Contact.

I know you’re out there.

 

Requests have been made.  My webcounter is suddenly showing hits again, from all sorts of interesting places.  Among other things, there appears to have been a sudden resurgence in interest from Down Under…you people have GOT to get lives.  But your cries are not falling on deaf ears.

 

I’m just busy as all hell.

 

Soon, things will change.  Soon, I will be SO.  FUCKING.  BORED. that I will have no choice but to write.  Soon…I will have my furniture.

 

But in the meantime, bear with me.  I am too busy writing lecture notes and quizzes and unpacking boxes to write blog posts.  But my views on Slurpees and Lohan and teenage fashion can only be contained for so long, and I am bursting…positively BURSTING.

 

Cheers,

Dr. Wahooty

Request Week: Over the River and Through the Woods…

Growing up, my mom was always very frugal.  It was a revelation somewhere around 9th grade when she told me it was okay to do my back-to-school shopping at…gasp…the MALL instead of K-Mart, and that I was getting to an age where I wouldn’t be growing out of things as quickly so it was okay to invest a little more in my clothing and buy a little more of it.  But, to keep things in perspective, my local mall still laid claim to the title of World’s Largest Outlet Mall at the time, and this was a time when Outlet Malls contained knock-off versions of the real stores that sold mostly factory seconds, and didn’t even bother knocking off GOOD stores.  There was no Gap…no A&F…no Bath & Body Works at my mall.  I still remember that one of my favorite shirts that I wore through most of high school came from Ross Dress 4 Less. 

 

But even on our Fruit of the Loom budget, my underwear drawer had long ago graduated from briefs to…well…high-leg briefs.  Just fashionable enough to avoid emasculation in the locker room.  It wasn’t until my first year of college that two of my best friends introduced me to the joys of Victoria’s Secret.  One worked for Express, which got her an employee discount at VS and Bath & Body Works.  The other firmly believed that every woman must own a pair of black silk panties.  So guess what I got for Christmas that year?

 

*blush*

 

And so began my new addiction: Good Underwear.  They created a monster, really.  Like so many women before me, I fell victim to the so-called “sales” that inevitably lead to an underwear drawer so overstuffed that, in the event of zombie apocalypse, I will surely survive because I can go approximately eight years before emerging to do laundry.  Even plain cotton underwear, when well-made, is SO MUCH BETTER THAN K-MART UNDERWEAR.

 

But somehow…during the lightheaded, frothing-at-the-mouth frenzy of a Semi-Annual Sale, I wound up with…

A pair of bright orange.

Cotton.

GRANNY PANTIES.

 

In retrospect, I think I know how this happened.  In a previous visit to Vickie’s, when I needed a black bra to go with my black silk panties, some sort of evil 2-for-one or buy-one-get-one-half-off deal had convinced me that I did, in fact, need a bright orange satin bra.

 

Nothing goes with a bright orange satin bra.  Certainly not any of the underwear I had at the time.  So come sale time, when hideous orange things turn up in large, poorly sorted bins…you grab whatever goes with that damn bra.  And when you are young and inexperienced…sometimes you forget to check the style as well as the size.

 

This is how the giant panties end up in the back of your underwear drawer. 

 

Oh, they got worn.  Every now and then, when it was getting a little too close to laundry day or I REALLY wanted to wear underwear that was completely unflattering to everything about my skin, hair, and eye color.  Once I came home to my parents’ house for fall break, and in a panicked laundry emergency threw them into the washer with a forest green sweater.

 

I now had a pair of…shall we say…burnt sienna granny panties.

 

I wish I could say that this is where I threw them out.  But back in the drawer they went.  Even though they no longer matched ANYTHING.  Because, let’s face it, every woman has at least one pair of grannies haunting their underwear drawer.  For a while, I think I had four – Ms. Burnt Sienna, and three pairs given to me by, of all people, a college boyfriend’s MOTHER (strangest. present. EVER.).  There are just times when you want them – when you’re PMSing and feeling too bloated for your thongs and string bikinis, or in the event of those apocalyptic laundry days.  And I think we all know that those bitches REFUSE TO WEAR OUT.  Underwear, or undead?  Too close to call.

 

But…wear out they did.  Slowly, but surely.  Or at least they got thrown out, one at a time, to make room for a couple of younger, cuter pairs of underwear.  There may have been a cricket bat involved…I’ll never tell.  Such is the circle of life.  But Burnt Sienna hung on.  Due to her quality and superior breathability, she was the last survivor of the Granny Panty Apocalypse in my underwear drawer.  Until a few months ago, when she too succumbed to the great Trash Can in the Sky.  The same scaling-down process that led me to give away half of my furniture in anticipation of a major move meant Burnt Sienna finally bit the dust. 

 

Or did she?  A cold, lifeless waistband may have just scurried out of my suitcase, muttering something about “BRAAAAAAAAIIIIIIINNNS…”

Finally got a piece of the pie.

With apologies to Em and granny panties and slurpees everywhere (topics that will be addressed soon)…I have an announcement.

 

Ahem.

 

The aforementioned verboten topic of “Jobs” is once again open for discussion.

Since we last left Wahooty, she has, quite frankly, been through a lot.  Made friends, lost friends, remade lost friends, made money, lost money, made dinner.  But to make a long story short, she has applied for, interviewed for, and received an offer for…<drumroll>… an Actual Paying Job. 

 

I know.  About fuckin’ time.

 

This APJ was posted around the time I last posted…here’s how things went from there:

 

Aug. 1 – job posting closes

Aug. 4 - phone interview

Aug. 10 - on-site interview

Aug. 14 – hired. 

 

Oh, and on August 11, I became Aunt Wahooty.  Please, adore the sacred child:

He is precious.  And already smarter and better than your niece, nephew, hedgehog, whatever the case may be.  (On an unrelated note, I am still trying to figure out if my brother and sister-in-law actually deliberately placed the crib in the front window because it has FABULOUS lighting for flash-free pictures.)  He will henceforth be addressed as Roo ‘round these parts.

 

So anyway, the timeline continues:

Aug. 16 – begin househunting and dialogue with potential landlady

Aug. 16 (continued) – begin to think potential landlady is potentially certifiable landlady

Aug. 17 – resume househunting

Aug. 18 – fly to hometown to (theoretically) pick up Mom and Dad’s old car but (in reality) visit Roo.  Take many, many pictures, most of which are flash-free.  At least they are when I remember to turn the flash off when the little bugger starts to look alive.  Want to hug him and squeeze him and call him George, but…

Aug. 18 (continued) – have to drive out to Mom and Dad’s to get theoretical reason for visiting.

Aug. 19 – drive back to Toronto.  Leave @ 5:30am.  Sweaty arrival @ 5pm…swanky dinner with friends @ 6:30.  Brutal.

Aug. 20-22.  No idea.  Seriously…total blur of car-based errands and teary goodbyes.

Aug. 23 – drive to undisclosed location of new job.  Will only reveal that I am in small town in Michigan where beef jerky can be purchased in parking lots in front of mattress stores.  And Leinenkugel’s Red is readily available.

Aug. 24 – report to work.  Open bank account.  View potential (non-certifiable) apartment.  Purchase first BlackBerry (Torch.  You want one, you just don’t know it yet.) as it will be major guilty indulgence of new job.  Commence getting my head around the fact that I have to stand in front of actual students on Monday.  Go to BW-3 because it is across the street and it is Wing Night.

Aug. 25 – attend first faculty meeting.  Deal with minor BlackBerry-related crisis.  Confirm that will not be homeless as of about one week from now.  Congratulate self at happy hour at hotel Bennigan’s.

 

WhatEVER, bitches.  It’s $2 domestic drafts.

 

So…yeah.  I now live in a place that doesn’t have a mall, but does have a farmer’s market where the farmers actually wear overalls in a non-ironic fashion.  “Ethnic food” is not even a vague category of cuisine, let alone a culturally insensitive generalization.  There aren’t liquor or wine stores, so much as Walgreen’s and places with signs proclaiming them to be “Party Stores.”  But the people are insanely nice, Evan Williams is $11.99/bottle, and I am gainfully employed.  I have good benefits, and my apartment will be about twice the size of the basement cave I had in Toronto for the same rent.  AND I have a dishwasher.  AND a balcony for my grill.  AND I can even have a puppy if I want.

And I won’t have to leave the apartment to get to my bathroom.

 

I started this blog when I moved to Toronto…to document an entirely new phase in my life.  I’m starting yet another, so it would seem it’s time to truly reboot The Alchemist.  I’ll start with granny panties and Slurpees as promised, but I’m thinking I’ll have a lot of free time on my hands now, so I’ll try to channel all of my small-town angst constructively here.  I’m going to be crazy busy for the next few weeks while I get settled…but football season is imminent and it’s going to be a loooooooooong winter.

 

Bear with me folks.  But in the meantime, I am still taking requests if anyone other than Em is still reading.

The Holy Roman Empire is neither Holy, nor Roman. Nor an Empire. Discuss.

So I’ve been a little verklempt lately.  I suppose it's time for me to explain myself.

If you've been reading for any period of time, you've probably noticed that my posts can generally be grouped into the following categories: Shit That Amuses Me, Shit That Pisses Me Off, and Shit That Makes Me Very, Very Sad.  Sometimes, I can even manage to be Very, Very Sad about something that Pissed Me Off and tell you about it in an Amusing manner.  I’m a good little multi-tasker.

I put things out there - it's who I am.  Talking about my shit helps me deal with it, and for some reason, talking about it publicly is much more cathartic than writing it in some squirreled-away journal that only I can see.  But I try to only put my shit out there to the people who will care to read about it - if you're here, it's because I told you how to get here, or you were curious enough to try to find me, or you Googled something one day and found either something that amused you or a trainwreck you couldn't look away from.  I have a Facebook friend (who is really just an acquaintance) who puts all of her shit right there in her feed - between her status updates and notes, I know how nasty her divorce has been, what medication she is on, and just how often she drinks for the wrong reasons.  These are things I don’t know her well enough to know, and never asked to know – it just comes to me.  This is what is known as Oversharing.  I don't smear my neuroses all over the Facebook feeds of 250 people on a daily basis.  My psyche is more like a speakeasy - you have to either be invited, or at least try to figure out the password, secret knock, and supercool handshake.

So why haven’t I been writing?  Well, it started for good reasons.  Last fall, I was just too damned busy to write.  Running a course I had never taught before for over 100 students meant that between lecture prep, lab supervision, and answering the constant e-mails from students and TAs I was working 50-60 hour work weeks, sometimes more.  And loving it.  Add about 2.5 hrs of commuting time every day, and the occasional bit of socializing, and there’s just not much time left to write pithy observations about the meaning of life or the vast metaphysical paradox known as Tila Tequila.  It also doesn’t leave much time for searching for a new job come the end of the semester.  Not that there are many academic jobs that start in the middle of the year anyway.  But I digress.

And since then…well…most of my life just hasn’t been For Public Consumption.  I used to have a fairly no-holds-barred, warts-and-all approach to talking about my life, but when everyone’s conversational opener at every social occasion is, “so how’s the job search going?” I really don’t feel the need to explain yet ANOTHER time that it fucking sucks.  And I think you all might understand why I’m now keeping my personal life…well…personal.  As entertaining as the soap opera of all of my crushes and near-misses has probably been, it’s not really something I want to put out there at this particular time in my life.

The problem with all of this is, in addition to the complete silent treatment you’ve all been receiving, I have now completely lost track of who might still be reading, and what you might want to read about.  And I miss writing.  And quite frankly, I’m starting to go nuts and feel as though I might require something more stimulating than the Tyra show to keep my days occupied.  So I’m going to try something I attempted once before and never fully succeeded at.  We’re going to try All-Request-Week again.  Except this time, I will write on any and every topic* you people suggest.  I can’t guarantee they’ll all be long.  I can’t guarantee they’ll all be good.  But at least they will all BE.  And I think that will be good for me.

Talk amongst yourselves.  Give me a topic.

 

*Excluding aforementioned verboten topics.  Any subject matter that falls under categories including but not limited to: Jobs, Boys, Boys with Jobs, or Giving Jobs (of any sort) to Boys will be immediately disqualified.

We Are Not Alone.

You know, I find that the way I write changes based on who I think/know is reading.  And lately, I've been so caught up in my own head that I'm back in a place where I find myself writing as though I don't really think anyone is reading at all - kind of like how I write my Chowhound posts (it still always strikes me as weird finding out anybody is actually READING those damned things).  You know what happens when you do that?

 

Really boring blog posts.

 

I mean, let's face it.  I am, when it comes down to it, an entertainer at heart.  I thrive on feedback.  So I figured maybe I needed a little reminder that there are, in fact, people out there.  Well...that is, if any of you still are.  In order to find out, I thought it was high time to see what sort of Googling people were doing to land themselves on this here blog.  Now, my Google hits have been pretty quiet due to a lull in publication, but there have been some interesting trends of late.  Let's begin, shall we?

 

1) By far the number one Google that gets people here is some iteration of the phrase "like agnes, agatha, jermaine and jack."  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PEOPLE.  You should KNOW where that comes from.  The man...the poet...the damn bard himself...Biz Markie.  In the immortal classic, "Just a Friend."

It's not so much a rap song as spoken-word poetry.  If you landed here trying to find out what happened to Biz, my deepest apologies for landing on a post full of my 30th-birthday navel-gazing.  The last I saw of him he was still spinning and did a season of Celebrity Fit Club.  Oh, how the mighty have fallen.  I still love ya, Biz.

 

2) Lately (and by lately, I mean in the last two days or so - WTF?) there have been a flurry of hits based on the following phrases:

"blerg spelling"       "blerg ikea"          "blerg umlaut"

Okay, was there a 30 Rock rerun on in the States that I missed?  I can't imagine why so many people have such a sudden, desperate need to know how "blerg" is spelled.

For the record: it has an "e" not a "u" and an umlaut over the vowel.  And I silently judge you if you spell it wrong.

Oh, who the hell am I kidding - ain't nuttin' silent about it.

 

3) Mike L. - someone I sort of knew in college.  Am now feeling mildly guilty about including his last name in a post, something I make a policy of never doing.  But he was kind of a celebrity...if you went to UVa from 1994-1998.  I feel better if I imagine him Googling himself.  More pathetic for him, less for me.

 

4) There is no #4.  Sadly, this phrase has never turned up in my keyword analysis, although it certainly should have.

 

5) Once again, many searches for Wahooty.  {waves} Hiya!  Guess you found what you were looking for!

 

6) Many more for "pennsic onion dome beth."  Um, see above.  {eyebrow raise}

 

7) "cheating on boyfriend with labmate." Wow, that is weirdly specific.  Thankfully, I have never done that.  But I'm DYING to know who did...apparently somewhere in Tennessee.

 

8) "the alchemist porn"  I have no idea what that would be.  Some sort of allegorical porn where some really well-hung dude starts a journey to find the perfect silicone lay, learns to use a set of ben-wa balls to make decisions and turn dildos to gold, only to find that Jenna Jameson was [SPOILER ALERT] lying spread-eagled under a tree in his hometown the entire time?

On second thought, I should TOTALLY make that movie.

These last couple, BTW, land you square on my homepage.  Um, not sure what that says about me exactly.

 

9) And, in the "um, what?" category, we have a tie:

       "bengay scentless"     and     "breaking up is hard to do clapping"

Yes, actually, it is.  It is always difficult to break up with someone, but even more so if they are applauding while you're doing it.

 

10) Finally, the one that showed up TWICE today and inspired, nay REQUIRED me to write this post:

"is it safe to eat cheese that smells like feet"

 

This has been Wahooty, at your service.  Thank you, and good night.

Like a handprint on my heart…

Today I read a post of Dave’s that resonated so strongly with some of the things that have been running through my head for the last few months that I feel compelled to contribute.  I’ve been thinking an awful lot about the nature of friendship lately, since I find myself surrounded on a daily basis with people who don’t seem to place the same importance on it that I do.  To the point that I was starting to think it was just something about Torontonians and ready to chalk it up to, “ah, this is why the rest of the country thinks these people are assholes.  Because they are.”

 

But I can’t blame Toronto.  I have actually met one or two people here that I adore.  There’s even one native I’m quite fond of, even if I do always have to be the one to e-mail first.  Ahem.

 

So then I think, “maybe it’s me.  Maybe people just don’t like me.  Maybe there are just other things they’d rather do with their time than spend it getting close to me.”

 

But then I go back to Pennsic.  And within the first 15 minutes I spend in camp, every single person I met last year comes over to give me a hug and welcome me back.  At least half of them with the following mid-hug dialogue:

Me: Hi!  How are you!

Them: Better now that you’re here!

These people I spent a week with a year ago and haven’t seen since value my friendship more than those I see and talk to every single day.  They genuinely love me, and look forward to seeing me, and I them.  And recent positive real-life experiences with a group of online foodie types has me convinced that I do not, in fact, have some sort of social venereal disease.  I AM NOT DISPOSABLE TO EVERYONE.

 

The older we get, the harder it is to make friends.  We get stuck in our ways, and start to think, “I have enough.”  But some of us don’t have the option to just shut down the factory – we don’t spend our entire lives in the same area, hanging out with the same core group of people.  We grew up…moving away from our families…changing our environment with each new stage of life.  We take the most important people with us in our hearts, but you can’t take an e-mail with you to lunch.  And I am not sure I can take going to any more lunches with people who don’t give a shit whether I’m there or not.

 

Someone who is not really a friend but definitely not a stranger once said to me something like, “I have never known someone that I felt changed me.”  I’m not sure I see the point in spending time with anyone who hasn’t.  People should not be static.  If you’re not Jesus (and last I checked, none of us are – I don’t see any Horsemen…do you?), then you’d have to be unbelievably arrogant to think that there’s nothing about you that could stand improvement, or that you are the only one who can see your flaws.

 

Yes, I have met people lately that have left me more bitter and cynical than I ever have been before.  But in the long run, that doesn’t matter.  The bitterness will fade from the back of my tongue, and I’ll be left with only the good that I took from those people – the things they taught me, the fond memories we made.  I’ll know I’m in serious trouble the day I can no longer achieve that.  Among the readers of this blog, there are some of you to whom I am just an internet ghost that doesn’t exist outside the glow of a computer screen.  Some of you would probably be my friends if we met in real life, others wouldn’t.  But the rest of you have known me since…what?  College?  High school?  Even earlier than that, in some cases.  And you people are here for no other reason than because I asked you to be.  You have each had a hand in making me the ridiculous person I am today, and are the ones I carry in my pocket so I never have to eat lunch or go to a movie alone.  You have forever changed me in very specific ways, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better?  But because I knew you I have been changed for good.

-Stephen Schwartz

Whiiiiiiiiiiiine…and Cheese.

Man, it’s been one of those days.

 

I woke up 15 minutes before my alarm.  But with that incredibly groggy - “man, I hope when I look at the clock I’ll see that I can sleep for another two hours” but then when you do you realize you CAN’T -feeling. 

 

So I reset my alarm for half an hour later.

 

And then couldn’t go back to sleep.

 

You know, one of THOSE days.

 

Had a minor existential crisis over my morning eggs and coffee.  Practical upshot: I’m not happy.  Will be better when/if I ever get a Real Job and when/if Boyfriend does same.  When I left for work, there was a torrential downpour happening outside.  My umbrella inverted in the wind about a house and a half down the street.  Yep, I’m That Girl.  Am now soaked from approximately mid-thigh down because even an uninverted umbrella can’t stop horizontal rain.

 

The bus took forever to get to my stop.  I had probably missed one en route to the stop, but couldn’t see it because my umberella(ella ella) must be kept full-on orthogonal to the ground to keep it from inverting.  Yep, one of THOSE days.

 

The train was delayed inexplicably.  Not at stations, but in the tunnel in between, which is somehow much more demoralizing.  Yep.

 

Got to work.  Realized that, for the five hundredth time in three weeks that the receipt I needed to turn in my travel reimbursement was at home when the form was at work.  Or vice versa.  This is the Law of Conservation of Paperwork.  Paperwork can neither be created nor destroyed – either the form or the supporting documentation will always be in whatever location you are not.  Yep.

 

{sigh} In order to do new experiments, I need materials.  That must be produced.  In another building.  As in, not mine.  As in, will require going Outside. 

Fuck that, yo.

Youbetcha.

 

Manage to find semi-productive things to occupy me for the rest of the day.  Feeling slightly uplifted.  Decide to reward self by procuring Single Girl Supper (tm) on way home.  (SGS(tm) consists of bread, cheese, various dips/spreads/delicious meat products, olives and/or other cold, delicious vegetable-type things.  And a bottle of wine that I may or may not finish before bedtime.  No cooking.  Maximum deliciousness.) 

I used to say that I never met a cheese I didn’t like. 
I made an acquaintance tonight that has forever rendered that statement untrue.

Jawohl.

 

You know I’m having a bad day when I DON’T EVEN LIKE CHEESE.

 

Okay, not fair.  I did very much enjoy the parmigiano reggiano and the old cheddar.  But the funk from the Cheese That Shall Remain Nameless almost ruined THOSE.  In fact, it still lingers in my kitchen/dining room, as well as (as I’m sure I’ll discover after I’ve had a couple of days to forget about it) my sinuses.  I mean, have you ever picked up a few groceries on the way home on a rainy day, and thought, “hmm…something smells…icky.  Probably my shoes, since they are made of leather and haven’t properly dried out all day.”  And gotten home and unwrapped your groceries and realized it’s coming from them?  I mean, genuinely wondered if your freshly purchased foodstuffs were medically safe to eat?  I did some quick Googling, and found that my cheese is SUPPOSED to smell “prominently of barnyard” but is, in fact, “quite delightful” so I ignore the probable biohazards and give it the old college try.  I mean, I’ve heard countless stories of cheese that smells like ass yet tastes incredible.  Maybe this is one of these?

 

Nyet.  No, it is not.  IT TASTES JUST LIKE IT SMELLS. In fact, the cheese has no discernable flavor aside from the funk.  No delightful creamy goodness.  No umami.  NADA. 

 

Seriously.  I am not kidding when I say this was Unpleasant. 

 

And I TRIED to get past it – really I did!  Maybe it’s an acquired taste!  Stinky cheeses usually are!  Maybe I can tolerate it without the rind, then work up to loving the whole putrid mess!

 

Non.  Not at all.  I do not like it, Sam I Am.

 

{sigh} So first I have failed as a functioning human being, and now I have failed as a Foodie.

 

A few glasses of wine have served to dull the pain, but like the scar on the back of my left hand, it lingers.  And, as tends to happen after a few glasses of wine, I need to go to the bathroom.  But as I go about my business, I realize that someone is in the bathroom upstairs, taking a shower. 

Surely I have mentioned the lack of adequate water pressure in my house, no?

So the question, dear friends, is: After the thoroughly irritatingly pathetic day I have had…To flush?  Or not to flush?

What would you do?

Before you answer, allow me to note that someone upstairs had left the back door open.  The one that pools cold air into my little basement hallway.  And it is 37 outside.

 

Oh yeah.  I flushed that motherfucker.

And with that, I can sleep soundly tonight.  G’nite.

Look, I get it.  Valentine's Day is coming up, and that's like Christmas for dating services.  That being said, I harbor an unspeakable level of hatred towards these people:

Seriously.  MAKE IT STOP.  Nobody cares about your fuckin' drywall dancing, and most of us "geeky chemist" types find it more offensive than endearing that you were so surprised that your beloved Joshua might actually have some sort of artistic sensibility beyond an appreciation for a really beautiful mechanism.

 

And what the fuck kind of name is Tanyalee anyway???

 

This commercial actually makes me want to break up with my boyfriend, WHO I MET ON YOUR SITE, just to prove you assholes wrong.

Shadowboxing

(This post was written on Monday, Feb. 2, just not finished until today.)

 

On my way into the subway on my way home from work today, I overheard the following conversation:

Girl: So, wait...what do you think about Jesus?

Boy: I believe he was a prophet.

Girl: Yeah, so that's where you and I differ.  I don't believe in aliens, and I don't believe in Jesus.  I mean, I believe he existed, but I don't believe...like...he walked on water.  Because if he walked on water, why aren't WE walking on water?

Boy: Um...because we're not Jesus.

 

Me (interior dialogue): What kind of circular logic is that?  "I don't believe that this guy could do something ordinary humans can't, because ordinary humans can't do what this guy did."  I mean, do you know the sound of millions of militant atheists' hands slapping their foreheads at the same time?  I have heard it, my friends, and it involved a LOT of "like, okay"s.

 

Then Girl went back to the topic of aliens, and how incredulous she was at the idea that anyone could Want to Believe...

Boy: Are you well-informed on the topic?

 

Shorly thereafter, Girl got stuck in the turnstile.

 

QED and shit.

 

So this is my way of saying that today has just been one big existential/philosophical crisis here at The Alchemist.  Yesterday, I went about my normal Sunday chores.  This week, they involved stripping my bed in order to wash my sheets (Sunday morning is my allotted laundry time at Chez Wahooty) and making various accoutrements pour le Boule du Super.  (And no, I don't parlez le francais, but I DO know that "boule" means bread, not bowl.  But I will have you know that I was making some super beer bread, among other things, so SUCK ON IT, you hosers.  See what I did there? I am a cheeky bilingual monkey.)  But since nothing ever seems to go as planned in le Monde du Wahooty, the washer and dryer were otherwise occupied/disabled.  And, while I have no problem sleeping on dirty sheets, there is just something so fundamentally WRONG about stripping the bed...and PUTTING THE DIRTY SHEETS BACK ON.  I think there's a very profound metaphor for my life somewhere in there, but it hasn't poked its little nose out to see its shadow yet (see what I did there?).  At any rate, I didn't have to deal with it immediately, as my plans for the rest of the day were comprised of heading over to The Boy's friend's house to watch the Super Bowl with The Only Canadian I Know Who Likes Football (tm).  And The Boy, but he was coming back from playing Army all weekend, so he just snored on the couch the whole time.  And TOCIKWLF(tm) just happens to have clean sheets.  And lots and lots of loaded questions about The Boy and our Future together.  This is one of my fundamental problems with dating The Boy.  He is, for the most part, great, and wonderful, and treating me like, okay, the queen and shit.  But, in his words, "I think my friends like [okay] you more than they like [okay] me."  Which means his friends are quite possibly more invested in our future together than either him or I are.  We are taking things slowly and sensibly like grownups, while they have us playground married already.  "Playground married" is a term that I made up while talking to MadMup tonight to describe that state where everyone keeps telling you that you're in love and going to get married and have babies while you sit there blinking and wondering what the hell is going on.  So I get to work today, having started my day with a screaming tension headache (instead of a good, honest screaming hangover like most sensible football fans), and take a moment to look at job listings again.  And every time I click on a listing, my thought process isn't just, "would I want to move there?  Do I want to do that job?" but rather, "would I want to move there?  Do I want to do that job?  Would he want to move there?  Would he find a job that he wants to do there?  What if he proposes before I move?  What if I take him with me and then he proposes and I end up saying no?"

 

And this is approximately the point where I start breathing heavily into a paper bag.

 

I am having a hard enough time making a major life decision for myself, without it being weighed down with the added dimension of "Do I want to take Him with me?"

I am being literal here.  I can feel the pressure on my chest when the question drifts into my mind.  And no, that's not just The Boy feeling me up.  This walking on water shit is hard enough without someone else riding piggyback.

That's two, TWO! major life decisions for the price of one!  How much would YOU pay for this potentially marital dilemma???

 

Far too steep for a Monday morning, my friend.  So I sign up to interview at a conference I'm going to in March (pro-active, yet not committing to applying to any one particular job, so it's safe) and, just for shits and giggles, peruse the US government job listings.  And realize that the one thing that all of the jobs I am not over-qualified to do have in common is... I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO DO THEM.  So I post a panicky (yet humorous) Facebook status and try to redirect my focus to my current job. 

 

 

Which worked pretty well for the rest of the day.

 

But have you ever had one of those days where all kinds of emotions just seem determined to hurtle at you from every direction, your mood swings so quick that you can't even identify them before they've swung in another direction? 

When I had lunch at 3, I ate leftover chili and browsed the paper. 

My horoscope made me cry.

"A complicated and tortuous ordeal has caused you to dwell on your shortcomings.  Even when you think you're at your worst, you are truly exceptional."

Thanks, Cosmos.  I needed that.

For some reason, the Cosmos seems to know when you're having one of these days, and all sorts of random people that you haven't talked to in ages come out of the woodwork...wanting to chat...further muddying your thought processes with long-forgotten memories and relationships.

 

I get through the afternoon, and a ride home with TOCIKWILF(tm) that only confirms that my concerns/reservations regarding The Boy are not, in fact, all in my head, or even unique to me.  I settle in for a quiet evening at home.  But while I'm fixing my dinner, an old friend from high school IMs me, asking about my blog and bringing up old memories of favorite teachers and gets me thinking about exactly how much I've changed over the last 15 years. 

He summed it up quite succinctly: "I know how you're different from high school. You're fun now."

My words exactly.

Then Em IMs me about Heroes. [Like] Okay, VERY welcome inane conversation.

Then I fiddle with my Facebook status again, and give myself a severe case of the giggles:

 

Then, MadMup IMs me for the first time in, like [okay] a year or so.  And we talk about all kinds of things pertaining to friendship, and relationships, and pretty much rehash everything that has been going through my mind for the last 24 hours in about 15 minutes.  Another conversational equivalent of a kitten batting around a milk ring - no big life issues are resolved (or are likely ever going to be), but at least I'm feeling actively engaged by the process.

 

And then I watched The City.

(And The Aftershow.)

Shut up.

 

And now I'm sitting here, trying to process everything, positive AND negative, that has so unexpectedly bubbled up to the surface over the last few hours.

 

And my dirty sheets are still in a heap with my naked pillows. 

Time to make my filthy bed... and lie in it.

Can I have a word?

Sometimes, I wonder what people are thinking.  Case in point, the following excerpt from an IM conversation I had with a (Canadian) friend who is turning the Big Girl age of 23 on Tuesday, the same day that Barack Obama is being inaugurated as the 44th President of the United States:

 

<Innocent Canadian whose name is witheld> says:
gawd I'm sad I am not going to be there
<Innocent Canadian whose name is witheld> says:
/ not even going to be able to see it

 

Um, I'm sorry.  Why, exactly, SHOULD you be there to see it?  You're FREAKING CANADIAN.  I, on the other hand, am an Actual American.  Who grew up near DC.  Who has been seeing all of her friends back home post Facebook messages about the festivities, and pictures of the concert on the Mall, and is feeling deathly homesick because her parents no longer live near DC so she honestly can't remember the last time she got to play in DC.

 

And who, you know, actually VOTED for the dude.

 

And who can only think of one thing to say to keep the conversation going/give the girl a wee bit of perspective:

Beth says:
DC is my hometown.
<Innocent Canadian whose name is witheld> says:
I'm so sad

 

<Amy Poehler/Seth Myers voice>

REALLY.

<Innocent Canadian whose name is witheld> says:
it's such a big deal for me

 

REALLY?!?  It's such a big deal...for YOU.  A Canadian.  REALLY.

<Innocent Canadian whose name is witheld> says:
I was like, if John McCain wins, I'm moving to Australia.
<Innocent Canadian whose name is witheld> says:
I started thinking about what would happen if he wins, and I like, started crying

 

There are no words.

 

On second thought, there are.

Just stop for one second, and remember who you're talking to.  You know, that AMERICAN.  That MOVED TO CANADA. 

 

Did I do it because Bush won?  No.  NOBODY DOES THAT.  If you say you are going to, you are LYING THROUGH YOUR TEETH.  Moving to a different country, even Canada, is not trivial - it requires immigration papers, and having no credit rating even though you're 30 years old, and filing two tax returns, and going through customs EVERY TIME YOU GO OUT OF TOWN.  Things that you will do for a great job, or someone who's really, REALLY hot.  NOT because you're a whiny pussy who didn't get their way. 

But, having said that, if anyone is entitled to move because of who is President of the United States, it would be UNITED STATES CITIZENS.

 

Yeah, I get it - our government's choices affect you.  But get a little perspective.  Are your children going to be attending the schools funded by this man's decisions?  Are your friends fighting the war in Iraq that he has the authority to continue or end?  Are your parents going to be affected by his health care policies?  Are your family members having their retirement income decimated by the failing stock market? 

 

Not half as much as mine are. 

 

I have spent more than two years listening to oh-so-polite-Canadians-who-don't-like-to-impose-their-political-views-on-others tell me who they think my President should be.

 

I AM DONE.

 

Check yourselves.  Be happy for us, but let us have our party. 

 

It's not our fault you're stuck with Stephen Harper.

Don't Fear the Ripper.

So, this post has been inspired by a number of things.

 

First, I have had a hard time thinking of a worthwhile New Year's resolution this year.  Last year, I resolved to get out of debt.  And I did.  I'm having a hard time following that.  But I never write anymore, so I decided to go with some simple resolutions: write more often, and take my violin out and tinker with it occasionally.  These are both intentionally vague.

 

Second, I've been talking to Will O'Neill more than usual lately via Facebook, and he's been asking why I don't post anymore, and pointing out things that might be worth writing about in my responses.  For the most part I disagree, but to each their own.  Other people have also been bugging me about writing, so there is no other conclusion to come to other than "my public needs me."

 

Third, a dear friend is leaving Toronto for reals tomorrow, to pursue bigger and better things.  I am so excited for him, and so sad for me.  He has threatened to start reading this thing more often, which is behavior that really ought to be rewarded.  Plus, the more time I spend writing, the less time I spend missing him.

 

Fourth, I made truffle mac and cheese tonight and opened a rather nice bottle of pinot as a farewell to my nutritionally unredeemable ways for a while.

 

Fifth, Fearless Leader has informed me that he has stopped checking in here.  I believe I have that ridiculously boring and self-indulgent post a couple of months back to thank for the fact that he now feels a little weird about reading things so personal.

 

Finally, I've been spending my free time crocheting lately.  One of my Pennsic friends taught me, and then I re-taught myself so that I can make baby gifts for my cousin's first-born, who is due in about a month.  In order to practice, I have been trying to find projects cool enough to keep my interest.  Which brings me to this little guy:

(Am now considering a second career as a hand model.)

 

So, in his honor, I feel it is appropriate to finally tell a story that, at the time, was not at all amusing.  With a little luck, it will make all of the aforementioned people sorely regret all of the above.  With the exception of Fearless Leader - he is, I'm sure, glad he's missing this one.  I present to you now...a true Horror Story.

 

You may recall that I now have a Boyfriend.  Sometime, back around late August or early September, we started having sleepovers, and snoring, and breakfast-making, and all of the accompanying couple-ness that results from that kind of behavior.  So, once I realized that I would have to try to deal with the snoring and might, in fact, be having sleepovers on a semi-regular basis, I figured a bikini wax was in order. 

 

Now, I have a serious problem with paying someone else for wax.  Especially when it involves being near my lady-parts.  I can take care of that perfectly well myself, thankyouverymuch.  What I lack in training, I make up for in cosmopolitans.  Not that I would advise waxing while intoxicated, but being under the influence of one, maybe two drinks significantly expediates the process.

 

So I pop a couple of Advil, have a tasty beverage while I wait for those to kick in, and start heating my wax.  This is a product that I am familiar with - used to use it all the time.  The package directions are pretty loaded with overprotective warnings about how to heat the wax...all geared towards heating slowly in small increments in the microwave.  But I've used the stuff before - I know the first time you heat a new jar, it's much easier if you just overheat it so the wax is very fluid, then stir it up and let it cool and set up to the right temperature to work with. 

 

Have I mentioned that I've done this MANY times before?

 

So I'm following the package directions, and the wax, while warming up at the bottom of the jar, is still hard as a rock at the top.  So I put it in for a longer interval, in order to liquify at least part of the top so I can actually stir it up.

 

It's still solid.  Even though I can feel it is getting quite hot at the bottom.  Hot enough that I don't want to heat it anymore until the mixture's a little more homogeneous.  So I take the popsicle stick they include to stir the stuff and start poking at the solid top layer.

 

Wow, it's REALLY solid.  Like, impermeable.

 

Until I manage to permeate it.  My poking finds the one weak spot, and pokes through the unmelted layer with more force than necessary, because I've been poking at rock-solid wax.

 

The popsicle stick goes through.  The superheated wax beneath now has an escape tunnel to the surface.

 

Everything goes into slow motion.  In a split second, I imagine rather than actually see a stream of white-hot wax arcing through the air, but I don't have time to actually locate it in space or project where it will land.

 

Until it does land.

 

On the back of my left hand.  My reflexes are simply not fast enough to recoil enough to avoid it.

 

As highly evolved as we like to think we are, it's funny how much of life comes down to split-second decisions and pure survival/self preservation instinct.  You splatter hot oil or boiling water on yourself, the instinctual thought process goes, "Hot stuff is on my skin.  Heat causes damage.  The longer hot stuff is on my skin, the more damage it will cause.  GET HOT STUFF OFF OF SKIN IMMEDIATELY."

 

Unfortunately, this is not, in fact, hot oil or water.  It is wax.  So, while I am screaming at volume levels I previously thought unattainable, "GODDAMIT!  MOTHERFUCKER!" I am attempting to brush the hot wax off of the back of my hand.

And taking an entire layer of blistered skin off with it.

Well, not really "off."  I am now looking at parts of my body that are really not meant for public disclosure.  Imagine half of the skin that is supposed to be covering the back of your hand has now been plowed to one side, with a green wax covering the mounds of relocated flesh.

 

My next instinct is...cold.  I need cold.   Cold will take away the heat, and keep this from becoming the World's Most Idiotic Third-Degree Burn. 

 

But my freezer never contains any actual ice.  One of my personal idiosyncracies has to do with never refilling my ice trays.  The best thing I can come up with is my wine chiller thing.  Perfect!  It's a sleeve...it is ice cold...I can just slip my hand into it!

 

...which might have worked nicely, had I not already exposed raw flesh.  You know what happens when wet skin touches something ice cold, right?

 

The bits of skin still clinging to my hand are now frozen to my wine chiller.  (The newly exposed underlayers aren't so bad, because they are oozing enough to keep me relatively detached, as it were.  Silver linings, right?)

 

At this point, I am now becoming slightly aware of my surroundings.  Things are no longer happening in slow motion.  I hear the door to the office open outside my apartment door - Landlady has heard me swearing to high heaven and is understandably concerned.

 

Did I mention that this is a bikini wax?  I am therefore buck naked, crouching in my kitchen, showing even more flesh than should technically be possible.  Or at least, I would be showing it if it weren't ATTACHED TO A WINE CHILLER.  I try to figure out what my answer will be if I hear the dreaded words, "are you OK?"

 

I am, in fact, FAR from okay.  However, the LAST person I want to know this is Landlady.  If I need to go to a burn unit, I will at least put on pants.  I think this is a reasonable expectation.

 

I am literally holding my breath and willing her to go back in her office.  Like a character in a sitcom that has been caught in their ex-boyfriend's bedroom trying to retrieve a sex tape.  I am, in fact, Waiting to Exhale.

Silence.

The door closes again.

 

I decide to deal with the consequences of trying to extricate myself from the wine chiller.  Just a Band-Aid...quick and painless.  I pull it off, and do not yet have the mental fortitude to look inside to see if I have left any of Myself behind.  (It later turns out that I have.  Remember that the next time you come over and I ask if you'd like a glass of white wine.)

 

I now am starting to recover some of my (clearly superior) intellect and start to wonder if I actually need to see a doctor.  It's starting to swell, as burns do, and the adrenaline is starting to subside, so pain is imminent.  So a quick peruse of WebMD...hmm...okay, so based on the fact that I am starting to feel extreme pain, I'm assuming the nerve endings are intact.  Blistering?  Um, YEAH.  So second-degree.  Does not require a doctor unless it's more than the size of the palm of your hand - SCORE!  Elevation...loose bandages...antibiotics.  You can probably buy a burn care kit at your local drugstore, but mine has been closed since 9.

 

Hmm...bandages...I actually have sterile gauze pads.  And antibiotic ointment.  But no way to keep it attached to my hand.  But, as mentioned above, I am Crafty.  I have an entire basket full of miscellaneous crafting supplies.

 

I now butt-ass naked, save for a gauze pad duct-taped to my hand.  I am one classy bitch.  This is also about the time that I realize there is wax in my hair. 

 

At least now the damned thing is covered, so I can put my jammies on.  Can't go to bed yet - adrenaline has definitely waned, and this shit hurts now.  But remember - I took some Advil pre-disaster, so I need to wait a little while before I can take the shitload more I want to and go to bed.  So I IM the Boyfriend - let him know there's a chance I won't be able to come out for the weekend like I had planned, because I have had an accident and am in serious pain.  He is remarkably understanding for someone with no hair removal experience.  I do not, however, tell him HOW I hurt myself - just that it is a serious burn and causing me no little discomfort.  Mom is online, and chooses this moment to IM me.  To ask why I am up so late on a Thursday night, no less.  I tell her the selective truth - that I have burned myself really badly, and am not able to go to bed yet.  When she asks how I burned myself, my answer (which will become my stock answer until I heal) is, "in the kitchen.  Bad splatter."  Judge if you want kids, but when something so stupid hurts that badly, the gory details are NOT TO BE SHARED WITH THE REST OF THE CLASS.  She's a good mom, and inquires with good Motherly concern as to how I did this to myself, but I take the opportunity to say that typing is actually quite painful (which is not, in any way, stretching the truth) so I'm going to go elevate my hand now. 

 

So I eventually take more Advil, and it kicks in, and I go to bed with my arm propped up on a couple of pillows to try to keep the swelling down so I can sleep.  (There is still a spot of wax on my Matt Damon pillowcase that I haven't bothered to try to melt out yet.)  In the morning, I re-wrap my wound with a bandanna and head to the drugstore to buy more appropriate dressings.  The only thing more fun than re-wrapping a raw wound is when that wound is, in fact, covered in wax.  The gauze pads are pretty good about not sticking to wounds, but they make no such guarantees about wax.  My hand is a mess of raw red skin, white dead skin, and green wax.  It's the fucking Italian flag, if you made one out of a decaying corpse.  A couple of weeks later, enough skin has grown back for me to start taking the bandages off.  Boyfriend sees it for the first time, and says, "Wow.  That looks REALLY painful!"

 

Oh, honey.  You have no idea. 

 

These days, you can barely see the damaged pride.  But, if you look closely (or not that closely if the weather's right), you can see the patch of new skin just behind my knuckles, and the other splatter pattern that follows my thumb bone back to my wrist.  And if you are very, very quiet and listen very, very closely, you can still hear the splatters.  And a tiny Wahooty, still screaming...

GODDAMIT!  MOTHERFUCKER!

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.