On The Road Again with Fan Grrrl - Joyous Reunions

Greetings from beautiful East Bumfuck, PA!

After a day of right royal clusterfuckery (and bless My Man for his patience, ingenuity and knowledge of an honest mechanic--he missed a Bruins playoff game to do a quick safety check on the Blue Bomber that turned into two hours of ridiculousness in the rain because of serious water damage that will require rewiring the taillight panel. All done with good humor and grace and a apology because it wasn't a problem he could fix. Yes, I love him), I made it down here in seven hours--would have been 6.5--even with rush hour in Connecticut--but I hit construction in the last five miles. Argh.

ANYWAY, once I lost my Boston radio stations, I fired up the MP3 & got caught up on (most) of Talkin' Shit with Jim and Eddie. I'll listen to the last three podcasts on the road to Pittsburgh--I should be fully caught up by the time I get there. Doing 100+ MPH on the highway and laughing my ass off--THAT'S a great combination. (Along with two trenta iced coffees. Yes, I was wired.) And tonight... tonight, Jim Jefferies at the Improv Pittsburgh.

There is a part of me that feels like I'm being incredibly irresponsible, taking a road trip while everything else is going on in my life, but after this past April, I need this. Last night, I had a Girlie Night with KJ--turned her on to two Lush perfumes (and only was able to hold on to my vial of Dirty because she liked the Vanillary better. *whew* Dirty isn't available in the U.S. yet--it might have gotten ugly) and we painted our nails and just TALKED until 2 a.m. Today, I'm hoping to see her mum in Monroeville before meeting up with Tory and having an afternoon of chat and writing before a night of laughing my ass off (and yeah, if the first show is as good as the past two of Jim's I've seen, I'll stay for the second one). A dear friend from Canada is in New England, and if I make it back in time, I'll meet up with her tomorrow for an intro to steampunk, and Sunday, I'm seeing Thor not just in IMAX, but IMAX 3D with My Man. Have I mentioned how much I LOVE comic book movies? Green Lantern and X-Men are coming soon... geek out! And leave us not forget the latest Pirates.

Last weekend was a weekend of reunions for a painful reason. This weekend is all about joy and laughter.

Oh, yeah--and Celebricrush.

Review to follow, and let's hope there's no disaster story this time (and I get a decent pic with him, although the bad pic would make for a great running joke).

WTF? When did I get old?

Mornin', kids.

I was going to blog about something else today. I've actually forgotten what--I had it half written in my head, too, but then I got into work and checked email.

I glanced at my FB notifications mailbox and saw there was a message from an old high school friend followed by three other replies from the St. C.'s crowd. My first thought was, "Oh, great. Who's dead now?"

THAT'S what I was going to blog about--sex after 40. It can wait.

This is the unfunny side of getting older--seeing friends die or get very ill and go through things you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy.

My high school class has been pretty lucky: most of us are still around and doing well. We lost a couple of folks to stupid things (drunk driving accidents) post-high school, but for the most part, we've been a boring lot, doing things like going to college, getting jobs, getting married, having kids, a few went to war... normal shit. I'm good with that. Drama is good on the screen or stage; in life, it's wearying.

Last year--one year and almost two weeks ago--we lost one of ours to a freak accident. It was weird to go to the wake and the funeral and see all these grown-ups wearing suits and with responsible jobs and families who I remembered doing things like jumping out of first floor windows, getting whaled on by seniors (that guy is a Statie right now; there is an evil part of me that hopes he's pulled over one of those clowns on the highway for being stupid), dating, squabbling, laughing, passing notes, making fun of teachers... and now, so not kids anymore.

I'm the odd one out in the crows--I'm not married, no kids yet, most of my friends are 10 years younger... aside from dealing with Mum and The Job, I pretty much do as I please.

Well, no one is dead, but someone is very ill, and it hit me kinda hard. Today's pic is what I consider my "official" prom photo. The guy on the right is one of my oldest and dearest friends, Ferd. The guy on the right is Chris, my prom date. I had the BIGGEST crush on him (he's got killer blue eyes; at the time, I was sucker for blue eyes. Still am, come to think of it); he and I used to hack on each other constantly.

It was always a contest to see who could one-up the other, and nine times out of ten, we were on opposite sides of the argument. It also doesn't help that I was a punk amongst metalheads. Folks who know my listening habits now will be shocked to hear that there was a time that I didn't like The Who, Led Zeppelin, Bruce Springsteen, Aerosmith, Van Halen... (I still don't like Sammy Hagar.) I just didn't get it, and I liked my alienation music; I LOVED David Bowie. Chris was the one who possibly gave me the most shit about him; call it the ultimate high school triumph, when, in 1990, after he took my extra ticket last minute for the Foxboro show (and saved my bacon; Steve & Rick were going, so was able to get a ride because I did not *gasp* have a car at that time), he said, "He wasn't bad." After YEARS of hearing, "Bowie SUCKS!" it was nothing short of an Oscar win, if you get my meaning.

Then there was the prom. Thanks to a couple of friends playing go-between (again, I think it was Steve and Rick), Chris showed up at the store where I worked and said, "So, I hear you're interested in going to a prom?" Be still my damn heart. I find it (vaguely) amusing that I have a hard time remembering what I was going to blog about earlier, but I can still clearly remember him standing in the racks of Decelles, his hands in the pockets of his Bruins jacket, head cocked, asking. Call it one of my few John Hughes's moments.

The prom was fun--we shared a limo with Ferd and his date, one of my besties, Amy. I think Kim and Mo were with us with their dates... Mo's date did our hair... total afternoon of beauty... Poor Ferd had a curfew (STRICT parents), but we still found the time to go to the Awful-Awful and get take-out. And on the way to the prom, Chris popped a tape into the deck in the back of the limo and introduced me to George Carlin's Seven Words.

I broke up. LOST IT, laughing, and you'd think he won the damn lottery--evidently, I blushed as well. A total moment of high school one-up triumph. Point to him. ;-)

Good times.

We stayed in touched for a little while after high school, but after '90, I pretty much drifted away from everyone. I had a different life, different goals, different outlook. It was easier to not stay in touch. When FB started to take off and the lot of us from St. C's started to get back in touch, I was psyched to see Chris on there. There was even a little flutter in the heart (because I am so stooopidly sentimental). Nothing I pursued, but good to know the ticker still clicks a little.

Well, the news today is that Chris is pretty damn ill. *sigh* Now, the cynical realist in me accepts that this is a part of life--people get sick. There's no rhyme or reason to it, it just happens. Some people get better, some people don't. There's no magic formula--it depends on the person, the treatment, the doctors, the family, the everything.

There are a lot of people pulling for him, me especially. I'd appreciate it if y'all reading could send him some positive energy. The realist in me says, why? The human being in me says, "Because. He's my friend, I love him, and I want him to get better and get old with the rest of us."

Because, to me, we're still kids in high school with our whole lives in front of us.

And if he reads this: Chris--Love ya, brother. Hang in there--we're all pulling for you. I want my notebook back. ;-)

On Being an Old Broad

Or, I WANT IT ALL AND I WANT IT DELIVERED BY HOT, NAKED MEN!

“No man is failure who has friends.” Samuel Langhorn Clemens

St. Teresa has just asked if I’m ready to go out. Argh. I hate being rushed, and I operate on Empress Time, which is pretty much about half an hour behind schedule because there’s always something I forgot to do. I find this statement amusing (although it drives all the hyper-organized Capricorns who surround me INSANE). I have heard it called “black folks time,” “Latino people time,” “Pagan folks time,” “Lesley time,” etc. which basically means damn near everyone runs behind schedule. So tell me, is there ANYONE (besides Capricorns, of course) who is ON TIME? Except Germans, of course. (And there are at least three people in my life who just got winked at and who are laughing at that line, so anyone who isn’t, GET A FUCKIN’ SENSE OF HUMOR AND LIGHTEN UP!)

It r ma birfday, as the LOLCats would say. And I am 43 on this cloudy November day. It really kicked off last night over at Leesh’s with my first b-day gift: a copy of How to Survive a Garden Gnome Attack. Just the right note! Baked apples, Lucky therapy, writing, IMing with Potential Paramour (things shifted there; long story), actually impressing Josh with the Jim Jefferies gig story, and then running into one of my favorite (currently enrolled) student with her lovely boyfriend as I was getting out of the car and shooting the shit for an hour in the chilly post-midnight hour—GREAT way to kick off the b-day weekend! (And nice to see a sweet, fabulous person happy, with a good guy. Hey, if it ain’t me, I’m glad it’s my friends.)

My day started with my phone going off around 11ish, realizing that Piddy Pat was sleeping in my right armpit, purring away (I sleep on my left side, FYI), and found a gajillion happy b-day wishes waiting on the Happenings screen of my restored ‘droid and a couple of b-day text messages as well. The only way my morning could have started better would have been waking up in a posh hotel room with the scent of a full breakfast (including bacon, sausages, fresh cinnamon buns, baked apples, cooooffffeeee, V8, a slightly green banana, and a raspberry mango smoothy) in the arms of the current Celibricrush after seeing his gig last night and with a front row seat for the Nottingham gig tonight with all my UK friends whom I haven’t seen in a dog’s age. (The realistic version of that fantasy would be waking up in the arms of Old Sbux Crush and breakfast at Supreme Kitchen. I don’t think he’s checked out the blog, so the secret is safe, although I think he’s figured out I’m attracted. *shrugs* No whooper—girl’s gotta dream, and needs to aim high.)

I have not been the nicest person this week—I have been incredibly depressed, irritable and spazzy due to PMS/PMDD, thyroid being out of whack, horrific insomnia, anxiety attacks, weird vibes at work, the b-day, and a few other minor kerfuffles.

The pre-b-day depression, fueled by all the attending bs, was not fun and was compounded on Thursday night by an email from Brit Boy #5. I am recovering from it, slowly. My heart is hurting—I still miss him, whether I want to admit it or not. I really thought that was going to work out. *shakes head* I miss his eyes, his smile, and being in his arms.

Vicki has been an utter trooper this week—all the shit she’s dealing with and she’s had to babysit my depressed ass via IM. I hate that awful feeling of being a complete failure, and boy, did it hit me this week. I really felt like utter shite—like a complete waste of space on the planet. I know that I’m not; it’s just been a rough year.

See, for me, today is New Year’s Day. I think it’s one of the reasons I don’t get into the whole Samhain thing as the Pagan new year, and ditto for New Year’s Eve. Today is the day my new year starts, and all of the assessment and re-evaluation that goes into those holidays for other people goes into today for me. This past year has been… argh. It’s been an incredible mix of great and horrible, and I don’t know what the new year is going to bring. My life is shifting so rapidly, and I know that come this time next year, I will be in a very different place.
Where I’ll be is the biggest question. I could very well be living in Nova Scotia by this time next year; or, I could still be in Boston but no longer in Hell’s Vestibule, something I would desperately love but also fear. This has been my family’s home for over 70 years; it probably will no longer be by this time next year. That will be traumatic in a lot of ways. It’s a cultural thing—the Irish are weird about Their Land. You want to see me go insane? Threaten my home. Violate my property. Friends have seen me drop everything and challenge fisticuffs to someone fucking with my house. If you’ve ever seen Gone With the Wind, Gerald O’Hara has this little speech to Scarlett about what it means to own land. It’s a very real thing ingrained in the Irish, I think, especially in light of our history, and something that hasn’t died out in a lot of us, for good or ill.

I’m behind the 8-ball artistically right now—I haven’t written a bloody word for NaNoWriMo, haven’t finished the sodding rewrite of Book 1 (and am only on page 31, argh, argh, argh), have ANOTHER craft show next weekend, and the house… Christ, the house. At least Elder Services has approved a sliding scale fee, so the heavy chores guy won’t cost an arm and a leg. We may get this monstrosity cleaned out yet.

The cat is snoring on the comforter across from me—curled in a ball, making little snuzzy “ook” sounds. What makes this REALLY funny (for Pratchett fans) is that a) she is the same color as The Librarian (of Unseen University) and Horace, my stuffed orangutan (who has appeared in the UU scarf that went over for Hogswatch), has frequently been mistaken for Piddy asleep on the couch; b) she IS a librarian’s cat. I like it.

Today’s epigram is to remind me of how utterly, completely blessed I am—there is no way on heaven, hell or earth someone surrounded by such incredible, loving friends could be a failure. Just not possible. It’s reminder to me to think about how I define success—that it’s NOT about money or fame. It’s about people and how you touch their lives. It’s about leaving the place a little better for your having passed through. If the outpouring of kind regards today is any proof, I’m doin’ OK. :-)

Now, I have to get my arse in gear and take my Mum shopping. She’s already had to deal with me being grumpy with her (for anyone considering getting involved with an artist, particularly a writer, remember, WE ARE GRUMPY BASTARDS when tapping away on the lappie). Time to be a good kid.

Tonight is all about celebrating. Seeing friends (if you’re in the area, come on over!) to nosh and drink (although I’ll probably be going non-alcoholic tonight), and then will head for the ocean for a stroll and to meditate and clear my head.

Sadly, it’s too cold for a skinny dip (although a perfect night to act like a teenager and snog in the backseat).

Remember, kids—growing older is mandatory. Growing up… growing up is for the unimaginative.

Much love,
Your Empress

A Quickie...

Leesh has told me my blog posts are really freakin' long for blog posts.

Oh, well. Brevity may be the soul of wit, but I ain't Shakespeare. I'm just one of his many bastard decendents, muddling along and philosophizing. Besides, his plays ain't short.

Well, it's a beautiful October Saturday. I just had coffee with the Mighty Lucifer--first time I've seen him in at least six years. *sigh* Gods, that man is so fucking beautiful. I mean, STUNNING... (he'll kill me for writing this, but I don't care. Deal with it, babe--you're one of the guys I'll never be completely over, and I'm good with it. If I can fall for someone as good as you, there's some hope for my battered heart. Besides, it reminds me to keep my standards high and NOT to settle.) I talked about men being beautiful earlier in the week; Lucifer is one of the men who solidified my concepts on this.

See, while he is physically attractive (and he is--finest arms, ass and thighs I've ever seen [even if never naked, dammit]--amazing facial planes, thick jet hair which looks fab with the little bits of grey and white now, eyes... ooooooohhhh, the mischief in those eyes.... and with the crinkle laugh lines starting in the corners... Gods, has he aged well... just HANDSOMER than ever, sexier than ever), it wasn't his face or body that I first noticed when I met him: it was his eyes and the intelligence and soul burning there. Hit me like a freight train, and I knew that I HAD TO KNOW THIS MAN, and while I never managed to bed him, I did end up with a cherished and beloved friend who I would defend to the death. And I'm gonna shut up now before I get myself into trouble.

I give away no secrets--he's known for a long time how I feel; however, we share a number of characteristics--we're both brutally honest and hopelessly honorable--and so long as he is married, we will only ever be friends. Neither one of us has ever cheated on a partner and aren't about to start now. We'd smack each other. THAT'S the real reason I love him. He's one of the few people on the planet not afraid to kick my ass.

My head is deep in my panties right now--not only did I start my morning with Himself, there is a date on the horizon for the late afternoon. I shan't reveal who the candidate is, but if this goes forward... I may find myself no longer partner-less.

But we shall see. I'm not holding my breath. Because while I am most faithful, I have little faith until after I have some proof. Ah, my cynical heart...

As for that comment about noticing eyes first... that's the secret with all of my crushes: it's always about the eyes. ALWAYS. From the first to the latest, it's always, always, always about the eyes for me. My first clear memory of Peter O'Toole were his startling blue eyes in The Stunt Man trailer; my favorite pic of Jim Jefferies (you KNEW I'd mention him--just two weeks to Alcoholocaust!) catches his eyes, full of soul and sorrow and bruised innocence. You want to know the secret to great comedy? Those two words: bruised innocence. That's where the funny starts: in pain.

And now, my cherished blurkers, Her Most Imperial Majesty needs to refresh her coffee and get to the NaNoWriMo Meet & Greet, a date (hopefully), and drinkages with former students who have become dear friends. Which is how a beautiful October day should be spent... with people you like and love and who remind you how much life is worth living. I may not be in Nova Scotia, but I cannot say my life here in Boston is not filled with love and light.

Now, I must go fetch my Viking hat. ONWARD!

Much love,
Your Empress

It's too damn early

To be awake, never mind functioning.

Although I don't know if I consider blogging functioning.

So, today, I'm off home. Thrills. Joy. Oh, extremes of ecstasy.

Oh, pardon... I seem to have dripped sarcasm all over the lappie. Thankfully, it doesn't cause short circuits or get stuck in the keys.

I have never looked less forward to a trip than this one. I don't want to go home.

Now, this is nothing new--I go through this every time I come up here. I love this place, and when I'm here, I know I'm where I belong. Boston may be home, but Nova Scotia is Home.

Doesn't help that I'm grumpy from last night, either. Started out grand--great lazy day yesterday which Vicki actually got to enjoy (I don't know how she does it. I am in awe), a final Frenchy's run with a couple of interesting scores that will go to ebay, I got to prep dinner (fabulous roast chicken and sides), and finally got to see the Russell Crowe Robin Hood. (LOVED IT! Gods, that man is so damn hot--talent, beauty, and fuck me blind, can he sit a horse! They grows 'em pretty down there in the Antipodes... rough, ready and rrrrroowwwww!) Made toddies for Vicki and I, we had a snack, and then... shakes and tremors, followed by hard retching.

Thank you, high fructose corn syrup. *slams head on the desk*

One of the after-effects of the gastric bypass is that I can't do anything heavily sweetened with high fructose corn syrup. Now, I had started avoiding that a while ago--after I kicked the Pepsi habit, I tried to cut it completely out of my diet. Since surgery, I can't go near the shit. A tiny bit won't hurt, but anything that is heavily sweetened with it will make me very, very, VERY ill.

Like last night.

I read labels when I buy things. I have to--I'm allergic to so much shit, I have to be careful. What I didn't know is that in Canada, HFCS is called "glucose-fructose syrup." *slams head on the desk*

I can't abide vomiting. Seriously. It's the worst physical experience on the planet--I find it utterly humiliating to be hunched over a toilet, my entire body spasming, retching, and just wanting to fucking die. I've had people attempt to comfort me in this moment, only to have the door of the bathroom shoved closed--I can't stand for anyone to ever see me like that. It's so utterly undignified.

Last night was so bad, I was crying at the end of it. Wretched feeling.

So I'd like to say to the Corn Refiners Association: Go fuck yourself. HFCS is NOT SAFE for human consumption--it is NOT the same as sugar, you lying fucks. It's garbage, a poison, and has been directly SCIENTIFICALLY linked to the obesity epidemic, and you bastards should be taken out and shot for the commercials you're running on television promoting the shit. I don't get my information about HFCS from my hairdresser--I've gotten it directly from my body. Thank you for ruining my last night with my best friend; instead of hanging on the couch, talking and laughing until 4 a.m., she ended up fussing over me (bless you, Vicki, you are a saint) like a mother hen until I fell asleep (after the tremors stopped from the sugar shock).

And I leave you on that very grumpy note, my darling blurkers. Don't believe me? Just take a troll around Google; you will find a great deal of information on the dangers of consuming HFCS. If you're having weight issues, start reading your labels, and I'm willing to wager that if you cut the crap out, once you're over the withdrawal, you will start seeing a difference. One hundred pounds and dropping later...

Off to pack.
Much love,
Your Empress