, I'm DYING to get out and do something outside of camp, since I still don't really know my way around.  Have I mentioned this place is HUGE???

The Persian veil class is taught in a smaller tent, tucked in amongst some of the other camps, rather than the main teaching areas.  Walking down there gives me a chance to get more of a lay of the land and see how some of the other camps live.  This is the area that contains some of the more established, better-known camps.  There are actual Structures still under construction - castles, Viking ships, pirate ships, Roman camps...a little bit of everything.  Some of these camps are legendary for various reasons: fabulous parties, the pubs they run in the evenings, or perhaps taking themselves a little too seriously.  Some of the members of my camp settled at Blood Moon after defecting from other camps because they were too busy being Period to remember to have Fun.  This is a common ailment among SCA types - once you take something that is fundamentally silly (grown-ass people playing make-believe) and start introducing things like power struggles and politics and work ethics...well, you're kind of missing the point. 

Class starts off slowly, but by the end I'm glad I went.  I learned that Persian veil is a little different than regular veil because it was originally intended as a private show.  Wives would come out completely naked, only covered by an opaque veil, and perform this dance to seduce their husbands, only revealing small portions of their body at a time before eventually dropping the veil and going for it.  While I appreciate this morsel of historic context, I spend the next hour trying not to think about the fact that I am taking this class with MY BROTHER'S GIRLFRIEND.  I already feel like I know way more than I want to about their sex life, and this is NOT HELPING.  (If you do not understand why this might be traumatic, please see pictures from Day 2.  Even if you're not related to him, nobody really wants to imagine Brother naked.  Take it from my cousin's wife, after a pile-on gone horribly, HORRIBLY awry: "So....much...hair!")  One of the moves we learned involved tucking part of the veil into your waistband.  The natural question here is, how do you do that if you're supposed to be naked?  The answer: you're wearing a belly chain.

Girlfriend and I decide to do some shopping before heading back to camp.  One of the things on her shopping list?

A belly chain.

<BANANAHAMMOCK!!!BANANAHAMMOCK!!!BANANAHAMMOCK!!!>

But at least I'm getting an opportunity to pick up a belt and look at some jewelry and bellydancing garb in the daylight (and take my mind off of my brother's private dancer, a dancer for money, I'll do what you want me to do, DEARGODMAKEITSTOP!).  These are things that you just can't purchase at night.  I haven't found a pouch I like enough to spend actual money on, but at least I've got a loaner, so there's no hurry.

I have left out an important detail here: namely, the flyer we see on our way to class.  One of the camps we pass (sort of a vaguely Robin Hood-ish camp in the woods) is teaching a special dance class that wasn't listed in the formal class listing.  They are teaching it within their camp, and flyers are the only form of advertising.  The sign says:

 

LEARN TO DANCE...THE THRILLER!

 

With a piece of notebook paper right next to it, handwritten, that says:

 

Class 5:00 TONIGHT!!!

 

If you know me even a little bit, you know that I am giggling and clapping uncontrollably at the very notion of a mob of people in miscellaneous Garb, dancing like zombies to the cheesetastic 80's goodness of Michael Jackson.  I mean, seriously, let's just all take a moment to let that mental image sink in.

 

...just let it wash over you...

 

You know what that is?

 

FUCKING FANTASTIC, that's what that is.  It is a creatively anachronistic pop culture wet dream, is what it is.  It is...SO ME I CAN'T STAND IT.  Seriously, it has "Wahooty" written ALL OVER IT.

Honestly, I don't think Girlfriend is all that into it, but she can see how excited I am, and says that she would come back for the class with me.  This is why Girlfriend is amazing.  That, and the fact that she actually likes the thought of my brother naked.

When we make it back to camp, there is a group hanging out under the (Very Period) Tiki Hut again.  We manage to rustle up one or two other dancers with a wee bit of arm-twisting (again, probably would've been a futile effort were it not for my completely unbridled and apparently infectious enthusiasm) and a videographer (because I am NOT ABOUT to spend the next several months telling my friends, "you had to be there!" - this is an event that requires documentation for posterity).  We are all in agreement that this has the potential to be awesome, as long as turnout is good.  Five people in Garb learning the Thriller dance = sad and kinda lame.  Fifty people in Garb learning the Thriller dance = hilarity ensuing/potential YouTube stardom.

We get down to the camp where we saw the flyer.  It is suspiciously quiet.

Hmm...

Apparently, it was an old flyer.  The class was the previous evening.

<pout>

Had this actually happened, it would have gone down as my favorite example of Creative Anachronism for the week.  As it is, it is merely my favorite mental image for the week. 

We drag our disappointed asses back to Blood Moon for dinner and campfire time.  Having managed to rope some of my Clanmates into doing something ludicrous with me (even if we didn't actually get to follow through) has made me truly feel at home in camp.  At home enough that it doesn't feel weird when NostraThomas pulls up a chair to chat with us while we eat.  And explains how he can be a vegetarian, yet not fazed in the least by the pile of rare lamb on the plate on our table, which we are devouring with abandon.  It's so rare to meet a non-preachy, non-judgmental vegetarian.  And, as the group congregates around the campfire after our independent dinners, I'm even feeling comfortable enough to sing aloud in front of these people.  Ashlyn and I are trying to find songs that we both know, and not really succeeding much, but we get an A for effort.  We manage to harmonize a little bit on some showtunes before we let it go.  As the evening wears on, the group dwindles, and eventually I find myself sitting by the fire and chatting with NostraThomas as it dies down.  And I realize that he is asking me questions, not just to make conversation, but because he's actually interested in what I have to say - who I am, where I've come from, what I've been through.  When you've been feeling like the New Kid, it's nice when someone actually wants to know more about you. 

And enjoys your singing.

And will help you hatch your Evil Plan.

But more on that tomorrow.

Serving Suggestion

Those that know me even a little bit know that I am a fairly rabid foodie.  I don't generally write much about it because a) I realize that not everyone reading this is a rabid foodie and 2) even rabid foodies like myself find food-oriented blogs excruciatingly boring.  Oh, sure, I've found some great ideas/recipes on food blogs, but I have yet to add a single one to my Google Reader.  Food-oriented message boards are, of course, a COMPLETELY different animal, but that's a post for another day.  So most of y'all will excuse if I take a brief powder from my Letters From the Front series to brag about my dinner tonight.  Because you know if I'm boring you with food, it was really freakin' good food.

That being said, there isn't a lot that I miss about Indiana but there are a few notable exceptions. 

My best friends...

My theater group...

And Corn.

There is a cheeseball amusement park in northern Indiana called Indiana Beach (On Beautiful Lake Shafer!).  Not everyone I know from the area (including yours truly) has been to Indiana Beach (On Beautiful Lake Shafer!), but everyone I know in Indiana AND Illinois knows their slogan: "There's More Than Corn in Indiana!"

Um...I guess.  There's...The Colts.  And The Pacers.  High school basketball.  The 500.  And a lot of Republicans. 

But there's also...A HELL OF A LOT OF CORN.

The Indiana landscape is often described as boring.  But to those people I say a pointed, "Pshaw!"  Sometimes, when driving down I-65 (or I-70, or I-69), you will see corn on the left, soybeans on the right.  And SOMETIMES, when driving down I-65 (or I-70, or I-69) you will see SOYBEANS on the left, and CORN on the right.

And this is nothing to be ashamed of!  In Illinois, they are PROUD OF THEIR CORN.  (But, to be fair, there IS more than corn in Illinois.  It's called Chicago.)

I can remember, as a kid, being at my grandparents' farm in central Illinois, and my grandmother saying that "Vickie should be stopping by with some sweetcorn."  My mom would always get REALLY excited, and I never got it.  It's CORN, for God's sake.  Corn is fun when you're a kid, but corn is corn.  And Vickie's corn always meant we had to sit on the porch, and shuck, and I was a fussy kid who couldn't STAND any stray strands of silk left behind.

A few years in Indiana as an adult taught me the error of my ways. 

In Indiana, you purposely take the long way home on day trips so that you can drive country backroads and smell the lovely sweet, grassy smell of corn while you watch the fireflies twinkle in the ditches along the sides of the road (which everyone should do at some point.  It's fireflies like you've never seen them before.).  In the peak of growing season, you can walk into the middle of a cornfield and HEAR THE CORN GROWING.  This is NOT a rural myth.  I've actually heard it (my family owns Illinois farmland and grows corn and/or beans - trespassing is illegal, kids!).  Granted, most of that corn is feed corn, not sweetcorn.

Even among human-consumption corn, supermarket corn-on-the-cob and proper sweetcorn are two very different things.  Alton Brown once said that he has heard tales of those who put the water on to boil before heading to the market to buy the corn.  WRONG.  Sorry, Alton, I love you, but that's not how it goes.  People will, however, put the water on to boil before heading to the garden to PICK the corn.  The less time between picking and eating, the sweeter and better the corn will be.  If I'm stopping at a market, the 10 minutes to boil the water ain't gonna matter at that point.  BUT, if you don't have a garden, there's still a big difference between buying the corn at a grocery store and buying it from the farmer.  There's one thing Alton got right in that episode, and that's the fact that good, fresh, sweet corn doesn't even need cooking.  It just needs to be heated up and enjoyed.  In Lafayette, there was one farm that would fill up trucks with freshly-picked corn every morning, then send those trucks to set up shop around the fringes of town.  Little wooden signs marked the territory when the trucks weren't there, just so you would know where to find them later:  strip mall parking lots...grocery store parking lots...or, in my case, the parking lot of the Osco Drug just down the street from my apartment.  Even on a weekday, you had to get there early or they would be sold out.  You'd get a "farmer's dozen" (14 ears) for $3.00.  And it would be gooooooooooooood.

Which brings me to today.  There's a farmer's market downtown on Wednesdays near City Hall.  It's not bad as such things go, and there are free concerts and people who will sell you ready-to-eat lunch food while you're there.  The prices were...well...Downtown Toronto Prices, so I shopped around before deciding what and where to buy.  But for less than $20 I left with strawberries...wild blueberries...raspberries...

and CORN.

This is part of my problem: I went to the cheapest vendor (and, coincidentally, the only one with a dedicated Corn Truck, which is why I picked them.  They also had a sign that read, "we recommend that you do not shuck our corn.  It will keep longer and taste fresher that way!" while other vendors had a bin handy for husks and silks for impromptu shuckers) and got a half dozen ears for...$3.00.  Apparently, it was a farmer's half dozen, because the guy actually put 7 ears in my bag (the benefits of not bagging your own produce - they throw in freebies!).  However, I am not the only person here noting the 100% markup, no?  But, meh, nearly everything costs nearly 100% more in Downtown Toronto than it did in (or just outside of) Lafayette City Limits (seriously, the Corn Truck was always JUST south of the City Limits sign).  I'm just hoping it's Good Corn.  The berries I'm less worried about - berries, in general, are pretty good as long as you buy them from nearby (i.e., not California).  (This is actually a pretty good general rule for produce - I'm not a crazy 100-mile diet kind of person, but really good produce, by definition, DOES NOT travel well.  Buy local, kids!) In particular, wild blueberries in this part of the world are something to get excited about, and something I couldn't get in the lower latitudes I've lived in for most of my life.

On a side note, when choosing my strawberries, I had many vendors to choose from.  I went to one, and was sniffing a box of berries, and the Pushy Saleslady asked, "What box are you taking?"  I said, "I'm not sure yet" and sniffed another box.  "You're not gonna sniff EVERY BOX, are ya?"

Actually, yes.  Yes I am.  Because that's how one chooses good fruit.  And you're only being obnoxious and pushy because you know DAMN WELL that your berries don't smell as good as the ones that the guy across the way has, or anyone else in this market, for that matter.  So your only hope is to rush people into buying your inferior produce.  I AM TOO SMART FOR YOU, PRODUCE BITCH.

So, as I return to work and finish the workday, my grand plans of marinating a pork chop gradually give way to just throwing a burger on the grill, but the grill is a necessity, because there is Corn involved.  But as the fire is starting, I throw a hunk of butter into a bowl, with the juice of half a lime, and a sprinkling of chipotle powder.  Dude, I'm sorry, but there ain't a thing alive or dead that wouldn't taste FANTASTIC drizzled in that shit.

Then there's the matter of the fruit.  I have the aforementioned berries, and some Ontario peaches that have finally reached tastiness and are settled into my fridge (it took several days of ripening, but they did FINALLY attract fruit flies, which means they're ready for refrigeration).  I also bought some mint on my way home, so I make a quick vinaigrette with the vanilla oil that has been in my fridge longer than I care to remember, some balsamic vinegar, a wee bit of salt, a healthy amount of pepper, and some fresh mint.  Add miscellaneous berries and peaches.  Add crumbled goat cheese that has been drying out in fridge since Friday.  Toss.  It ain't pretty, but it smells like Heaven.

Grill is finally hot.  Slap burger on grill, along with two ears of Corn.  Return to kitchen and fix mojito.  Discover that citrus reamer makes a better meddler than end of rolling pin.  Sweeeeeeeeeeet.

Flip burger and corn.  Damn that smells good.

Finishing touches downstairs.

Retrieve burger and corn.  Damn that smells good.

Shuck corn and drizzle with lime/chipotle butter goodness.  Holy SHIT that smells good.

Dish ain't-pretty-but-smells-like-Heaven fruit salad thing onto plate.

Eat.

Holy SHIT THAT'S GOOD CORN. 

Tastes like limey, smokey, spicy candy.  Seriously.  I cannot stress enough how fucking good that corn was.  Or that ain't-pretty-but-smells-like-Heaven fruit salad thing.  Or, hell, that burger.  Not bad at all for a Wednesday night.

And for dessert, I made a STRAWBERRY mojito. 

I have said it before, and I have no reservations in saying it again:

I...am a culinary genius.

Letters from the front: Day 2.

So the problem with living in a Mundane tent is that, in the morning, the sun hits it and they heat up pretty quickly.  This is why, on a normal camping trip, I tend to be rather early-to-bed-early-to-rise.  In the dead of summer, the sun comes up early, and heats up fast, so sleeping in isn't really an option.  This is why most people at War try to camp in tents that look like this:

Notice the hanging bar for clothes in the back, and the curtain that makes a lovely changing area.  Just for good measure, let's look at the living/dining room:

That tent was designed and built entirely by Brother for his second year at War (first time he went for the full two weeks).  There are 10,000 people at Pennsic, and his is the only onion-dome tent.  People build castles, and Roman temples, and pirate ships, but his is the only onion.  This was its fourth War, and it is still used as a landmark - there are people who, when trying to give directions to their camp, say, "we're up the hill from the onion dome."  And for the entire week I was there, Brother was inviting curious onlookers to come in for a closer look when he saw them stop on the street to take a picture.  I guess during its earlier days, one of the security folk riding by on a golf cart came to a screeching halt and threw it into reverse to get a better look.  Of course, he dyed the fabric himself and it is entirely homemade, so it bleeds, and isn't 100% watertight, which is why it is now the living/dining room.  And also why, a couple of days after I arrived, Brother slapped a "For Sale: One Onion Dome" sign on it.  But lest you be concerned that this is the end of an era...he is trying to get rid of it to make room for a bigger, better, two-domed model for next year.

So anyway, onion-shaped or no, these sorts of tents are breezy, and cool, and dark in the mornings.  So when the morning sunshine on my Mundane wakes me and forces me out of bed at 7:30, the only company I have are a handful of the kids in camp.

"Are you Omar's sister?"

It takes me a moment to decipher that one.

"Oh...yes.  Yes I am."

Omar would be Brother's persona.  Most of the people in our camp that have an SCA name treat them as just that - names.  They don't play a part, or cultivate a character, it's just something to add to the fun.  To a newbie like me, it makes it hard as fucking hell to learn names, because you have to learn twice as many.  Balls!  Do you have any idea how long it took me to figure out that Pico and Jeff were the same person????  I never felt the need to have a persona, so I didn't.  There was talk of giving me a name, and I think if I'm ever going to assume one, that's how it will have to happen.  I mean, my persona is and always will be a saucy gypsy, but for now, she remains nameless.  Feel free to submit suggestions in the comments.

But seeing as how I have only ever thought of Brother as brother, even though I know his alter ego is Omar, I am a bit thrown by the fact that the kids seem to know him by that name.  It may have something to do with the fact that our Chieftain has the same Mundane name as Brother - the persona may have stuck just to simplify matters.  We also had another Beth in camp, but she always goes by her SCA name of Bounty; so while there generally wasn't any confusion as to who was being addressed, she did always do a double-take when people would say something to or about me.

So after a brief chat with this lovely young lady, I try to read my book but am getting nowhere because I am still a bit restless, trying to figure out how I fit into this world.  So I retreat into the class listings, trying to sift through the pages and pages of offerings and figure out what might be interesting.  This proves to be an impossible task - the listings are organized by topic, not by time, so it's impossible to keep track of what is happening when and even less possible to figure out which teachers are the good ones, so I throw in the towel.

Luckily, by now, Brother and Girlfriend have gotten up and are starting work on breakfast.  After a decent amount of puttering, I ask Girlfriend, "Would you be interested in going to a Beginner Bellydance class with me at 1?"

"Mmmm....nah."

I should mention here that we are a Slacker Camp.  Most people don't go to half of the classes they are interested in.  9AM classes are almost unheard of.  Girlfriend has already written off anything that happens before 11AM, and even those are iffy.

I'm not feeling bold enough to wander off and find classes on my own yet, so I go with the "when in Rome" approach and Slack myself.  In fact, will make it more than 24 hours from arrival before even venturing away from camp for the first time.

So we decide to put the finishing touches on the vests Girlfriend has made for me.  This involves a quick fitting session before heading up to the oh-so-Period tiki hut that has been erected in Upper Blood Moon for daytime shade and social interaction.  In said Tiki Hut, Blade, Omar-proclaimed "alpha male" of Blood Moon, is holding court.

"What are you guys doing?"

"We are certainly not drinking already."

A bottle is being passed around - it is offered to me, but I decline, mostly because I don't know yet what's in it.  It is 12-year-old Guatemalan rum.  Now I am declining because I feel guilty accepting some seriously good shit from a complete stranger.  I keep fairly quiet because again, I don't know these people, and want to get a feel for the vibe before I start, you know, being all kinds of myself in front of them.  After a bit of banter, Blade apologizes and says, "Sorry, we get a little crude."
To which I say, "Hey, I've been holding back 'That's what she said's ever since I sat down!"

The next time the rum bottle makes a lap, I partake.

This is about the time the group seemed to decide I was okay.  If you're willing to take a swig right off of the bottle everyone else is swigging from, then you're Clan.

Oh, my That's-what-she-saids also got me in good graces with the guy known as Scoundrel.  You'll be hearing more about him later.

After we kill the rum, Brother disappears and reappears with some good tequila.

Blade disappears and reappears with some better tequila.

This is when I get my first inkling of how much fun War can be.

 

After a long afternoon of crafting and drinking under the Tiki Hut, it's eventually time for dinner.  This is the one communal meal that Blood Moon has - it is Scotch Broth, a lamb/potato/barley soup.  Simple, tasty goodness.  There are certain ceremonies that go with Scotch Broth night...as we eat, one of the little ones in camp reads a letter from a member of the Clan that wasn't able to attend this year.  Every year, she takes some of the ashes from the fire on Scotch Broth night, and saves them in a jar.  The following year, those ashes are dumped on the fire, and new ashes are collected in the morning after the fire pit has cooled.  It adds a very sweet, spiritual quality to the meal.

Now, before I go any further, I have to explain how Brother got involved with all of this.  Brother teaches pottery classes.  Once upon a time, Chieftain and his wife had the good sense to sign up for one of said classes.  The rest, as they say, is history.  And now, Chieftain and wife make a whole mess of pottery so that every member of camp can take home one piece on Scotch Broth night.  The selection order is determined by the order of arrival at camp - by some delightful little loophole, I get to go up with Brother and Girlfriend, even though I arrived a full week after them.  I now am the very proud owner of a very cool goblet that is very different from anything I own that was made by either of the two potters in my family.  That is the beauty of pottery.  Plus, now I won't have to drink wine out of a mug for the rest of the week.

After dinner, Brother takes out his guitar disguised as a lute and finds himself in the middle of an impromptu jam session with all of the kids in camp:

And I do mean all:

 

So cute I can't stand it.

At some point, someone (I think it's Scoundrel, but at this point, I don't remember) asks if anyone has taken me shopping yet.  Shopping is one of the prime pastimes at War.  There are TONS of merchants, selling everything from garb to armor to weapons to dishes to musical instruments.  And I still have yet to leave camp, so I go.  Don't actually buy anything, but it's enough to remind me that this place is friggin' HUGE and I do NOT know my way around enough to venture out on my own.

 

That will have to wait a couple more days.

Letters from the front: Day 1.

So I'm still not quite sure what to expect when I get to Pennsic - all I know is that I'm pretty sure it will be fun.  After a long day on the bus and so little sleep that I actually slept on my bus segments (and believe you me, that means I was TIRED), my brother is there waiting for me at the bus station in Pittsburgh when my bus arrives a little bit late.  After a quick check with the ticket desk to make sure it will be okay if I pick up my return bus a couple of stops closer to the place I will actually be spending the week, we pile into his truck and head back up to War.

 

Brother has Period music playing on his stereo as we make our way northward....to keep him in the right frame of mind when venturing into the Mundane world.  I will soon learn that Period vs. Mundane will become very important.

 

Still have no idea whatsoever what's going on.  Am okay with that.

 

We make a grocery run on our way back to camp.  Am informed that Brother and Girlfriend are well-stocked to feed me dinner for the duration of my stay.  Receive briefings on Breakfast and Lunch, and buy groceries accordingly.

 

We arrive at Pennsic, and the first order of business is checking in.  You do this at Troll - yes, that's what it's called, and I believe the general idea is that the Trolls are surly and efficient at getting you through the line (the Trolls are, in fact, volunteers, and do not look like Trolls at all).  Am asked if I have been to War before, and my answer is no.  Am issued a medallion, and receive standard warning about how I must not lose my medallion, and how everyone says they will not lose their medallion, and every year SOMEONE does.  If I DO lose my medallion, my only recourse is to bring my receipt back to Troll and hope someone has found and turned in my lost medallion.  Mental note: do NOT LOSE MEDALLION.  DEFINITELY DO NOT LOSE RECEIPT.  Am now slightly afraid of my own absentminded tendencies.  Am sent on my way with the friendly greeting of, "Have a nice War!"

 

Brother drives me to Camp.  We are members of the Blood Moon Clan.  I quickly change into Garb.  Garb is an important part of Pennsic.  Girlfriend has been harvesting hand-me-downs from her stash of Garb for months now, as well as sewing new Garb for me.  All of this is stored in a box in my tent, next to the cot which is going to be WAY more comfortable to sleep on than the ground.  To be clear, a dome tent complete with rug and cot is rather primitive by Pennsic standards.  Most people live in palatial rooms that happen to be made of canvas, complete with beds, shelving, and walk-in closets.  One family in our camp had a tent large enough that a minivan could be parked inside and still leave room for a smaller dome tent for the kids and a canopy bed for the adults.  I shit you not.  When they told the little one to "go to his room," he ACTUALLY HAD SOMEWHERE TO GO.

 

Going through my box of Garb is fun - have you ever bought a crapload of new clothes, and had a hard time deciding what to wear?  I decide on something simple - whatever I put on will only be worn for a couple of hours before bed anyway, so there's no point in wasting the good stuff.  Brother takes me around camp and makes a few introductions to those who are present.  The sizing-up process is odd.  I soon realize it only feels that way because the residents are aware of the fact that it takes most people a while to adjust to Pennsic, and are letting me have some space while I do so.  I get a lot of "how weird is it?" comments.  It actually doesn't feel weird to me at all.  What I think most of these people don't get is that a) I am apparently a highly adaptable person (I was once told by a doctor that I "wasn't reacting enough" to some not-great test results because I refused to freak out) and 2) I've done a lot of theater.  Seeing people walking around in odd clothing really doesn't faze me in the slightest - it just feels like Tech Week to me.

 

The rest of the evening was fairly uneventful.  I eventually go to bed well-fed, a little tipsy, and still feeling...quiet. 

 

That's how I am when I'm the outsider.

De-Briefing.

Well, I thought I would have a lot of time for writing during my trip.  Actually, I spent an awful lot of my free time chatting/crafting/drinking/fiddling, and very little of it reading and writing.  Even less doing 'rithmetic.  And now that I am trying to re-adapt to the modern world, where there are e-mails to answer and groceries to buy and laundry to do, I am watching the Olympics and wondering why in the hell Bob Costas is interviewing the president.  And trying to reconcile my desire to bellydance to the music on the Target ads with my desire to not look like a complete asshole.  In other words, I am noticing that the Real World doesn't make any more sense than the Fantasy World I have just returned from.  Which is kind of a relief, and kind of makes me wish I could go back to the World in which I never hear the sound of a bicycle bell nudging me off of the sidewalk so that some dude can ride by in illegal comfort while I walk in the mud.  Thing #1 I miss about the Middle Ages: Chivalry.

 

So anyway, none of this means I don't plan to write about the experience, because if I have ever had anything worth writing about, it was Pennsic.  However, I will have to write in a slightly different way than I had originally planned: by memory, rather than by moment.  So, I will write one letter about each day, in retrospect.  I hope to do this quickly, as I've already found my memories fading after just over 24 hours back in my proper context, and I want to get as much into words as possible.  I thought my horoscope for today was strangely appropriate:
When you travel back through your memories today, nostalgia can overtake you, reminding you that something is missing at home. But the real work is to take what you have in life now and project that into the future rather than regressing into your past. Lean on your most reliable friends for the emotional support you need.

It's been a long time since I felt like a vacation changed me.  And while I don't expect those reading this to really understand how that happened, I hope that over the next few posts, you will try.  Rest assured - there is a lot...and I mean a LOT...of silliness to come, and if you know me at all, you know that that is EXACTLY why it had a fairly profound effect on me.  Community theater got me through grad school because of the escapist nature of acting; there is nothing, repeat, NOTHING more escapist than going to Pennsic.

 

So I invite you to tag along with me.  Welcome to War.

Have fun storming the castle!

So...The Alchemist is going to be a pretty quiet place for the next week or so.  Not that you guys will notice the difference, but whatever.  I'm going on vacation, and I'm going to a place where there is no internet.

 

No, seriously, I'll be in the Middle Ages for the next 8 days or so.

 

I am about to embark on the single nerdiest thing I have ever done.  I am attending the Pennsic War.  In brief: a massive (read: 10,000 people...that's a LOT of geeks!) event thrown by the Society for Creative Anachronism (motto: "The Middle Ages as they SHOULD have been!"), at which people walk around in very silly costumes, learn trades such as knife and axe throwing, leatherwork, and archery, play music, and drink a lot.  It's basically summer camp for grownups in funny clothes - my brother and his girlfriend go every year.  Oh, and there's apparently a rather impressive field battle that will be staged at some point.  I'm still a little unsure if I will actually adopt a full-blown persona for the week, but if I do, I'm thinking it'll be some sort of saucy gypsy peasant type...so far, the name I like is Aishe Petulengro - Aishe means "alive" (Damara, which means "bitter" is also tempting, but I love saying Aishe with a mysteriously ambiguous accent) and Petulengro is apparently the Gypsy equivalent of Smith (the closest I could come to my real last name).  I'm hoping to maybe learn a little quarterstaff...brush up on my bellydancing...learn to pick pockets when I inevitably run out of money...and, most importantly, not HAVE to do anything for a whole week.

 

So now you understand why I have recently taken up tunic manufacture.

 

There's going to be a lot of downtime, I'm told, so I'm taking my fiddle and some new music to learn, as well as lots of books and a journal.  So if I play my cards right, I'll be blogging while I'm there, it just won't get posted until I can transcribe it into this new-fangled device.  And yes, there will be pictures.  Possibly even a few of Aishe.

 

I raise my mug of mead to you all, and will see you when I am no longer lost in time.

Tunic Tuesday

The pile of fabric was successfully converted into a tunic-shaped pile of fabric, and eventually an actual tunic.  Just thought you all would want to know the latest.

 

Am I being cryptic enough yet?  Are you people DYING to know why I am suddenly making tunic-type things?  Golly, I hope so.

Happiness is...

Coming home to a freshly vacuumed apartment and cold leftover chili chicken from the Hakka restaurant down the street in the fridge. 

 

I should get a cleaning lady so I can feel like this more often.

 

Unfortunately, that freshly laundered fabric that is patiently waiting to be turned into a tunic is still mocking me.  More on that later.

 

Many...many things I want to write about, but it is late and it's a school night and I already have too little to present in group meeting on Tuesday.  If I'm going to have as many interests as I do, I should really work more on my time management skills.

Like, Totally OMG!

In the interest of full disclosure: I am blogging at work.  I don't normally do this but hey, it's lunchtime, and I'm writing ABOUT work, so it's not totally egregious.

 

I had the weirdest conversation with a sales rep this morning.  He was calling me to follow up on a request I made yesterday...you know, one of those online forms where you tell them what product you're interested in and why, so that they will be prepared with the appropriate information when they call you.  I had missed his original call, then he missed my return call, so I left a message with the secretary (ahem...administrative assistant, sorry).  Now, I feel the need to mention here that I HATE the phone.  Thanks to crummy sinuses, my ears are always a little bit blocked, so I often have to ask people to repeat things.  If you throw in an accent, you can pretty much guarantee that I am only understanding about half of what you say to me on any given day.  This is why I try to accomplish as much as possible via e-mail or face-to-face, both at work and in my personal life (and why the current trend of outsourcing to call centers in India gives me panic attacks).  I find people get less frustrated at being asked to repeat themselves if they can see that you are smiling and/or genuinely trying to understand them.  This secretary (administrative assistant) was audibly Asian, which means I am guaranteed to have a hard time understanding her.  Her English is excellent, and she makes the added effort to speak very slowly and distinctly - the problem is totally in my ears, trying to decipher her accent through the phone.  So she asks if I sent some sort of request, and I said that I had sent an e-mail yesterday, asking for information about <insert name of material here>.  She said okay, she would have <name of dubious sales rep withheld> call me back as soon as he got out of whatever phone call/meeting/morning dump he was in the middle of.

 

So Sales Rep calls back in a few minutes, and I answer the phone with my usual greeting of, "Fearless Leaderlab, this is Beth..." 

"Um...I'm trying to reach Elizabeth M_...is that you?"

Dude.  I just left a message for you by the name of Beth M_... the same last name as this Elizabeth person.  Is it really that big of a leap to figure out that we are, in fact, the same person?  Surely I am not the only person out there who uses my full name on formal requests and goes informal on the phone.  I mean, if I go to a conference, my nametag says Elizabeth, but I introduce myself as Beth.  Mainly because if you call me Elizabeth, I won't know you're talking to me, as I only use my full name when I'm being formal and, well, you should all know by now that in real life there is absolutely NOTHING formal about me.

But whatever, I'm nitpicking.  I suppose it is theoretically possible that there is both an Elizabeth and a Beth at this number, and Sales Reps don't want to waste their time making a sales pitch to, say, a secretary (administrative assistant).  Fair enough.

So I guess there's a little confusion about what exactly I requested, as I told the secretary (administrative assistant) I had sent an e-mail and what came through on their end was some sort of request form or whatever.  So he says, "okay, sometimes we have some problems with...English with her.  But that's okay, her English is a lot better than my Japanese." <insert pompous, mildly racist chuckling here>  Seriously, dude, that was completely unnecessary.  Her English is just fine, it's the stupid white girl on the other end of the line that has the problem.  But I guess everyone IS a little bit racist, after all.

So whatever, we go about our conversation, where I tell him what we want to do, and he tells me which version of his product will do the best job and how much it will cost. 

Then he asks, "So...you have your doctorate then?  What exactly is your position?  You work for the university?"

"Yes, I am a postdoc."

"Oh, okay.  So I should be calling you DR. Beth then..." <insert more pompous chuckling and token compliment about how no, seriously, a Ph.D. is quite an achievement>

Actually, asshole, if we're going that route, no, you should be calling me Dr. M_.  But I just make my standard joke of, "the only people that call me Dr. M_ are my students and that's only because it's the only way they know I'm not one of them."

"You do sound young...how old are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I'm thirty."

"Oh!  You sound younger than that.  I have daughters that are 22 and 18, and you sound just like them.  I bet you look young, too." 

Okay, I'm sure this is just Sales Rep's guy of chatting me up and getting chummy in an effort to make the sale, but it's starting to get fucking creepy.

I've been told I sound like an actor/singer, told I sound well-educated, told I look young.  But this is a first - I've never been told I SOUND young.  In fact, most people, when trying to guess my age, tell me they think young when they see me, but after talking to me would place me closer to my real age.  Of course, most people also have enough tact not to imply that a potential customer is essentially Postdoctoral Barbie ("aww...isn't she cute?  She comes complete with bags under her eyes, bottomless cup of coffee, and clumps of hair still entwined in her little fists from finishing the last chapter of her thesis...if you squint and tilt your head just so, you can actually make out the emotional scars."  She comes in a set with Graduate Student Skipper - who carries a coffee mug filled with wine, is about 20 lbs. heavier, and when you pull the string in her back, mutters, "I'll be done in 6 months" over and over again.).

 

<shrug>

Have you ever just hung up the phone and gone, "um, what the fuck was that?"

Hmm. So there's that.

This post is more about sorting out my thoughts than about being funny/angry/whatever it is that you people come here for.  So I apologize for the interruption, and shall try to resume regularly scheduled snark as soon as possible.

So, I met the guy from Oshawa today for a couple of beers.  I don't really know what to say about it, but I figured I owed it to you people to follow up and keep you posted on any progress (or lack thereof).  I had a good time - very nice guy, genuinely funny, and smart in totally different ways than I am.  I'm always picking up on verbal and non-verbal cues that tell me that the person I'm talking to is thoroughly intimidated by what I do and my education...I didn't get any of that from him, and that is refreshing. 

So I'm trying not to think too much about it, because I don't want to overdo it.  Because it still remains to be seen whether there is any actual chemistry there...anything that will really keep me hooked.  But if I spend too much time analyzing it when he's not around, I'm bound to either talk myself into or out of something.  It's not really fair to place expectations either too high or too low, and I do that a lot.

But I think it's safe to say he kinda likes me.  Or, more accurately, like Sally Field at the Oscars, right now he likes me.  I caught That Look in his eyes a few times...the one I see people get when they're finding me charming, no matter how stoic their voice or body language may be.  Who knows what he'll think a week from now, or what I will.  But whatever happens, at least I got a rather entertaining Sunday afternoon out of it.

But man, it really sucks that he lives all the way out in Oshawa.  When you have to go to that much effort to date someone, you can't really take early dates as lightly as you should.

And this is exactly why I have to keep telling myself to stop thinking so damned much.

Blerg.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished.

Once upon a 1:30am subway transfer...

 

There's an old(ish) guy with a grocery cart.  That should've been enough to push my "Avoid" button, but as I walk by him, he asks, "How do I get upstairs?"

 

A quick look around reveals I am the only person in the immediate vicinity, so I point to the end of the platform where there is an elevator that will take him to street level.

"You just need to go over there, and go upstairs to get out."

 

Crazy Batshit Man points at the elevator in front of him and says, "I go that way."

I, of course, am TOO STUPID TO LIVE, so I correct him.  "No, that one won't go up from here.  You need to go over there, and take the other elevator..." as I point towards the elevator in question. 

At this point, Crazy Muthafucka says, "Don't give me the finger, young lady!"

"I'm not giving you the finger, I'm trying to show you where to go..."

"You're giving me the finger."

I believe at this point, my jaw drops open and my response, reminiscent of the articulate wit for which this blog is so famous, goes something like, "ep...uh...ya..."

"Go on, young lady.  We're done."  as he shoos me toward the train.

"FINE.  We're done.  And THERE'S your finger!" as I walk away and flip him off over my shoulder as I get on the train.

Blerg.

You know what should never, ever happen? 

The Night Bus on a Tuesday.

This is what happens when your friends don't have the decency to have their birthdays fall on a Friday or Saturday like civilized people do.

Also, I apparently really enjoy guys named Ryan who have girlfriends.  Seriously - this is the third one in a year and a half that I have found myself really enjoying chatting with.  Luckily, this time I knew about the girlfriend ahead of time, so there was no disappointing revelatory moment.  There is no Ryan #4 - that's the single one. 

Apropos of Nothing

So...I haven't written in a while, due to a combination of being out of town on weekends/not noticing anything amusing enough to warrant its own post/having to actually write something for work.  But I have had a few thoughts lately that I might as well share:

 

1.  I'm apparently sassy today.  Probably the cumulative effect of the heat, the bus air conditioner dripping on me all the way to the subway, my innards keeping me up late last night, and the mildly psychotic woman in front of me in the only open line at the grocery store this morning.  I apologize to anyone who is not appreciating my sass, but personally, I am finding it fairly amusing, even if my innards aren't.

 

2.  You know what blows my mind?  Sod.  Yesterday, I left for work, and the front yard of the house next door was nothing but raked dirt.  When I came home...BAM!  Instant lawny goodness!  I grew up with parents whose lawn care regimen only extended to mowing and trimming - our grass was always patchy, weedy, prickly, and laden with above-ground tree roots from the maple and sycamore in the back yard.  Made for some seriously uncomfortable picnics (and some choice swear words when one of the ropes supporting Dad's hammock would inevitably snap), but we were okay with that.  Therefore, the idea of ANY lush, green, soft lawn, let alone one that WASN'T THERE 8 HOURS AGO just boggles my little brain.

 

3.  I am SO not cut out for this online dating thing.  I mean, you're supposed to talk to lots of people, and give them all a fair shot, and keep your options open.  I am too much of a one-man girl for that.  I start talking to someone, and I want to see where that goes before talking to someone else.  And if I'm excited about talking to one person, it's very hard for me to give someone else that started talking to me two days later a fair shake.  And it's not their fault - nowhere in my profile does it say that the quality I'm most looking for in a man is proximity.  I'm kind of a crush whore, but at any given time, I focus the majority of my crush attentions to one person.  If I have too many crushes at the same time, I can't focus on one person and end up dating no one.  I've also slowly come to the realization that, as I've gotten older and more picky...SO HAVE THE GUYS.  Who knew???  This has made me constantly paranoid that confessing my phone phobia or not having the proper platform regarding raisins will get me dropped like a hot potato.  THIS IS NOT GOOD FOR MY PSYCHE.  OR MY INNARDS.

 

4.  <RASPBERRY>

 

5.  Oh, there is one person I've actually progressed to phone contact with.  We'll call him G, because that's actually his name.  No, seriously, that's what people call him.  Of course, when he told me this, my immediate response was, "Ever since I was a lower-case g.  But now I'm a Big G, the girls see I got the money.  Hundred dollar bills, ya'll...."  He didn't close me after the old-school hip-hop reference, so he gets mad props.  Only time will tell whether he is lower-case or capital...especially since I probably won't actually see him face-to-face until late next week.  (He actually said, "I'd ask if you wanted to get together, but...I have a beard."  He's growing the beard as part of a running joke for a wedding he's going to this weekend - I have to admire that sort of dedication to comedy that only a handful of people will actually get.  It sounds like something I would do if I were capable of growing facial hair.)  So...we'll see.  I've also gotten as far as open communication with another guy from Oshawa (which is about a half an hour away from my house, and in the wrong direction) that seems odd and fun...but I'm not sure how well I can juggle commuting to both work AND my social life.  Chances are, that one won't go anywhere, but who knows...maybe he'll find me charming enough that even high gas prices won't keep him from me.  I've had stalkers travel farther than that before.

 

6.  By the way, here's one of the reasons I haven't been posting much lately:
 

That's where I was over the Canada Day weekend.  My new digital camera has a stitch assist feature, so I was playing with it to do a panoramic shot on a particularly pretty evening in northern Wisconsin.  The stitch is pretty lousy, but hell, I was on a wobbly dock, with no tripod, and the software was free.  You'll never see me turning into one of those Photoshop geeks - I would just always opt for being out taking pictures over sitting at a computer, manipulating them to make them perfect.  I am totally in love with my new camera, though, and since it doesn't eat batteries in two shots like my old digital P&S did, you can expect to see a lot more illustrated posts.  I think we can all agree that that's martha.  And in case you're wondering, that's my cousin's wife and yes, she's making that face intentionally.

 

7.  If you can't trust Mr. Noodles, who can you trust?  I opened up a package of ramen noodles last night, and NO SEASONING PACKET.  Good thing I had bought a case, and thus had a backup plan.  But now I have a block of raw, unflavored noodles that I can't do a thing with...that's like $0.20 down the drain!  Am now suspecting Mr. Noodles of skimming bouillon off the top....brown-collar crime, perhaps?

Guess I'll Go Eat Worms.

So here we are, not even two weeks into the great eHarmony eXperiment (Volume 2), and it's already going downhill fast.  So far, out of over 40 matches, four have tried to communicate with me.  Bachelor #1 listed his profession as "transportation." Translation: bus driver.  In response to "Describe one thing only your closest friends know about you" he answered, "I once drove 4 hours through a hailstorm just to have dinner with a girl, then drove all the way home the same night."  Translation: STALKER.  WrEEEE!  WrEEEE! WrEEE! (that would be what happens when one tries to type out the theme music from Psycho.  Oddly, spellcheck doesn't seem to recognize onomatopoeic representations of screeching violins.  Or the word "spellcheck" for that matter.).  So that request went unanswered.  Bachelor #2 seemed reasonably attractive and interesting...but I have been "Waiting on his Answers" for, oh, about a week now.  Something tells me that at this point, I'll be waiting forever.

 

Then, there's Bachelor #3.  There's nothing about him that really stands out to me on his profile, but it is kind of refreshing to see someone from the business world whose "last book" ISN'T Who Moved My Cheese?, The Art of the Deal, or some other book written by a businessman about how you, too, can be a better businessperson and bring in more business and get all up in my business...no wait, that last one is really more about bidness than business.  I don't have a problem with people reading those sorts of books because they love what they do and want to be better at it, but most of my matches list their profession as something involving one or more of the following words: "financial" "trader" "commodities" "broker" "investment" or "accounting." THEN they proceed to list "business" as the thing they are most passionate about.  THEN they list this sort of book.  Jesus...one-dimensional much?  I mean, I don't expect a limited profile to express every nuance of your character, but you should at least be...planar.

So at least #3 stood out in that respect.  And I've tried to keep an open mind about communicating with anyone who asks and isn't a total troll, so we go through the bullshit "guided communication " process and make our way to "open communication" in a few days' time.  His first message to me is disarmingly smartassy and makes me laugh aloud - he has now officially piqued my interest, because most people won't do that right off the bat.  I ignore the fact that he inserts lols into his messages (a habit I ABHOR - the only time I think it's acceptable to use an LOL is on instant messenger, when I am trying to let someone know they have actually made me laugh out loud) and am enjoying a friendly banter, being my smartass self because clearly, he gets that.

I spent the last two days waiting for a response to my last message.  When it came today, it read as follows:
Beth,
This was definitely the answerI was expecting. It sounds like you are very angry with a little playful talk through email of all things. I just don't have time for that.
Good luck in your search.

He also closed the match, which means he has permanently cut off communication with me.

Um...Exsqueeze me?  Abakingpowder?  Angry?  I wasn't angry in the slightest.  Sarcastic?  Sure.  Honest?  Absolutely.  But I was in a good mood when I wrote him - I was basking in the glow of steak and fresh local produce and a couple of glasses of wine that turned out to be damned good for being under $10 and soft-baked chocolate chip cookies!  Where did this "angry" impression come from?

Now, in the interest of fairness, I went back and re-read my message in an effort to figure out why he took it that way, because I was genuinely puzzled.  And, to be fair, I can see how, taken entirely out of the context of my personality, it could have sounded VERY angry.  Unfortunately, I was laboring under the misapprehension that this guy got my sass, and had dispensed with my usual habit of punctuating sentences with smileys to convey the smirk behind the snark.  I did this consciously, because I imagine many people find the excessive use of smileys to be every bit as irritating as I find the excessive use of LOLs, so I tried to keep myself to one or two per message.  Big mistake.

So at this point, I understand why he thinks I'm kind of a bitch, and willing to chalk it all up to a misunderstanding. 

Until I re-read that "this was definitely the answer I was expecting" part.

Okay, I wasn't angry before, but I SURE AS FUCK AM NOW, ASSHOLE.

I communicated with you, even though deep down I thought you were a tool for any and all of the following:

a) Including a picture of yourself dangling from a rock.  Yeah, I get it, you're eXtreme.

2) Mentioning that you love to cook.  EVERY guy does this.  It's the ultimate online-dating cliche: guys who "love to cook" and girls who "love football" because they think it's the thing the opposite sex wants to hear.  (Those who mention playing guitar are even more lame, but I find this gets less common the further removed from your college years you are.  Most men my age no longer bother unless they actually get PAID to play guitar.)

iii) Being an English major who can't spell.  Or use spellcheck, apparently.

4) Whatevs.

e) Copping out on two of the profile questions.  Even I had the decency to come up with SOME bullshit for all of them.  For example:

"What is the ONE thing that people DON'T notice about you right away that you WISH they WOULD?"

You'd never know it, but I'm smokin' hot under the glasses and the labcoat - like a girl in a Freddie Prinze, Jr. movie.  But shorter.

"Is there any additional information you would like your matches to know about you?"

I am happiest when I am at my most ridiculous, and I sometimes get bored late at night and edit my eHarmony profile because I get tired of my main page nagging me that my "About Me" is incomplete because I haven't provided any additional information in this space.  I also sometimes enjoy run-on sentences.

vi) Sending me a stupid icebreaker before your first set of questions.  The icebreakers are for people who don't want to buy a membership that will allow them to actually send real communication, you hoser.  Grow some balls.

7) The aforementioned LOLs.  Seriously.  So fucking annoying.

 

So...not even two weeks in, and I've already had my feelings hurt by a complete stranger.

 

There is no Bachelor #4.  But there is another guy, who wants to communicate with me.  When I looked at his photos, my unfiltered response was, "he's cute.  But dear GOD does he have a bad haircut." 

One of the more recent eHarmony newsletters gave some tips on dating people you meet online.  Things like meeting for the first time in a public place... telling a friend where you'll be...avoid bus drivers and hailstorms... etc.  And their #1 rule is: Trust your Gut. 

So here we go...my Heart says, "These losers can go to hell.  But...I desperately need to go on a date.  There might still be a good one in there somewhere.  You should remain optimistic."

My Head says, "Hey, we made a deal that you would at least try to get to open communication with anyone that asked, because you never know what will happen face-to-face."

And my Smart Ass is saying, "His grandma cuts his hair with a Flowbie and/or SuckCut.  He loves cats.  He is 'neither religious nor spiritual.'  He has included a photo of himself SKYDIVING.  Number of times he mentions LOVING TO COOK: 3.  Number of times he mentions PLAYING GUITAR: 2.  Even though he listed his profession, you still have NO IDEA WHAT HE DOES FOR A LIVING.  Oh, and I swear there's a look in his eyes that says, 'I already have your panties, so how's about a drink sometime?'"

 

Clearly, my body parts are at war with one another.  So, I ask you, loyal readers...which one of these best approximates my Gut, and is therefore trustworthy?