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?

Owner of a Lone eHeart

So...my life is currently boring me to tears.  Spending a little quality time with the men in my life over the last couple of weeks has made me realize that I'm just not getting out enough (as opposed to just not getting enough.  Which would also be true.).  I've been feeling frustrated, and lonely, and just generally disgusted with myself.  And, as much as I've enjoyed my evenings across a table from these lovely men, I feel as though I have earned the right to spend one with someone new.  I deserve a date, dammit - it has been too long.  I mean, even a bad date would be a refreshing change of pace, and would give me something to write about to boot.

 

Of course, contrary to popular belief, it's kind of hard to find someone to take me on a date.  Primarily because it's freaking hard as hell to meet new people, and my guy friends are all too possessive to introduce me to any of their old people who would be new to me.  I am not exaggerating - I have had more than one guy straight up tell me that they wouldn't trust their friends with me or they just don't want to share me.  And if your friends won't hook you up, then who will?

 

So I'm thinking about re-activating my eHarmony membership.  You may remember that last year, about this time, I let it expire because in three months, they had only managed to come up with one person I actually wanted to talk to in real life, and I went on two dates with him before I decided that that was enough of that.  As I was taking a step down in salary at the time, I didn't really see any reason to continue paying for the privilege of not meeting anyone I wanted to go out with, as I seem to be capable of doing a pretty good job of that on my own for free.  As I let my subscription lapse, I apparently offended the eHarmony gods when I made a change in my profile to alert anyone that wanted to communicate with me that I would not be able to respond.  I received the following e-mail:

Subject: eHarmony Account Information - URGENT

Dear Beth,

During regular site maintenance, we noticed some content written by you that violates our terms and conditions.

Because this violates the terms and conditions that you accepted when you joined eHarmony, we have turned off your matching. You will not receive any further matches.If you want us to reactivate your matching, please log into your account and change the content cited above. Please e-mail us at --------- explaining why you wrote this content. Mistakes and misunderstandings will happen, so if you feel we are in error or do not understand your meaning, please let us know.

Sincerely,

The eHarmony Team 

So basically they rolled up a newspaper and spanked me with it.  It's just so goddamned condescending - any other dating site would have just deleted the offending content and moved on.  Of course, this doesn't stop them from sending me their fucking "newsletters" that give you such sage advice as "don't get drunk on the first date" and their offers to renew my membership at rock-bottom prices but you better act fast because this offer will expire in two days and you'll never have another opportunity until next month when we send you another one.

You may be asking yourself at this point why I am considering signing up again.  And to that I say...because it's cheap.  Much cheaper than a night of speed-dating, or a wine tasting/spelunking/pole dancing class for singles.  And it takes a minimal amount of effort on my part, and might provide me with another two dates that will remind me why I hate dating sites for another year.  That, and the little voice in the back of my brain that never gets tired of reminding me that two of my cousins met their wives on eHarmony.

 

And...I NEED TO DO...SOMETHING.  IMMEDIATELY.  It's a start.

 

So I at least dealt with the spanking and got them to turn my matching back on.  I haven't given them any money yet, but I did at least pull up my profile to see if there's anything I would change this time around.  That's when I realized that I think I'm too cynical for the eHarmony right now.  Seriously - I find reading my own profile to be fairly nauseating.  It clearly needs a little spicing up, but I'm having trouble figuring out how to do that, since the eNazis are apparently even offended by the word "smartass."  A word that holds a very important place in my vocabulary. 

Think I'm kidding?  My answer to the question, "Other than your appearance, what is the first thing that people notice about you?" had originally read, "My smartass sense of humor."  Unbeknownst to me, some eDitor changed it to read, "My smart sense of humor."  Um, I don't think so.  I may not know what people notice about me first, but it has a hell of a lot more to do with my ass than my smarts.  They won't edit you when you misspell the name of the author of the last book you read and enjoyed (unless there's another version of The Firm that was, in fact, written by Jon Grissom), and they won't correct EGREGIOUS grammatical errors, but the smartass has to go.  If you find the word "ass" offensive, fine, delete the statement.  Or if you must actually alter the text, alter it to something that at least means the same thing as my original intent.  Of course, this did give me the opportunity to type the word "smartass" into an online thesaurus to find an alternative that wouldn't offend the good Christian folk at eHarmony.  (Oh, yeah, I feel the need to include here, for those of you who don't know, that eHarmony is a faith-based organization.  That's why they're so committed to setting up marriages, and why they don't let the gays play.  Had I known this before I signed up, they never would have gotten a penny from me.  But we've already established that I am lazy, and they already have my profile.)  But I've decided that EVERY.  SINGLE.  PERSON. on that damned site answers that question with some variation on "my sense of humor."  So I need a new answer.  Something spicy.  But I'm drawing a blank.  So I come to you guys for suggestions.

I did make one change today.  The "Five things I can't Live Without" are now as follows:

1.  Family

2.  Instant Messenger

3.  Wine

Dairy

5.  The Funk

It's sad, but #5 officially makes this list infinitely more interesting than anyone else's I've read.  So I'm making it my personal mission to change one profile item at a time until my profile makes me happy in an appropriately wiseacre/smartaleck/Gothamite/impudent/whippersnapper/wisenheimer/

cheeky/flippant minx/malapert/brazenface/chutzpadik kind of way.

 

If you have any suggestions for what people notice about me, or something only my best friends know about me, or anything else I would like my matches to know about me, please share in the comments.  Because so far, I've only managed to attract nice, normal people. 

And I find normal people MIND-NUMBINGLY DULL.  Discuss.

Spin Cycle

I promise, this will be the last Sex and the City-related post for a while.  But I gotta get one more in - the marketing blitz has warped my mind to the point of viewing the world through pink, sparkly glasses...

 

One of the things people love/hate about SATC is the formula.  Most TV shows have one - it what keeps them consistent, earns the viewers' loyalty, and (in the case of a good one) allows the writers to take the characters pretty much wherever they want and still have a cohesive show over many seasons.  In the case of SATC, that formula includes four characters based on stock female archetypes, in plotlines that are generally tied together via a vague metaphor for relationships that is articulated via Carrie's voiceover/column for the week.  I find my overall impression of the quality of a particular episode is directly related to how well (or poorly) the four characters' stories are integrated into that central theme.  Sometimes, it's incredibly awkward, and the puns are...well...a stretch.  But, when it comes together in an organic fashion in a way that flows seamlessly, well...it's right up my alley.

 

So, in that spirit, and in the spirit of all of the girly cinematic goodness happening all over the world this weekend, I'm going to try to write this post as if it were a column a la Bradshaw.  I've not been writing a whole lot lately (although there are still some Request Week posts coming), and I've heard of some very famous authors getting over writer's block by adopting someone else's style and knocking out a quick piece.  However, the first rule of writing is to write what you know, and I know bupkis about fancy restaurants and $20 cocktails and Manhattan and...um...girly shit, so I'm going to go with a clumsy metaphor that has been pretty much following me around lately.  One which will probably crash and burn, but here goes.  It will probably help if you imagine Sarah Jessica Parker reading this in voiceover:

 

It seems everywhere I look these days, there's a bike coming at me.  People biking to work...to the grocery store...training for a race...or simply having fun getting around town while mowing down pedestrians for twenty points each.  So, on a Friday night after work, I abandoned the rat race to attend a bike race.  It was THE place to be...if you're into that sort of thing.  Men in spandex, comparing their best times and checking out each other's equipment...they might as well have been sniffing each other's asses like dogs.

The race in question was the Criterium - a "thigh burner served with a side of road rash" in which a mob of cyclists chase each other around a couple of blocks of closed road at high speeds, mostly trying to keep up with the pack and stay on their bike through the next turn.  Meanwhile, the spectators hold their breaths and secretly hope for a spectacular crash at every corner.  As I watched the first few laps, I started thinking about cycles, and the ones we all settle into over time...eat, sleep, work...watching the same shows and movies over and over again on DVD, even though we know them by heart...having the same cocktail at our favorite spot with the same people...obsessing over the same crush that always seems to be there as others wax and wane.  I couldn't help but wonder: in the Criterium of life, are some of us pedaling so furiously that we never realize we're riding in circles?  Or worse - are some of us on a stationary bike?

I spent the following evening with a Very Good-Looking Man (who, it turns out, had been at the Criterium - he showed up for the Elite race, about the time I left).  There's nothing quite like having a VGLM all to yourself for a whole evening.  Even if it's not a date, just being with the object of your unrequited affection and doing something you both enjoy is exciting, and comforting, and special.  Every time you make him laugh - REALLY laugh, not just chuckle at your nervous banter - if you can catch him off-guard and leave him speechless it leaves you  a little high.

Until you're sitting there, waiting for the concert to start, and he takes out his cell phone to send a text message.

"Texting your GIRLfriend?" I say, in my best kindergarten ooo-ooooooOOOO tone of voice.

"Well...I wouldn't exactly call her my girlfriend...yet..."

And just like that, I hit a pothole.

Never one to miss an opportunity to prove I don't care that a guy doesn't like me by asking about the girl he DOES like, I probe for details. 

"Second-year med student...spending the summer in Kenya doing some sort of medical aid..."

Through some thoroughly over-the-top flirtation and harassment, I establish that his general type is tall, blonde, athletic.  Pretty much exactly what I always thought it was, and what I will never be.

"But physically she's not really the sort of girl I usually go for..."

"Spitfire...good banter..."

So this girl is basically me.  Except she's a REAL doctor.  And a humanitarian.  And probably Very Good Looking with her hair in a ponytail and no makeup on.

The rain has started, the pavement becomes slick, and I hit a manhole cover.  I fly off of my bike, and start counting layers of epidermis as I leave them behind on the asphalt.

I think it's once again starting to sink in that he's racing with the Elites, and I'm just...pedestrian.

NO SEX FOR YOU!

THAT title got your attention, didn't it?

 

As of yesterday, I was all aquiver with anticipation for my weekend.  A Friend From Work (not to be confused with a Friend I Work With - this is not one of my labmates) proposed getting a group of girls together to go see the Sex and the City movie on opening night...maybe have dinner before a late show.  Now, it should come as a surprise to no one that I am totally excited about this movie.  After growing up an incredibly shy and prissy child and spending most of my college years in baggy flannel and no makeup in a quest to develop a personality, SATC is probably the one thing that really brings out the Girl in me - it's the reason I let myself buy pretty shoes and dresses, even though I have nowhere to wear them...the reason I let myself obsess over boys more than I should...hell, probably the reason I started writing this blog.  Ever since they started making the movie, it's been one of those "unless the reviews are so bad this movie will rob me of my ability to lovingly rewatch the show on DVD because it's JUST SO AWFUL I must purge my brain of any memories of or sentimental attachment to Sarah Jessica Parker, Manhattan, or Manolo Blahnik" deals for me.  (Actually, I'm not such a fan of Manolos...if I'm ever going to blow a ridiculous wad on shoes, I'm saving myself for Christian Louboutin.  If I ever become independently wealthy, he can have his dirty, dirty way with me.)  And so far, the reviews have pretty much been, "um...well, if you liked the show, I guess you'll probably like it" - EW gave it a B+, which is more than enough of a stamp of approval for my needs - so I'm SO there.  The thing I've been struggling with is who to go with.  It's a rare movie that I get excited about going to on opening night - most of the time I'd rather skip the hoopla and catch a sparsely-attended matinee in a week or two.  But this is one of those things where the hype is a big part of the fun - a nearly universal girl-bonding experience.

 

Except all of my friends are guys.

 

Okay, not ALL.  If I were living in Indianapolis, or Iowa, #1 or Em (respectively) would be my date of choice.  I saw my very first episode of SATC at #1's house, on her HBO On Demand, and Em and I used to watch it "together" when they started airing edited versions on TBS every Tuesday and Wednesday night.  In fact, there was a fleeting moment when I actually wondered if there was any way to swing a road trip to go see it with one of them.  VERY fleeting, because no.  No there isn't.  But I would give my right strappy sandal to watch this silly thing with my best girlfriends, preferably after a couple of cosmos because yes, I am JUST THAT CORNY.  And the girls in my lab are...prepare yourselves...really not into Sex and the City. 

 

I KNOW.

One of them has watched, oh, about half of them, and never really got into it.  And Labmate...well...doesn't seem to get into anything with...you know...an actual plot.  Seriously - I realized the other day that the only TV shows she ever talks about are reality/competition shows.  I'm the first to admit that I watch a lot...A LOT...of crap TV <coughcoughtilatequilacough>, but at least I'm self-aware about it.  I KNOW it's crap TV, and I watch some non-crap TV and read a lot to maintain some semblance of balance.  Labmate's movie recommendations generally fall into the "um, yeah, I'd watch it if someone else were paying and/or Tila Tequila/Paris Hilton/Kim Kardashian is in it and dies" category as far as I'm concerned.  The Venn diagram of our tastes overlaps with only the tiniest sliver of a crescent containing the words "America's Next Top Model."   So...yeah...I was pretty much resigned to going to SATC stag.  Until I got this invitation...a group of actual girls, going to dinner and being girly and seeing a girly movie.  Just what I need to get my estrogen fix for the next decade or so, once you factor in the shrieking throngs of stiletto-ed, appletini-ed women who will be filling the rows on opening night, vehemently proclaiming that they are "SO the Carrie" or "TOTALLY the Charlotte" in their groups of friends.  It will be giggly.  And shrill.  And sometimes, you need something like that to remind you that you are, in fact, a girl.

 

But I knew I was in trouble when the invite mentioned the restaurant of choice.  I've eaten there, and enjoyed it, but since then have come to find out that they have a long and rather spotty health inspection record.  This is a matter of public record (thank you, DineSafe), but I've also heard more specific rumors that are just...well...I think the word we're looking for here is "icky."  So I politely respond with a, "count me in for the movie, but ooh, I can't make it for dinner."  This leads me to a moral dilemma I'm still struggling with - if you know things like this and are pretty sure the others in a group don't, do you say anything?  Personally, I would want to know - there are too many really good, clean restaurants in Toronto to risk eating at one that is merely okay and dirty - but I'm also aware that most food safety regulations err on the side of caution and I regularly break them in my own kitchen with no ill effects.  My parents' old neighbor was a health inspector in DC and, in the midst of shutting down a restaurant due to flagrant violations in the kitchen, was asked by the patrons if they could finish eating their lunches first.  Some people simply don't care about such things, or know they should care but figure what they don't know won't hurt them.  This is why I opted to politely excuse myself and make other plans before the movie, rather than be a big fat party pooper.

 

So now I'm bummed about missing out on part of the experience, because it's not just about the movie, it's about the girls' night out.    But I'm also secretly thinking that the other plans I've made with one of my guy friends for the early evening hours will be a much-needed antidote to the opening night estrogen feeding frenzy later, so it's all good.  I have come to terms with my altered plans.

 

Until this morning, when I get an e-mail from the ringleader, saying that by the time she got to the theater to buy the tickets Wednesday, the 10:30 show was sold out, so she went ahead and got tickets for the 11:20, and she hopes that will work for everyone. 

 

Let's do a little math: 11:20 show + probably won't actually start the movie until, oh, 11:30 + approximately 2 1/2 hr running time = movie ends at about 2am + the last subway train leaves the nearest station at 1:38 = Wahooty takes the Night Bus home. 

Now.  We all know that I've had some good times on the Night Bus.  But you do not PLAN to take the Night Bus - you do not COURT the Night Bus.  If you end up on the Night Bus, it's because you were too busy drinking/talking/shaking your ghetto booty/waxing philosophical about bacon/generally having fun to notice that the trains stopped running long ago and you're now going to drunk-dial Ian so that you'll have someone to talk to while you wait for the Night Bus.  The Night Bus is not something you DO, it is something that HAPPENS to you.

So I respectfully back out of the entire girlicious evening.  And now my Other Plans have become the Only Plans, which consist of watching bikes ride around in circles at high speeds and hoping to see a spectacular crash (kind of the bicycling equivalent of NASCAR) - the single least girly thing I can think of short of ACTUAL NASCAR.  But I'm sure I will get just as much enjoyment out of it as I would out of SATC.  And, if we're being totally honest, the guy I'm going with spends infinitely more time shopping and getting spa treatments than I do, so I STILL won't be the girliest person in the crowd by a long shot.  (He also reads blogs by long-winded Carrie Bradshaw wannabes who like to take cheap shots.)

 

Before I go, let me just take a second here to gush about the other plans that will make this a Sexless weekend, not just a Sexless Friday night:

On Saturday night, I'm going to have dinner and see a baroque quartet with...

 

...drum roll...

 

The VGLM.

 

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

I did the asking, so it's most definitely NOT a date, but I do get him to myself all evening.  On a WEEKEND, no less.  When I can actually put on an Outfit and Shoes and real Makeup and NOT wear my Glasses.  Hey, when you've gone a year without a date and more than two without a boyfriend, you've gotta take what you can get.

 

Okay, enough with the girly.  Must go make with the butch now.  If anyone has animals that need skinning, or large structures that need building, or meat that needs grilling, gimme a buzz.  And you most definitely won't find me at home later, crying in a cosmo as I watch Carrie break Aidan's heart again.*

 

*Only because I don't think I can get all the way through season 4 after I get home tonight.**

**Ahem.  What the footnote meant to say was, <manly, Martina Navratilova grunt>.

Keep your feet on the ground, and keep reaching for the stars...

Let's make this one our Long-Distance Dedication.  Tonight's dedication comes to us from #1 in Indianapolis, IN.  #1 writes*:

 

#1 says:
will you please post a blog about nkotb?  please include comments on their recent today show appearance, the new single "summertime" and their upcoming tour...fyi -- the chicago show is SOLD OUT and i can't get tickets now...
Wahooty says:
lol...that sounds JUST like a letter to casey kasem.  or possibly ryan seacrest.
#1 says:
let's go with ryan seacrest...he's lamer and let's face it, nkotb is LAME

* Names in the preceding IM excerpt have been changed to reflect the involved parties' identities on the Alchemist, and so as not to confuse readers who don't know me as well with trying to figure out which of us is Beth and which one is Bethany.

 

We'll be right back after a word from tonight's sponsor. 

Inspired by an item on Chowhound, the author is drinking a sparkling shiraz.  I think it was this line that got me:
In fine-wine circles, to admit that one likes sparkling Shiraz is tantamount to prattling on about your devotion to A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila at a PBS fund-raiser. 

We all know how I feel about Ms. Tequila.  That is SO something I would do.  (Even though the second season sucks - I watch it in much the same way I watched that damned "Pussycat Dolls Present: Girlicious" show...a girl simply must have something for background noise when she's doing the dishes at 4 on a Saturday afternoon.  But with what I've seen so far of Season 2, it's a wonder my TV doesn't have handmade ceramic plate-sized holes in it by now.)**

**Um, what the author meant to say is, not that she's ever actually seen A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila.  She has no idea who Tila Tequila is, or why Chad is such a douchebag.

It may be terminally uncool (some might even say it's a very special, Seacrest kind of lame), but it combines my love of red wine with my love of bubbles.  And goes well with pizza.

 

So, for those of you who didn't go through puberty in the late 80's/early 90's, NKOTB stands for the New Kids on the Block.  Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I have to say now that, even as an 11-year-old girl...I never really liked them that much.  I mean, there were individual songs that I liked (Hangin' Tough), but I really didn't understand why they were supposed to be so cute, or why it was hot to listen to a pre-pubescent boy singing falsetto (Please Don't Go Girl).  Although I did spend more than one 6th-grade dance feeling appropriately sad when nobody asked me to dance to that song, seriously - never understood why Joey was the one everybody loved.  I kinda got on board with the Donnie thing, but never Joey and Jordan, who were the ones that everybody obsessed over and wallpapered their lockers with.  I remember one of my friends being incredibly devoted to Jon, and I remember thinking she had a point.  He was cute, in a completely underrated kind of way.

 

But, if we're being honest, my fandom was fleeting.  I distinctly remember faking jealousy when my friend Katie told me at the bus stop one morning that her mom had gotten tickets to their concert.  Since I relate all of my life experiences to episodes of Sex and the City, imagine the episode where Miranda fakes a sonogram.  Except Miranda is 11 and has a bad home perm***.

***As opposed to a good home perm.  Man, the 80's were a bad time to go through your awkward stage.

 

Well, 20 years later, Donnie has gotten into acting (although with less success than his younger brother Mark, of the Marky variety.  Sadly, nobody seems to know what became of the Funky Bunch.  They were last seen vibrating in a most sweet sensation), Joey has had a solo (sort of) career and a season of Dancing With the Stars, and Jordan has been on The Surreal Life.  One might ask oneself, "Self, what more could one hope for in life beyond the Saw sequels, the paso doble, and rooming with Charo?"

 

Well, if you're Jon, the answer would be, "Panic attacks and real estate."

 

And if you're Danny?  Well, I'm not sure anyone asked Danny.  I'm actually not sure Danny speaks at all.  In group interviews, he is always relegated to the back of the pack and the others seem to look at him with looks that say, "One peep and there's a rolled-up newspaper with your name on it on the tour bus." 

 

Or tour minivan...tomayto, tomahto.

 

Which is too bad, because I happen to think that he is now the hottest one.  Sure, he still looks like a monkey, but now he looks like a hot monkey.

Yep, that's right kids, the New Kids have reunited.  And #1, as much as she likes to SAY they're lame, couldn't be more excited.  She set her DVR to record their appearance on the Today show to announce their reunion.  They weren't even performing...just announcing.

Yep, she's one of Them.

So, on the day of the actual performance on the Today show, I asked if she had seen/taped it.  I, much to my own chagrin, HAD seen it because it so happened that it was on the morning following the aforementioned neck injury.  Oddly enough, WebMD doesn't warn you that neck injuries may result in being subjected to 80's boy band reunions while waiting for a heating pad to loosen up your muscles enough to restore your mobility.

Yep, I watched it.  I watched the whole damned thing.  But I assure you, it wasn't out of loyalty to the New Kids...it was out of loyalty to Matt Lauer.

#1, on the other hand, missed it, and had forgotten to set her DVR, so she asked me how it was.  I had no choice but to be honest.

 

It was not good.  But, thanks to the magic of the interwebs, and in the spirit of Request Week (tm), I offered to re-evaluate in the form a drunken recap.  So here you go:

 

Medley:

Wow.  Okay, first of all, the sound guy needs to be sacked.  I can only hear one of you at a time during "Step By Step," and even one is too much.  Especially since it seems to be a different one of you every time, and it's never the RIGHT one.  It's certainly not the right pitch.

The dance break is an art form that should not be taken lightly.  A straight-up dance break is only kosher if you actually DO SOME DANCING.  Synchronized wiggling will not suffice.

A very, very sick part of me enjoyed the "bauwm-chicka-waum-WAUM" music shift as you peeled off your jackets.  However, I don't think I enjoyed it in the way you intended.

As much as I never got the appeal of the falsetto, a grown man singing high but deliberately not going there is even more confusing.  And it's a shame, because I think Joey is the only one who actually has a good voice at this point. 

...or did, until your voice cracked.  Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think that's supposed to happen 20 years after puberty.

One of you full-on cracked up in the middle of "The Right Stuff."  Admit it - you think this is as ridiculous as the rest of us do.

Speaking of ridiculous, you're still doing the dance steps THAT WERE LAME 20 YEARS AGO.  Seriously, the Roger Rabbit takes greater finesse.

Number of times Donnie screamed "NEW YORK!" : 3

 

Summertime:

Oh, I KNOW you did not just namecheck the year 1988.

I've given more intricate choreography to 10-year-old boys.  YOU PEOPLE ARE NEARLY 40.  YOU LOOK RIDICULOUS.

I guess maybe you could say it takes talent to talk in rhythm and pretend it's singing...

...In falsetto.  Jordan, you are such a douchebag.  I guess it's nice to know some things never change?

Seriously???  You're still waving one hand and calling it choreography???

 

Tonight:

Wow.  Pick a pitch.  It's not like you're harmonizing.  You're all singing the same part, so please...sing...the same part.

Oo, bouncing.  Killer choreography, boys.

DANNY SPEAKS!!!

Mentions of it being "like riding a bike": 2

"humbling": 1

"the fans": 5

Bouncing AND a pseudo-kickline bit.  Wow.  Now that's what I call originality.  I can imagine the choreography rehearsals now:

"Wait...is it step, THEN heel?  Or heel, then step?  Dude, I am WICKED confused right now.  This is so humbling.  I'm so glad we have the greatest fans in the world while riding a bike in NEW YORK!!!  What do you think, Jon?"

Jon?

<Jon breathes into a paper bag while cowering behind Jordan>

 

That's about all I have to say about that.  And I have a sneaking suspicion I've already said too much.  Part of me wishes I were more excited that they're kicking off their first tour in 15 years in Toronto, but mostly I'm just waiting for the other Horsemen to show up.

 

Personally, I blame Boston.

What about your friends? (Continued)

Facebook update:

Only Em, Dave, and Will will possibly get how exciting that last item is, but I had to brag anyway.  For the rest of you, Mike was a Very Cute Singing Boy in my favorite a cappella group when I was in college.  And, unlike most of the Very Cute Singing Boys, he was actually a Very Nice, Very Cute Singing Boy who would not only remember having met you at a crowded party, but remember what you talked about when he saw you again months later.  Sure, my ex-boyfriend/first love from first year who introduced me to him won't accept my friend request, but the Very Nice, Very Cute Singing Boy I barely knew will.  The little 19-year-old A Cappella Groupie Nerd-Girl inside me is squealing with glee.  Yes...the Penis Chick is most pleased.

 

Oh, and in case you're wondering, I smell like arthritis because I threw my neck out last night and have been wearing a Ben Gay patch in an effort to make it through the day.  It's amazing how little appetite you have when everything smells like wintergreen. 

 

Not everyone can be this glamorous, kids.  My life just gets more like an episode of Sex and the City every day, don't it?