The Sensible Reading Challenge - Deadline Extended!

http://tinyurl.com/4hq8tq6

Back in January, in a fit of pique, I threw down and challenged you blurkers to sell me on a book.

Well... I'M WAITING! Only two entries so far, and I know you buggers read like fiends. Add a comment below or ping me on the gmail address - lisa.empress@gmail.com.

Up for grabs:

1st Prize: a $25 Amazon gift card (if you're in another country, you'll get the card in the local currency for $25 equivalent American dollars).
2nd Prize: A Critter, Funky Monkey, or Dust Bunny (your choice!)
3rd Prize: Cookies! (Homemade! Allergies allowed for!)

C'mon, kids, you know how easily bored I get--sell me on something FABULOUS to read.

Here, I Stand, In Isolation...

Today's title comes from my favorite Iggy Pop song, "Isolation," from his amazing Blah, Blah, Blah album. That album is almost 20 years old but never gets old for me. It's one of the few in my collection I've owned on vinyl, cassette and CD (Pink Floyd: The Wall, Dark Side of the Moon, Gimme Shelter, couple of Bowie albums are the only ones that have that distinction). Yep, that good.

I was actually going to blog about anal sex today (for a lot of reasons), but got off on another tangent. I finished Robin McKinley's amazing vampire novel Sunshine (probably my fourth or fifth time reading that novel over the past couple of years--it IS the antidote to the *puke*light books--SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO good!), and I wasn't in the mood to dive into another novel because I had other stuff to do, so I picked up Poe's Children, an anthology edited by one of my favorite horror authors, Peter Straub (that man has written some of the most fucking terrifying books on the planet; Ghost Story and Floating Dragon are two books that have never left me; ditto his psychological thriller Shadowland, which introduced two incredibly influential phrases to my lexion: "The secret lies in hating well" (TOO TRUE!); and "Once upon a time, when we all lived in the forest..." The anthology also has stories by some favorite writers (Joe Hill and Stephen King come immediately to mind); I collect horror anthologies because, in my opinion, the short story is the epitome of the horror genre. Some of the best, creepiest, most intensely scary stories I've ever read have been short stories or novellas. One of the greatest horror writers of all time, H.P. Lovecraft, wrote his masterpieces in the short form. Another favorite, J. Sheridan Le Fanu, wrote astounding short stories of the gothic and creepy variety. A contemporary author whom I adore, Jim Butcher, finally collected his Harry Dresden short stories, and I am slavering over reading that (but need to read the last Dresden novel before I can, and I haven't been in the mood for Harry recently. This will not last; I love Dresden and would date him if he was real).

Back in the 80's, Penguin published a series of anthologies with Edward Gorey illustrations on the dust jackets. Lucky me, my mother belonged to a book club and bought two of them, the ones dealing with ghosts and vampires. The vampire one is still in print and well worth investing in. Geek girl here has two copies of it--the original hardcover (sadly, minus dust jacket, dammit) and the current trade edition. I actually found another volume in the series--on witches and wizards--in a thrift store in Nova Scotia on the last trip.

BUT I DIGRESS!

Anyway, I tend to read in order--it's a discipline thing, because if I only read the authors I liked, I'd never read anything new. This is the other lovely thing about anthologies: I get a sample of authors without having to buy a lot of books. One of the stories, "Cleopatra Brimstone," disturbed the FUCK out of me. I have to reread it (and don't want to) because I found it a bit disjointed--I don't like disjointed--but it basically involves a brilliant young woman obsessed with butterflies and moths who is raped and runs off to London for the summer to recover whilst housesitting for some family friends in Camdentown.

Her rapist says to her, "Try and get away." This is all she remembers of the event. Well, in London, she comes across an odd club, and is inspired to get some cuffs and buy some fetish-inspired clothing and shave her head. And then she brings men home to fuck, ties them down to the bed, whispers, "Try and get away," gets them off, and as she whispers that to them, they shrink in their bonds down to a rare specimen of a butterfly or moth which she then mounts (leave it alone) as a proper collected specimen.

I cannot tell you how skeeved this left me, this act of diminishing. SKEEVED. CRAWLING. I'm shuddering right now, thinking about it. It just turns my stomach. I've been coming to the realization lately that my days of kink are pretty much at an end--nothing against the old BD/SM scene, but... *shakes head* Aside from the odd spank on the bottom during a good, hard plow from behind, I just don't need the accoutrements any more. I don't want to be tied up. I don't want to tie anyone up. It's too much fucking work. I want to shag and cuddle and love and just be happy in someone else's company. I don't need to degrade or be degraded, and I don't think you can go the BD/SM route without a bit of animosity/need to/be degraded. I'm past that. AND I'M NOT JUDGING ANYONE WHO IS INTO IT! This is MY decision for ME. I've said it before--I don't care who/what you fuck, as long as the kids and housepets are left out of it. Unless I'm taking care of my own needs, I'm just beyond the toys.

I had a realization driving today that probably my deepest, most intense fear--the fear of being diminished, reduced to a specimen, an anecdote to be collected and dismissed. "Isn't that CUTE!" This is why Potential Paramour got the heave-ho and blocked--he said this to me frequently, telling me how cute I was when I was upset.

Galadriel speaks of it in The Lord of the Rings, of being a diminished and dwindling people, immortal but growing irrelevant, hiding in their fortresses and keeping the past alive rather than being a vital part of the living and breathing Middle Earth. I usually equate myself most to Sam when I compare myself to a LotR character, but in reality, I think the one I most compare to (in some ways) is Gandalf--inscrutable in my moods and reactions. The fictional character I think I most resemble is Granny Weatherwax, no matter how dearly I aspire to be Nanny Ogg.

Yeah, weird headspace today. I mentioned last weekend being a bit on the shamanic side. The full was last weekend, and my magical side manifests strongest in the few days after the full moon. I feel like so many things are clashing inside me at the moment, and I'm trying to sort it all out and make some sense of it. Making lists, setting goals, and putting myself back in touch with my inner shaman.

I know some of you, my cherished blurkers, are pagans and know of what I speak. *sigh* Since coming out of the broom closet a decade ago, I've gone back and forth with my spirituality. I have a love/hate relationship with my shamanic side. It's deep and hard to stay on that path and live in the real world. And with everything that presses on me for attention, it's really easy to let that responsibility slip. I've start meditating again (or attempting to) and drawing limits around what I'm willing to sacrifice and what I'm willing to tolerate. I understand right now that going foward is going to depend on bringing all sides of me as close into harmony as possible.

It also means I have to step away from my isolation. I wrap solitude around me like a cloak--it's my armor, my protection for my battered heart and soul, much like my leather jacket and my omni-present cynicism and rage, not to mention my rather unconventional and direct sense of the absurd that produces my strange version of comedy. I have felt horribly out of place in my life of late. I lost a group of friends back in the Autumn (not a big deal--nice people in their own way, but narrow-minded and narrow-thinking in terms of ambition and life), and it has come home very hard that I haven't had a regular "gang" to hang with in a very, very long time. I somehow have always been the person people least think to invite to participate in the ordinary bits of life.

Part of it comes from being an only child; I am very much used to my own company and entertaining myself. I'm very comfortable with myself. I hate it. I want company, I want distractions, I want companionship. I want to be a part of something more than myself. It bothers me that I need love, that I need anything more than what I can provide for myself.

Part of it is the odd life I have. Let's face it, dealing with Mum doesn't exactly lead to a healthy dating life. Excuse me, but do you mind if I bring my mother along to the casino? *headdesk*

So, I'm going to sign off on that note. And write the post on anal sex tomorrow.

Blog Shog: Job Hunting

Well, kids, I finally got pushed that extra bit that sent me over the edge. I am seriously looking for employment. I can't cope with the stupidity and pettiness any longer.

So, if anyone knows of someone/somewhere looking for a highly competent bookkeeper, purchasing agent, writer, editor, producer, publicist, historian, Shakespearean scholar, librarian (without MLS), acting coach, assistant, cook, whatever, let me know. I require health insurance and enough salary to cover my bills (which aren't high). Early mornings undesirable unless they are a part of long nights.

Foxwoods: The Aftermath

Or, A Mother's Ultimate Revenge

OK, so I gave y'all the review of the fantabulous show at Foxwoods last Saturday night. You heard how utterly, brilliantly hysterical Jim Jefferies was, etc. (And thanks to all the friends who have given me shit about the picture. I love you, too. ;-)

So... The trip itself.

Now, regular blurkers are aware I got a little wrecked on Friday night/Saturday morning. I was catching up on the podcast, the mood was right, and I wanted some fucking tequila. So I had some tequila. And then I went to bed and overslept a wee bit, which means I was running a shade behind on Saturday.

You know where this is leading. You've been down that road with me... you know what I'm like. A madwoman. So, I run around the Somerville/Cambridge area, fueling up the car, getting coolant (and yeah, there's definitely a problem with the Blue Bomber's cooling system which means large repair bill headed my way if I want to drive to Nova Scotia in April and see Jim in PGH in May. Shit), directions, etc. Before I head out, I make sure St. Teresa's arse is in gear because she's sod-all slow and dithery, and no effin' way am I going to miss the damn show because she's dawdled and I got stuck in traffic in $%^&*()_ Connecticut like on the trip to PA.

So... Yeah. I get the missions accomplished, get my ass back to the house, showered, dressed (and was incredibly disappointed to discover that the brand new black jeans were boot cut instead of pegged. Sod that--not with brand new, custom painted Chucks. Besides, I hate boot cut--they make me look short and fatter), the Amazing Tess arrives, I manage to get makeup on, and finally out the friggin' door.

Half an hour behind schedule. NOT happy.

Get Mum loaded into the car along with her blasted walker.

Allow me to describe her walker. I wouldn't call it the Cadillac of walkers (thinking back to the time when Cadillacs were actually elegant and an automotive thing of beauty, rather than the pieces of ugly, generic, over-priced shit they are today; show me an Escalade, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I can show you an asshole behind the wheel of it), but it's definitely a luxury model: padded seat that flips up to reveal a storage space, mag wheels that pivot, hand brakes, sparkly paint job--definitely NOT your bog-standard hospital-issued brushed aluminum mobility aid.

It's also a pain in my fucking ass because I'm the poor sod who has to get it off the porch and somehow wrangle it into the car. Accomplishing this took moving up the driver's seat, unpacking everything that had already been packed, wrestling with the blasted contrivance, and a whole lot of swearing whilst Mum attempted to be helpful and yell suggestions and other cars swerved around me, honking, because there's still a fair bit of snow on the streets. Oh, yeah, and a high, biting, whipping wind.

Now I am running behind, am freezing, and am THOROUGHLY annoyed.

"I have to go to the bank!" announces the little old lady in the HUGE blue puffy coat in the back seat.

"Both of them!" she adds.

*slams head on the steering wheel*

So, stop at the little bank on the corner. She spends five minutes just trying to dig out her card. I get out of the car, come around, and look for it for her. In the high wind.

As I said, Tess is amazing, so she is maintaining her good humor and being cool.

A couple of minutes later, the woman who had been standing inside the ATM knocks on the window to let me know that she has had to explain to Mum how to operate the ATM because she was leaving the card in the slot.

*slams head on the steering wheel*

Ten minutes later, St. Teresa returns to the car, annoyed that the ATM won't give her what she wants. Now, she KNOWS there's a daily limit to how much you can withdraw. She KNOWS this. But she is not acknowledging this. So I now have to drive to the other bank across town. Steam is starting to come out of my ears despite the cold.

Get there--swearing at other drivers along the way--get the card from her, go through the drive thru, and she instructs, "Get me five hundred!"

At which point, I keep myself from diving over the back seat and strangling her because I can just imagine how much money she was originally planning on pissing away on the many-buttoned bandits. I get her $300, which is the limit the ATM will spit out in a given shot, and which is PLENTY to spend on a fucking slot machine. Too much, if you ask me, but then, I don't gamble on anything but myself and the occasional date (usually to my detriment on the latter).

THEN I speed across town to my Starbucks because I need coffee for the fucking road. I mean, if I don't have caffeine, we aren't going to get there safely nor will we get home safely. (Granted, I had stashed my tin of Via iced coffee packets and a quart of half-and-half in the back seat, but better to have it ready-made with an extra shot or three of espresso for safety.) Of course, I have to get Herself a cup of tea.

Now, I know how to make my mother's tea. Stas, lovely fella that he is, knows exactly how to prep her tea from the barista side of the counter. I grab a protein pack, Mallorca sweet bread for her, water for Tess, St. Teresa's tea, and two trenta's for me. Because that's how I fuckin' roll, dammit.

Show off my new custom kicks and the fabulously vulgar yet elegant blouse (I'm going to have to replace some of the crystals on the hand if I want that to be my stage shirt), and get a pleased crack from Stas about getting flashed (I was mortally embarrassed, but he was teasing. I mean, I love my tits, but I'm not flashing flesh in Sbux, y'know?). Hit the ladies, prep Ma's tea, and hop back in the car.

To almost get into an accident from an ignorant piece of shit coming in the exit. I really, really hate people. He tried to get into a pissing contest with me, but a) I drive a Buick; and b) despite being expressly female, I have bigger balls than God when I'm in a hurry and behind the wheel. I called him an ignorant cunt and went around him, despite his attempt to prevent it. No way some dumbass mofo was making me any later to see Celebricrush.

OK! On the road! Backstreets through Cambridge, out to route 2, on to 95, cruising and doing a fair clip at 75-90 for most of the way until I hit traffic in Rhode Island. *shrugs* It lasted about five minutes, and I hit Foxwoods about 8:30, cutting the drive time by about fifteen minutes--not my best time, but still, not bad. St. Teresa keeps asking for napkins because she has spilled her tea all over her coat. *sigh*

Parking was fairly simple, the wind was fiercer than a blow torch, and we managed to finally, FINALLY get inside the fucking casino. OK!

Drop Mum off at the Dream Rewards counter, check she has her cell phone, tell her that the show will be out around midnight, and I WILL CALL HER AS SOON AS IT'S OUT.

Then... pick up the tickets, catch Jim at full throttle in the background, walk out grinning grinning grinning and PSYCHED up for the show. You know how the show went--you know how awesome it was.

And then... it's 12:35. I'm sobering up (thank you, gastric bypass), hungry, tired and ready to find Mum, grab a quick bite, and get on the road.

So I call her cell phone. Five rings, and the canned voice, "I'm sorry, but the person you have called has not set up their voice mailbox."

Shit.

Wait a minute, call again.

Five rings, canned voice, shit.

Wait three minutes, call again.

You get the picture.

Tess and I start walking down towards the casino room--I am still OK, still fairly up (I mean, hey, I just had Jim Jefferies's arm around me and a great convo with Pat Oates. Life is awesome!). Tess takes a troll around, doesn't see her, we walk down to the food court in case she's gotten tired and sat down... No Mum. I hear a page over the speakers, get the idea, we walk back, ask the guard at the door and get directed to the security desk in the back.

This is where my high ends. I HATE casinos. I REALLY, REALLY FUCKING HATE casinos. Too many people doing something I find really fucking stupid and useless, and now, I have to enter one. Immediately, my spidey senses start screaming because there is some dark and ugly energy in the room. I mean... it's like being in Dawn of the Dead, and there is a part of my soul screaming, "GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT BEFORE THEY EAT YOUR BRAIN!!!!!!!" I mean, seriously, it was not a happy experience, just walking through, and no sign of the little Irish American lady with the giant coat and tricked out walker.

A lot of people with drinks, cigarettes and crap food mindlessly whacking buttons. *shudder*

Not good.

Soooooooo... I have her paged.

Nothing.

Go outside, wait in the corridor.

Nothing.

Go back, have her paged again, tell them to tell her we're in the food court.

Nothing.

Tess goes and looks again.

Nothing.

I am getting pissed.

Enraged.

Angrier than hell.

Panicky.

Because she was VERY unsteady on her feet. So now I am scared that she's taken a header and no one has been able to get in touch with me.

My groove has been so harshed the record has been shattered into a gajillion shards of vinyl.

We actually walk back down to the club in case she's wandered down there looking for me and run into Pat Oates who I'm SURE didn't need a panicked me asking him if he'd seen a little old lady in the club lost and looking for me.

Jesus, I felt like a loser. I mean, seriously--43 years old and I take my mother along on a trip to a comedy gig. I mean, yeah, it was the right thing to do--she needed to get out of the house and have a good time for herself, but... sheesh. WHY DID I HAVE TO BE INVOLVED?!?!?

ANYWAY... now, I am mad enough to kill. Fed up. Panicky. HUNGRY. Exhausted. Groove harshed. And still no St. Teresa. Tess needs to get home--she has a lovely man waiting for her. We were supposed to be on the road looooooooooong ago and on the way back to Boston. Back to the security office for another page, and this time, the guard asks if she has a Dream Rewards card because they can track her down with that.

Thank the fucking Gods.

So, as they're pulling up her info in the computer (which I find really, really creepy but was thankful for), Tess comes rushing back--"I FOUND HER! I must have gone past her a dozen times, she's tucked back in a corner. I told her to stay put!"

Bless Tess. She is going to be an amazing therapist some day (if that's the path she chooses). She really deserves the modifier "Amazing" because anyone who can deal with me dealing with my mother and remain positive and pleasant is a saint.

Yours Truly stalks across the back of the casino, holding back my rage, and muttering, "I am going to STRANGLE her!"

Sure enough, there she is, tucked back in a corner, whacking away at a slot machine.

"Oh, hi! How was the show?"

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?!?!?"

The exchange that ensues goes like this:

"No."
"It's two a.m."

"Really?"

"WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?"

"I've been here the whole time!"

"Ma, the show was over an hour and a half ago; I told you midnight, it's 2:00 a.m."

"Why didn't you call my cell phone?"

"I've called YOUR CELL PHONE A DOZEN TIMES!"

"I need a new one."

You get the picture.

To make matters even worse, she turns back and starts whacking the button again. At which point I stand up, announce, "I am leaving. NOW."

"But I'm winning!"

"NOW. Or take the fucking bus home." And I turn around and stalk out.

What makes this really amusing--in a dark and twisted way--is that she and I have had the same conversation, only she was the one in the rage making pronouncements.

Yeah.

Well, she eventually dithers out. I am ensconced on a bench, taking deep breaths, trying not to flip out or make a scene because I am ready to fucking lose my shit right then and there. And she says to me, as I sit on the bench, glowering, trying NOT to yell, "So, where are we going to eat? I haven't eaten yet."

It is after 2 a.m. in the morning. We have been here for almost six hours. And she Never. Ate. Never. Ate.

NEVER FUCKING ATE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I explain to her--in a very, very quiet voice, the voice that makes most people who know me run for the fallout shelter, that everything has closed--all of the shops and restaurants. And We. Are. Leaving.

I stalk off, looking for the elevators downstairs, walk past them because I thought they were the wrong elevators, and find myself lost, heading for another fucking casino. I mean, it's worse than the mall! And zombies... so many zombies, smoking, doused in cologne and perfume and trashy clothes, and I'm lost and REALLY starting to panic and can't take a Xanax because I was drinking tequila three hours ago and it will put me to sleep and REALLY fuck me up.

Finally get to the correct elevators, the doors open, and I here a *thunk* behind me. Mum has taken one of her famous falls, and now I am panicky, angry, upset, scared, and feeling GUILTY because I have been mean to an old lady who is now on the floor and has knocked her head on the crown molding. So I switch immediately from Raging Bitch to Terrified, Highly Competent Caretaking Daughter, lift her back on to her feet, deal with the nice man from the casino who has an EMT meet us in the lobby downstairs while the Amazing Tess runs to get me a hot dog and a bottle of water because I need hydration and protein, and get her downstairs and checked out.

Still with me?

Get her settled in her seated walker, order up the car from the valet service, wait for the car and listen to her complain about everything and ask inane questions. Including, "Can we stop at Dunkin Donuts on the highway?"

Get her into the Blue Bomber, wrestle the walker back in as the razor wind rips through me, and try to find my way out of the fucking casino. I get turned around, take the wrong exit out of there, and end up tooling around the back roads of rural Connecticut at 3:00 in the morning. Ma announced she was hungry and got handed the protein plate from Sbux.

Thanks to Google Maps and my Droid, we eventually made it to 395 north. We passed Mohegan Sun on the way. We skipped Rhode Island completely. I almost cried when I saw the sign for Worcester and the Mass Pike. If it had been warmer, I probably would have pulled over the car and kissed the tarmac after we crossed the Mass border.

Around 5 a.m., I pulled up in front of Tess's man's place. Thankfully, he only lives a few houses down from me. I found the last parking space on the street, got St. Teresa out of the car and headed for the house, and got myself in. I left the walker in the car.

I was in bed, asleep, within about fifteen minutes. I think I hit the bathroom before I made it to bed. I managed to get my vitamins and some water into me; beyond that, the details are fuzzy.

The next night, after blogging from Starbucks, I pulled up at home and cleaned up the car. I finally got the damn thing tidy (instead of looking like a frat party aftermath), I wanted to keep it that way, and I damn well didn't want anything rotting in the backseat (because Mum is a cross between a toddler and a teenager with the car habits, and it just ain't pretty). Sure enough, there was the protein plate on the floor, egg still intact. However, the packet of Justin's Honey Peanut Butter was still in there, unopened, and damned if I was going to let THAT go to waste.

I picked up the protein plate. I opened the protein plate. I lifted up the packet of Justin's. I screamed.

Underneath, I found her bottom set of teeth. There is nothing more disgusting than dentures (well, except shit, but you get my drift).

The next morning, I couldn't find my keys. She'd borrowed them to find her teeth. The ones sitting right next to the chair she was ensconced in. She left my keys in her coat pocket and made me quite late for work.

The way I see it, my mother has paid me back in spades for any trespass I ever committed.

And I'm a saint.

These Are the Pros and Cons of Bypassing

Written around midnight after a really horrific reaction to high fructose corn syrup. I've been pondering this post for a while, particularly as I celebrated my two year post-surgery anniversary on January 20th. A lot has changed over the past two years.

That zombie-like moaning you’re perceiving at the edge of hearing is me, curled in a ball, in agony, having bid a violent farewell to my very healthy dinner—chicken breast, green peas, and brown rice. And Orangina.

Now, when Orangina hit the market a few decades ago, it was billed as an Italian soda. I always found it delicious—tart, slightly sweet, and not terribly fizzy. Post-gastric bypass, that not-fizziness is a good thing. HOWEVER… Orangina is now bottled in the States, and no longer comes in the lovely little dimpled bulbous bottles of my youth. It comes in Americanized soda bottles and is bottled by the Motts Corporation—y’know, the apple sauce people. Well, unbeknownst to me, they put high fructose corn syrup in the fucking Orangina. The label has a blue badge on it with “12% juice, 2% pulp,” creating an illusion that you just might be ingesting something healthy with your fizziness.

Nah.

I read the label AFTER the vomiting started. You’d think you could trust something bottled by the Mott’s people.

Nah.

There happened to be a bottle of their cinnamon apple sauce on the table; I read the label. Sure e-fucking-nough, HFCS. *slams head on the desk* Bastards.

I have written a post before about HFCS; I have called the Corn Growers Association a bunch of cunts. They are, and they’re poisoning us with that shit. I may not be a doctor or a chemist, but y’know, my reconstructed digestive system doesn’t lie. I can’t ingest that crap—I can tell when I’ve taken a large hit of it because I feel pukey—that awful feeling in the back of my throat, it’s like a crawling sensation, the feeling that whatever has gone down is heading back up.

I hate that. I cannot tell you, in any combination of words, how much I hate that. I cannot abide vomiting, and I’ve had to do a lot of it over the past two years because, hey, my new stomach is even fussier and more precious than the old one. The only good thing about throwing up right now is that, because the part of my stomach that produces acid is closed off from the pouch my surgeon created, the food tastes the same as it did going down. NOT a great advantage, but at least I'm not dealing with the burn in my throat from the acid. Just the pain from the heaving.

I don’t know if I’ve blogged about the gastric bypass before. I know I’ve talked about some of the aspects of it, but here, now, just a little over two years later, it seems like a good time to actually talk about it in depth.

I have no regrets about undergoing the surgery; when I first was told that the gastric bypass was the only surgical option—that I had far too much weight to lose for the lap band option (the way my superior surgeon put it is that if it’s 60 lbs or less, it’s about banding. If it’s more than that—and my goal is to lose over time 250 lbs or reach a size 16—it’s the gastric bypass)—I was incredibly depressed. I mean, I felt like a piece of shit. A very fat, very disgusting piece of shit, a complete utter loser, a waste of space on the planet, a piece of human detritus who had nothing to live for and no reason to exist. Fat does that to you. This society has no forgiveness for fat people. I’ve blogged about this before—the societal prejudice against the obese is horrific, and while I understand it, I don’t support it. Like every issue, there are multiple factors involved, and while, yeah, there are some seriously fat, lazy, stupid people out there, obesity is not a simple issue. Our food supply—our poisoned food supply—is at the heart of it. Our laziness as a society is also at the heart of it. And while I do not support the vegans and can never be a vegetarian, I do believe we need to be a hell of a lot more careful about what we put into our bodies, and it’s about fucking time America woke up and demanded the overhaul of the FDA.

Like the rest of our fucking government, those corporate cocksuckers have been bought and sold by the food industry years ago. Think I'm kidding? Do a little research on the rise of obesity, cancer, diabetes, ADD, and ADHD and you will find some very direct correlations with the processed food industry.

But I digress.

Anyway, the months leading up to surgery involved a lot of preparation, education and adjustments. My weight yoyoed ridiculously up and down by about 30 pounds; the only figure that has stuck in my mind is 455, which is what I weighed one week before surgery.
Yeah, you read that right, four hundred and fifty-five pounds. Size 36 or 38W, a 6X.
I don’t weigh that now. I’m still slightly north of 300, but not by much. Surgery, diet and exercise has seen to that. I can actually wear jeans again—size 24W, a size I hadn’t been able to get into in over 20 years.

Seriously.

Friday night, I tried on a bra that was a band size 42. I could get it clasped (and still breathe) without a bra extender. I haven’t been able to do that since high school. Yeah, I’m proud. (I’m still a DD cup, thank the Gods. I love my tits, and while I could bear being a C cup again, I’m happy with the DDs.) This means I can try on my 44 bras and they should fit! Huzzah! This time next year, I’ll be able to go to Victoria’s Secret and successfully shop there. May sound like a silly thing, but that’s going to be my three-year-anniversary treat: a Victoria’s Secret bra. Go me.
Last night, to Jim’s concert, I wore a size 26 shirt. That may not sound like a big thing (well, it IS a big thing, literally), but for someone who couldn’t even get a size 32 button-down shirt closed a few years ago, it’s a fucking miracle. I started cleaning out my fat clothes a couple of weeks ago, and all the size 30 jeans are going to Salvation Army. All the INCREDIBLY fat clothes are already in the bag, and the size 13 and 14 granny panties have been thrown out. I’m wearing a size 11 in undies; one more size to drop, and my shopping options open up immensely.

All of my size 26W jeans are getting loose; they go on tight after the wash, but within a couple of hours of wearing… waistband is loose. And I discovered last night I need to put a couple more holes in my belt.

This is how I’m measuring accomplishments—the size of my clothes. The other way is the extent of my workout in the gym. I found my old gym notebook last week; the diary with the chart I kept when Keith first started training me back in 2002. I can’t tell you folks what it felt like last week to get on to the elliptical and do four minutes and keep up a speed over 3 mph. Two years ago, I couldn’t walk without a cane and couldn’t walk more than a few feet without breaking into a flop sweat and not being able to breathe.

Now… even with two knees that need replacing, I can walk a block without a stick (I took my fancy silver-headed stick to the show the other night, but left it in the car). I can carry, lift, move… I don’t need to fear about being trapped and unable to get to where I need without assistance. All the damage hasn’t been undone, but so much of it is getting better. That’s all I care about.

Last year, my best friend—who hadn’t seen me in three years—couldn’t believe the change. “Oh, my God, Lee, you have a neck again! You have hips!” said to me in a voice filled with wonder. My other best friend, the first time I went up and outpaced her in a walk around Fort Anne… she had been convinced I was going to die if I didn’t go through the surgery (and she was right, to be honest).

I’ve been lucky. I’ve had enormous support from my friends and some of my family. Not everybody gets that.

So far, I’ve talked about the good stuff. Now… the bad stuff. Food is a problem. Food has always been my enemy; as much as I love the taste of good food, I am allergic and sensitive to so much (Christ, I wish I could eat seafood and broccoli and sweet potatoes!) that I never know what’s going to go down and stay, or what’s going to have me bent over and worshipping at the porcelain altar.

It sucks. I can’t eat high sugar or high fat foods, ditto high starch. I miss, miss, miss pasta and rice. Ditto most ice cream, and Ben & Jerry’s and Hagan Daas… *sigh* I kicked the soda habit as part of the prep for surgery, but fuck, I miss Pepsi. I miss Russell Stover Chocolates—just discovered that THEY use HFCS. Shit. I miss fried steak, french fries, potato chips, all that great tasting poisonous shit.

The weirdest thing that’s happened (and I’m feeling a bit strange talking about it) is the change in bowel movements. It used to be ginormous logs; now… well… now… errrrrrrmmm… there have been several occasions when I wanted to go and get my rune dictionary because it looked like I was shitting rune scripts. Seriously. It's utterly gross, but it's also fascinating in a really sick way. Vile. And we won't discuss the stench. You'd think bypassing the stomach acid would make things smell better.

Nah.

The other weird thing is that I can no longer burp like Barney Gumble. No more earth-shattering belches that earned me the respect of immature guys everywhere.

Alcohol… I’m the cheapest date on the planet. The good thing is that I get drunk VERY quickly. I am the only designated driver who can get hammered early in the evening and be sober enough to drive just by having some food, taking a piss, drinking a pint of water, and waiting an hour. For real. I get COMPLETELY faced on a single drink but will be sober within half an hour. And I don't dare drink alcohol without food on my stomach unless I want to turn scarlet and burn up. Stuff goes into me, gets processed immediately, and out it goes. This is how I know it was the HFCS and not the tequila from the night before: I'd already processed that out. Trust me on that one. *shudder* I found out just how quickly my body processes stuff a couple of years ago whilst drinking copious amounts of rum with Highlanders and I thought they were going to have to take me out of the Citadel in an ambulance to have my stomach pumped because I couldn't puke.

GREAT FUN!

So that's the story. It's been two years; I'm hoping to finish the last big push on the weight loss over the next nine months. I'd like to lose four more sizes by the time my birthday rolls around in November. I keep my ass hauling in the gym, I'll do it. Besides, now that I've accepted cougardom, I want a tighter body to chase the hot young things with. ;-)

Cheers, kids. Happy freakin' Monday. Is it April yet?

Another Evening With Jim Jefferies, Bicarbonate of Hypocrisy

Hey, kids. To quote Blazing Saddles, "How are things in the clean world?"

The pic (which I hate) is my second photo with Jim--he looks thrilled as hell to have his arm around a drunken, yapping me (and Gods, did he smell fabulous); the gent in the background is Pat Oates, the comic who brought Jim on. Very, very funny men.

I am HUNGOVER. Happy and fuckall hungover. Like the last time I saw Jim Jefferies perform, the experience was a mixed bag. The gig was FUCKING AWESOME, but the shit afterwards totally harshed my high.

However, I still had three awesome hours. And that's the important part.

Like the last time, the story will be told in two parts--the review (this post) and the aftermath (next post).

On with the review...

OK, let's start with the venue. You know I have a serious fan hardon for someone if I will subject myself not only to driving to Connecticut (the Asshole of the Northeast), but even more so that I was willing to go to a casino.

I hate casinos. HATE them. Rick Riordan got it completely right in Percy Jackson & the Olympians with the casino scene (and more on that in post #2, In Which I Find It VERY VERY Difficult NOT to Strangle My Mother). For me, casinos are the embodiment of Hell. All those people, like zombies, playing the slots... *shudder*

BUT I DIGRESS!

Comix is a great room for the audience set up--liked it immediately. The staff is FABULOUS--really lovely, lovely people to deal with, helpful, pleasant and attentive, from the management, to the door staff to the waitstaff--our waitresses were a hoot (and complete with Jim Jefferies autograph tattoos. I thought about it. I really did, but I think I'll wait until I've lost another 100 lbs. & finished the firm-up on the body). VIP tix were worth the expense. Food was decent, too; coffee was passable, but then, I was drinking tequila.

Secondly, the openers... Awesome guys, very funny. Steve Lazarus (who has a book coming out about being a beer vendor at Yankee Stadium since the 70's, Gods bless him) was a hoot--told a classic joke about the Sox fan, the Mets fan and the Yankees fan that totally showed where the fans were from. I think the Sox fans showed best, but then... I'm biased.

Pat Oates... Jesus wept. AWESOME choice for the lead-in to Jim. Describing himself as the "extended leprechaun," Pat did an incredibly high energy set, giving the audience shit (including me--I got dubbed "Meatloaf," and rather than heckle, I let it roll and laughed along. More on that later), with great bits on road rage and Steelers fans. My companion for the evening, the Amazing Tess, is from Pittsburgh and totally loved it (and agreed completely). And I will TOTALLY disagree with the arse who yelled out "too soon!" about the Greg Giraldo story. It was a GREAT story, there was NO disrespect in it, and that's the end of it. Keep telling it, Pat. (Pretty please?)

I had a chance to talk to Pat after the show; the guy is a decent dude--just really supportive and pleasant. He made the point that once you've open miked, it's like chasing a heroin addiction (totally on the money); I also liked the fact that he was protective of both Steve Lazarus and Jim. It just goes in line with my philosophy that we're all in this together and need to watch each other's backs--love to see it in others. The old "neighborhood ethics" (doesn't hurt that Pat is another member of the tribe--a fellow American bogtrotter). We had a laugh over the Meatloaf bit (hey, with the way I was dressed--sporting a white shirt with a skeleton hand giving the finger--I set myself up). Besides, it wasn't cruel. He took enough shots at himself which is why I was cool to roll with the "Meatloaf" shit without heckling (aside from the fact that heckling is classless under 99% of the circumstances, and when I come up against the 1% when it's acceptable, I'll tell you. I've heckled ONCE, and it was completely unintentional, and the comic got a full apology afterwards--and I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the set because I was mortally embarrassed at being an asshole, even if unintentional). I can totally roll with a comic when it's all in good fun.

Unlike the cunt sitting behind me during Jim's set. If I hadn't been high on tequila and Jim, I would have broken my rule of non-violence and broken that hosebag's humorless jaw and taken the jail time with pride. I mean, her boyfriend/husband/fucking idiot who kept yelling, "Up, Gunta, Up!" who also needed a sledgehammer to the crotch to prevent him from entering the gene pool should have told her to shut the fuck up, and if she was having such a miserable time, to take the fucking bus home. I'm serious. Bad enough the management had to step in front of me to tell the worthless cumrag to stop taking pictures for MySpace (and her lame-ass lie about "just taking pictures of ourselves"--really, bitch?)... Argh. She was bitching during the best bits, the ones about Xtianity, Michael Jackson and American stupidity. Proving Jim's points about hypocrisy, and as long as he didn't hear her (although I would have enjoyed him taking her to the cleaners--if you've ever heard his "Hellbound" CD, he takes on a bimbo and tears her posh ass to shreds in three lines. If you're ever tempted to use fake tanner, I will be happy to play that bit for you).

Ignorant cunt aside, Jim's show was in-fucking-credible. Better than New York in October. The second Percy Jackson moment--he came on to the strains of "Highway to Hell," my personal favorite AC/DC song (although the guitar solo in Back in Black is quite possibly the single greatest guitar solo ever, ever recorded). He looks fabulous (and Jim, fat? Really? Please. I should be so fucking fat. You're 34 from a family in which you have at least one member with a serious weight problem--a slight pot [which is as big as the tiny pot the gorgeous 24 year-old walking past me has] is nothing. You're still hotter than fucking hell, to the point I had to talk down the very drunk fan who had wangled permission to fuck you from her husband from following you backstage; give yourself some credit--there wasn't a straight woman in the audience [or gay man] who wouldn't have at least offered you a blow job. Was that too honest? *shrugs* Whatever. I have a hangover, so I'm a little cranky.)

His set was a mix of bits--I'd heard most of them, but there was new material. The older material had been tweaked and added to--the "knob joke"--the joke with the great line, "My job is to get an erection; your job is to get your hole wet" that goes to make the point that a dry hole is an impotent hole (nice to see a man fighting back strong against erectile dysfunction jokes) that ends so beautifully... he breaks my heart with that bit every time, and he's taken it to new lengths of insanity. Jim has mastered the art of the digression--as someone who digresses CONSTANTLY and always brings it back to where it should be, I appreciate this--he knows how to go off on a tangent and bring it back to his orginal story and get to the ending he wants.

Artistically, I am in love. Note, I said "artistically"--this is an important distinction. I'm psyched that I stumbled on Jim's work last summer, just as he's starting to REALLY take off here in the U.S. I cannot encourage people enough to get out and see him live--this is a man at the top of his game who is only going to get better. I'm hoping to be able to interview him for the blog; note I said "hoping"--he's a busy man, and I am not exactly a national outlet, y'know?

Despite being 'faced off my ass last night--it was one of those rare times when the conditions were right with my body so I could drink and not have a bad come-down, but it's definitely back on the wagon for me for a couple of months. No whooper--I was still able to be coherent after the show. Now, as an old theatre lag, I like the backstage bit of the work. I REALLY HATE not being in the game right now--I miss being in the middle of it all, the mayhem, the camraderie, all of it. I stopped myself from slipping backstage to talk to him; he was definitely in a different headspace after the show and ethically, not one I felt I had a right to intrude on. This, however, is why I want to interview him. I don't want to know where the funny comes from--I know where it comes from. It's all about how he looks at the world and processes it. I get that--it's the same place my funny comes from. It's a combination of rage and amusement, disbelief, and the need to a) see if anyone else gets this; b) keep from self-destructing from sheer despair at the outrageousness of the injustice and sheer stupidity of the world; and c) to make a living.

That's the bit some of Jim's oikier fans miss. Yeah, he's an oik. But if that's all you see, Jesus H. Fucking Christ, but you have missed the point. You have missed the intelligence and offended decency, and, folks, sorry, but decency doesn't have to refer to sexual conduct--it also refers to ethical conduct. You can take him to task for his drug use, drinking, sexual inclination, but have you cannot fault his ethics--and if you LISTEN to him, if you pay attention, there are some deep fucking ethics in there, the kind of that demand that you actually be truthful and own up to your shit--plus an extraordinary work ethic. That's what I'm interested in talking to him about--his work ethic. I'm interested in the process, not the funny. If I want the funny, I just have to watch him or listen to the podcast.

Alcoholocaust is coming to Showtime this spring; no air date yet, sadly. I'm planning on road-tripping to Pittsburgh and catch at least one (if not two) of the gigs down there in May, and will definitely go to the show at the Wilbur in September (and I'm hoping, hoping, HOPING he'll do the brothel story at that one; I'm dying to see where he's taken that).

So, Jim, thank you again for a magnificent show. Keep it going, man. Just keep it going. I'll say it again--you are at the top of your game and only getting better.

BTW, the title of today's review comes from my novel. It's how I describe my protagonist, Rebecca Kinsale. I think I can share that title with Himself.

Ultimate Jim Workout

For the record, casinos are my definition of hell. My spidey senses are screaming.

We also cannot locate St. Teresa. My worst nightmare did NOT come true-she did not show up after the show & accost Jim Jefferies.

Instead, my second worst nightmare is coming true-we have no idea where she is.

However... the show...ZOMG, JIM! AMAZING gig, better than New York. Better than the DVDs. Just... artistically, i am in love.

I'm coming down from the tequila and more... the comedy. I think i might have cum, the show was so good, from start to finish. Steve Lazarus & Pat Oates did fab openers-just a perfect warm up.

And Jim... at the top of his game. Looooooong set, the audience was with him (well, i was).

More later. Must find my mother & drive back to Boston.

Thanks, Jim. Thank you. Thank you for your fearlessness, thank you for your honesty. Thank you for it all.

St. Teresa... 'Round the Twist?

…Or Just Out to Get Me?

I promised this story a while back and never got the time to type it up. Tonight, as the regulars know, I'm off to see Jim Jefferies down at Foxwoods; my friend Tess is going to the show with me. There is going to be another passenger with us: St. Teresa. Yeah. You heard me right. Pray for me.

In December, St. Teresa was hospitalized after she did a nasty faceplant in the kitchen. Being the Good Kid of the Year (FOUR YEARS RUNNING!), I went up to visit her daily while she was in (except for one night, but I was working). Well, I had my laptop with me on one of those nights, and as I was taking it out of my satchel, I also happened to pull out Alcoholocaust. (I had that, along with Going Postal, in the bag because the lappie is the only DVD player I have set up for UK DVDs). Well, of course, she had to look at it.
“He’s not bad looking in this picture, Lee,” she remarked, looking at the inside sleeve. (From Mum, this is high praise for anyone not Elvis Presley, Tom Selleck, or the Loon who played Mad Max.)
I just shook my head and smiled. “Yeah, well, as he hasn’t announced a Boston date on this tour, I think I’m going down to Foxwoods in February to catch him.”
“Oh, good. I’ll come along.”
At which point, my head snapped up, a look of wild-eyed panic on my pan.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You can go see him, and I can go play.”
To which I replied, in an effort to keep my rising panic at the idea of being saddled with Her Daftness at Foxwoods while trying to enjoy myself and relax, “Why don’t you call Marie and ask her along? You two can make a night of it.”
“That’s a good idea!”
“Yeah, I can just see it now… I make a pass at Jim, and say, but we have to go to your place because I’ve got roommates. Real smooth.”
“Oh, you get your own room then.” And then she looks at me—y’know, the way a mum looks at their kid and REALLY looks at ‘em, and says, “Y’know, Lee, you should try to lose a lot of weight before February. You could do it.”
There was no meanness in this statement (for once). My mother was actually trying to help me get lucky, and not just with anyone, either.
I don’t know how I feel about this. Honestly. I really don’t. Aside from the fact that I was joking about making the pass (I am still embarrassed about NYC, and I’m having a laugh at my own expense, folks), I don’t know whether to a) be flattered that she thinks I would actually have a shot at him; b) be worried that she WANTS me to have a chance at him; c) ask her what the aliens did with my uptight mother who can’t stand the idea of me having any kind of fun that might lead to sex.
Either that, or she was having me on.
No matter what, I’m doomed.

My real fear is that she's going to show up in the lounge and accost Jim and the story will end up either on the podcast or in his act. Pray for me.

5 a.m. Confessions

For the record... this post was written between five and seven a.m. this morning. I was HAMMERED on tequila zingers (silver tequila, plum ginger cordial, lemonade) and the dam broke in a very good way.

Greetings, my cherished blurkers.
In this dark hour before dawn, I shall make my confessions.

Confession the first: I am HAMMERED.
Confession the second: I am happy to be so.
Confession the third: Godsdammit, but I sod-all needed the drink.

As the child of a drunk and coming from a family full of ‘em, it scares the piss out of me to pair the words “need” and “drink.” Because that is a baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad thing. It’s OK to WANT; NOT OK to need.

But tonight, I needed.
Been getting caught up on the Jim ‘n Eddie podcast. Got one last episode to listen to, but in #12, they got Jason PHUCKED up. And it was cool. It was the way getting drunk should be—just good friends being stoooooopid and having a fuckin’ laugh.

That’s the real reason for alcohol—just to relax a bit. Let the fences and walls down Just to be human without all the defenses for a little while.
It’s a friggin’ pity most of us can’t accept that and be there. All the excuses—“well, I was drunk…” So?

Maybe that’s it—I think I’ve identified my problem. I am who I am no matter what state I’m in. If I say something drunk, it’s the same as if I’m sober. No bullshit, no lies. No prevarication. Even less of an editor.

I’m good with it.

Confession the fourth: I’m dealing with a severe case of love. Yet again, I have fallen in love with a friend. I swear, I am the biggest fucking idiot on this planet. And it’s someone that I can’t have, for so many reasons. Too many reasons. Heinlein defined love—real love—the best: love is when what is best for the other person is more important to you than your own desire.
It sucks.
I hate it.
I want to be a selfish cunt and put myself forward.
But I won’t.
And for once, it’s not cowardice. For once, I’m not being noble. Stupidly noble. For once, I’m doing what is right.
Still sucks.

Confession the fifth: I need help. (What else is new?) See, I’ve put my ass on the line, doing this blog. I have a rule for myself: what goes on the blog, stays on the blog. No editing (even the odd typo—and you don’t KNOW how crazy typos make me; blame Sister Jane Michael, but I cannot abide mistakes in my own work. It makes me cringe, makes me feel a failure, a Bad Person. Fucking Catholic school. A blessing and a curse); what gets written, stays written, as is, and I have to accept it and embrace it, even when it hurts.
I’m good with that. It keeps me honest. Makes me stick to it. Doesn’t let me wimp out.
I’m not giving up this time. I am not crawling back into a life of obscurity that I have condemned myself to out of duty and cowardice.
Yeah, I said it—Cowardice. I let “duty” and “responsibility” override my duty and responsibility to myself. In my attempt to prove to my family that I am NOT selfish, worthless, horrible person, I gave up my dream to be America’s answer to Ken Branagh. This is a meaningless statement in 2011; back in 1995, it was a declaration of war, a statement of intent—a throw down to become the Shakespearean director of my generation, a general in the war against the Stratfordian Orthodoxy. Fuck, I miss Shakespeare. I miss my Lord of Oxenford and his blessed words, the words that woke me from the sleep of the Briar Rose to the world of the theatre. I fear it may be too late to reclaim my dreams, to throw my hat back in the ring and take my place.
But I am sure as FUCK going to try. If I fail… then being me, being the starry eyed Quixotic figure of ridiculousness that I am, I will try again. I will find my own version of Dulcinea and tilt at the windmills that may really be giants…
Shit, I’m talkin’ ragtime. I’m let the tequila control the fingers.
No, I’m not. I’m letting the tequila take down the barriers, remove the breakwaters, the harsh reins I’ve put on myself to keep the frustration in check. I want the stage back. I’m taking it back. I’m going back to open mike. I’m not going to let my own fears hold me back.
Because I am that good. I am. I am. I know it. I’ve coached so many, I’ve seen talent, I know talent. I know I have it. I know I have The Shine. I can do it.
I just have to hold on to that feeling and not let Duty take it away.
Help me, beloved blurkers, keep that faith. Send me good energy, think me good wishes. I am going forward. I have to. I am going to beat the odds, I am going to be the success story I should have let myself be years ago.
I know that the therapy words would be, “Maybe you weren’t ready for it.”
Bullshit. I needed it then; now, I’m trying to prevent my life from being wasted. I don’t want to be a “might have been”—“she had so much talent, such a shame she didn’t…” Bullshit. I promised myself the world.

“Life’s like a movie, write your own ending…” And I’m not dead yet.

Tonight, I’m seeing Celebricrush. Can’t wait. I doubt he’ll remember me; I doubt there’ll be anything more than a happy handshake and an autograph and a damn good show. And that’s OK. It took me so long to realize that I have to be my own hope. Last night, I had some kindness—a little bit of Happy Exercise (yes, another Heinlein reference) with a man I hadn’t thought I’d see again. I hope to see him another time. We shall see. It’s not what I want—I want to be in a relationship. But then… I don’t know where life is going to take me in the next six months.
I know I’m lonely. I know I want a circle of friends again. The problem is that I’m back to where I was in my 20’s—single, starting over, and enjoying life. Most of my friends are in a very different place—committed, established and dealing with very different issues. I’m free, almost. Almost. Six months, I can slip the surly bonds of responsibility… I can have my life back again.
Confession the fifth: That scares the fuck out of me. It does. It means I have no excuses any more. It means I have to take the leap of faith. I have to believe in the only person I’ve ever trusted or ever really feared—ME.

I wish this was a wise piece; I wish this was a funny piece. It’s not. It’s just me, naked and vulnerable. It’s just me. I have to be up in a few hours and go to the gym; I have to do my workout and keep the momentum going. I have to build my strength, slim my body more. The gentleman observed that I had lost weight—it was the best thing he could have said. I have felt ugly and fat; to have someone who hadn’t seen me in six months, someone who had seen me naked on a beach, approve and want me… I needed that validation. I need to be wanted and desired. I cannot embrace the one I love—and I see the trap I laid for myself, falling for my dark angel who is not within my grasp—and this other gentleman is a person of worth and intelligence and kindness.
Somedays, I find hope a hard thing to have. But right now, all I can feel is the bubble of potential… the feeling that Something Is Coming. I hope so. Dear Gods, I hope so. Hope has come so hard to hold on to, and I have come to despise my little life, this little life I condemned myself to in the name of duty, from the desire to prove myself worthy of love to a parent.
Confession the sixth: I should not be drinking. But I do not regret it. I try too hard to control, and sometimes, I need to let go. So I will thank Jim, Eddie, Jason and Lindsay for letting me be a silent witness to their silliness and fuckery. It was therapeutic.
Confession the seventh: I have just emptied the last of the New Year’s Eve Espolon tequila into my glass and added some homemade plum ginger cordial and agave lemonade Lifewater. The sky is lightening through the dining room window. I am not going to send the text message I want to send. I can’t; it would be self-destructive and selfish. And I could not bear to lose a friend.
KJ, I forgive you. I love you, my friend, and I forgive you, as I always have, and as you always have forgiven me. That’s what it means to be best friends—the love, the bond, the everything, is so much more important than trespasses. And unlike Annie, you were always true. There was never a siphoning, an agenda. We were, are, and always will be the Pros from Dover. We are, and always be, sisters. Like all family, sometimes, we hurt each other. But like family, the love, the bond is more important. I miss you like a fibre from my heart. Something… something went awry. I can feel it… like a wrong note. Like directing a rehearsal and hearing a false line… like a note off key. I am trying to find the thread, unravel the mistake, reweave reality and make it right.
I hate being a shaman. Because there is a place that the shamanic soul goes to… this is where the right chemical takes me. It’s dangerous. It’s scary. Because it’s a place of truth. This is where the New Age airy fairy bullshit meets reality—I wish this wasn’t real. I wish I could turn my back on what I’m experiencing. But I can’t. There is a higher truth, another level from coarse reality. Call it God, call it faith, call it aliens, call it whatfuckingever… it’s real.
The sun is up. I am somewhere in the aether. It’s OK. I need this, right now. I need to let go.
So… I am going to speak to the cards and then I am going to sleep. Let this move through me, this Golden Moment of Clarity…

Blessings, my darlings. Thank you for indulging me. Whisper a word in the ear of your favorite deity that I can hold on to this moment, this feeling, this clarity.
Much love… so much, my heart aches…
Your Empress

Resurfacing

Hey, kids. How goes it?
Apologies from Your Empress; it's been a bit intense over the past couple of weeks. Mum was back in the hospital last week, and work got a bit ugly.
I don't like to talk too much about my job; for one thing, I'd rather not give anyone grounds to fire me. For another, it's kinda irrelevant. I mean, there are parts of it that I love, and I'm very, very good at what I do. On the other, some of the people I work with... Argh. Not bad people, just... just silly. Passive aggressive. And no comprehension that there is a world outside of the Library that directly impacts my position.
See, my title is "Acquisitions Coordinator," but in reality, I'm the purchasing agent and bookkeeper. (I have other duties--like being the elected rep to a University-wide council that deals directly with staff issues and quality of life, something I am immensely proud of and invested in--and book repair, which gives me joy just because I hate to see a book thrown away and the knowledge lost.) I not only have responsibility to the people to whom I answer in the library, but also to the Finance office and the rules and regulations governing their operation. This is not a small thing--the Uni is a non-profit company and has IRS requirements it must abide by to maintain that status. There's a lot of other rules, and like it or lump it, I have to play by them. Not everyone understands this, and over the past couple of weeks, it's led to some really unpleasant confrontations and a lot of bullshit that pushed me to the point I was ready to resign.
That would not be a good thing at this point--I really want to hold off until Mum is settled in Elder Housing, and I've found representation for Broom Closet. I had started looking into other positions a month ago, and I realized that the last thing I wanted is to get into another 9 to 5 situation right now. What I want is to get the fuck out of the 9 to 5 rat race. I'm old and I'm done, guys. I'm actually at the point where I've decided that when the book sells, I'll be happy to go and work part-time at Sbux. Seriously. I'm done with being stuck at a desk. I'd already made up my mind that I'm leaving when the director retires (and that's in another 2.5 years) because I can't deal with breaking in another director and trying to re-adapt my job.
And it's not what I want to do any more.
I want to be back in theatre and performing. I'd rather be producing and promoting, performing, not having to worry about being up at 7 in the morning, and not having to be someplace Monday through Friday. I want a schedule that I've got some say in. I want to be doing something meaningful that calls on my creative talents.
This ain't doin' it.
I've also been writing comedy again; I had a great convo with the Fabulous Alicia's hubby, Josh, last week. He's also going the standup route; I was over their house, visiting, and he came in from open miking. He'd had a good set (saw the video), and we shot the shit for a bit. He listened to a couple of the new pieces I'd put together (including the one liners), and gave me some great advice. Favorite Crush was psyched that I'm going to open mic again and is going to come along for moral support.
I think I mentioned that I've been designing again. I'm trying to put together a signature look--it's all about the packaging, right? And it gives me an excuse to make something gorgeous for myself that I ordinarily couldn't justify. So tonight I'll be sewing together my raspberry pink military jacket (trimmed in black velvet) and working on the custom paint job on my black Chuck's (based on a Sailor Jerry tattoo flash). I'm hoping to have time to build the black velvet peacoat. It just fires a different set of synapses, designing. Makes me happy in a very different way, a way I haven't felt in a while.
The gym is helping, too. Last week wasn't great--having Mum in the hospital cut into my work out time--but I've gotten back on the horse. Actually, I've climbed on the eliptical for the first time. :-D That was Sunday--I managed four minutes and then another two minutes, averaging about 4 mph. That's pretty amazing for someone who needs both knees replaced. :-D Mixing it up with lat pulls, bicep curls, rows, back extensions, crunches, calf extensions, leg presses, flies, tricep presses, and probably other stuff I'm forgetting. Oh, yeah, the hip adductions & abductions. I'm dead chuffed. Haven't got my strength back to where it was six years ago--not pressing 140 yet--but I'll get there. My jeans are getting saggy in the arse, my stomach is firmer, and that's what I care about. If I can just get rid of the cellulite on my thighs and get rid of the paunch, life will be perfect. And the left elephant wing. It's going to take a few months, but I'm sticking to the resolution to get down.
Plus, I feel fucking awesome after I leave the gym.
There were a lot of anniversaries at the end of January--stuff I really didn't want to think about or really reflect on or talk about: two year anniversary of my gastric bypass (good thing); one year since committing Idiot and forcing him in sobriety (bad thing); one year since #5 (sad thing); and other stuff I just don't want to dwell on.
So I've been quiet. Trying to keep it all together. Managing at the moment.
Seeing Jim Jefferies at Foxwoods on Saturday. :-D

I'll be getting back to blogging regularly soon. (And I promise I'll finish the 99th page blogfest.) Be well, darling blurkers.
Cheers,
Your Empress

Lost & Found

I've lost three things over the past three months: my Kermit the Frog "No" button, my thumb drive, and half of my favorite pair of gloves.

I have found all three.

I hope this is a good omen.

Because honestly... this week has sucked in so many ways.

Nine sleeps until Foxwoods. How pathetic is it that?

Friday... Thank the Gods, It's Friday

Greetings, darling blurkers, and welcome to the happiest day of the week, at least as far as I'm concerned.

Your Empress has NOT had the best of weeks, sad to say, although it vastly improved as it progressed. Snowmageddon continues here in the Northeast with more of the awful white shit due tomorrow night. I spent two days in the house because on Tuesday morning, I opened the door, looked outside at the snow and driving wind, and said, "Fuck this." I took a personal day because, honestly, I couldn't face digging out the car, shoveling the walk and driveway, and then fighting my way into work, dealing with the bullshit in here, and then fighting my way home. It also meant I skipped the gym this week (haven't been since Saturday; bad Empress, but am going tonight without fail. I miss it!).

Now, here's something that will make y'all have a damn good laugh: last Friday I said to hell with it and joined CougarLife.

Yes, you read that correctly. CougarLife. As much as I object to the terminology, I have realized how tired I am of old farts, and sadly, so many of the guys my age have become old farts. I am NOT an old fart--I am probably a bit immature for my age. I like to do stuff--I like LOUD, obnoxious music (case in point: rocking out to Green Day whilst designing last night, but more on that later on in the post), I like to road trip, I like to have LOTS of sex, I like LIVING. As badly as I want a family, I don't want one tomorrow--I want it after a couple of years with someone because, honestly, that's the whole point of dating. It's not about falling in love and hearts and flowers and all that other Hallmark bullshit--it's about discovering whether or not you can put up with the other human being in the same living space without killing them and vice versa. (I made this observation during a convo yesterday with a fellow survivor from the Bookstore of the Damned--he's back in town for a couple of weeks, and I'm really looking forward to having coffee with him. One of those folks I didn't realize whose company I truly, truly loved until I hadn't seen him for a while.)

So. CougarLife. Yeah. CougarLife. Six flirts in 24 hours--SCORE! Of course, the one live 'un has no picture. WARNING! Gmail account doesn't show his name. WARNING! Doesn't email after work hours. WARNING! After four days of much emailing, he confesses he's married. *slams head on the desk* WHAT THE FUCKIN' HELL?!?!?!?!? EXPLAIN THIS TO ME--WHY THE FUCK IS HE ON A GODSDAMNED DATING SITE?!?!?! And after I tell him I don't do married men, he comes back with, "We don't have to have sex; we can just fool around."

Excuse me?

EXCUSE FUCKING ME?!?! WHY THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I'M DOING THIS?!?! Girlfriend needs to get laid, dammit! And I'm sorry, kids, but foreplay doesn't satisfy. I want the full magilla, or I don't wanna play, dammit! Dumbass sonofacunt. I sent him packing back to his wife. Why the hell would I hurt another woman like that?

So yesterday was a mixed bag. On the one hand, LOVELY convo and an email from another friend with pics of the amazing things he has crafted for me that are winging their way from the U.K. as we speak. On the other hand... married man.

The good thing about things like this happening is that it sharpens my comedy skills. It does. I am never so on as when I am thoroughly pissed off at a man. So I am very proud to report that, despite not going to the gym, I had an awesome night last night. I went to Sbux, had a great yakyak with Stas and Austin, stopped by Newbury Comics and had another great yakyak with Nico and the other cute guy, picked up groceries and TJ's and had a quick yakyak with Chris, and then went home and did some SERIOUS comedy writing and designing.

YES!

If I could make that "YES" flash in multi-colored lights, I would. It was awesome. The bit I've been trying to get to gel that involves sex, dating, and being traumatized by parental canoodling finally came together. I was able to finally do the concept sketch for Ferd for my logo, finalized the design for the customization job I'm doing on my Chuck's, AND the sketch for my military jacket. I feel fuckin' awesome. Higher than hell. LOVE IT!

So happy Friday, my cherished blurkers. I have two meetings to get through (one I couldn't care less about, the other, later, I hope goes well) and then it's the weekend. Just two weeks to seeing Jim Jefferies at Foxwoods. *insert fangirl squee here* Celebricrush gave me a shout out on his FB on Monday (and probably saved me from slitting my wrists after the meeting from hell that I'd just gotten out of that left me feeling raped and weeping) for the rebuttal. It's a small thing, but the thank you... it made my day, considering the rebuttal was about someone misjudging him. After a meeting that had a lot to do with being misjudged by a bunch of narrow-minded, passive-agressive, petty people... yeah.