Hic.

I have a rather unpleasant case of the hiccups, so this post is going to be short, as having the hiccups always makes me feel horrid and rather vomity. However, this is perhaps my last chance at a computer before heading off to Russia. However, the hiccups i am hiccuping are nasty enough to make me think that I should say perhaps not to the whole idea.

Anyway, what I really wanted to post about was the fact that I saw Star Wars on opening night. Unfortunately, however, it was opening night in Korea, which meant that not only was the theater not packed, but also nobody was dressed up. Also, it was about a week after the reast of the world, but we're going to ignore that small fact. The audience also didn't really seem to appreciate me and my stepmother's commentary or inappropriate laughter, however it truly did seem a necessary element. What do you do with an MST3K-worthy movie (yes, i'm a nerd. but it's charming.) but comment on it in the proper manner? It seems impossible to do anything else.

The movie itself was ok, though I had a strong suspicion that all the money they spent on special effects killed any budget tehy might have had for a script writer or, say, an acting coach, particularly for Hayden "I'm so wooden I can make Pinocchiolook like a Real Boy just by shaking my disturbingly greasy mullet" Christensen. He is plainly a devotee of the school of Scowls, though-- his entire descent into the Dark Side just looks like one asinine teeneage sulkfest. Over his wife, mind you. gah.

Anyway,, i'm sorry to truncate, but, alas, I'm off to Russia in a few hours, so I should take a bit of sleep.

A hiccupless snight to all.

-A

The Balm to his Gilead

Bear with the gushiness... but given the choice between stealing the joke and simply posting the link to the brilliant cartoon, i chose fessing up and showing the source. And also, because i know you're salivating to know the logistics of the interaction between myself and my best beloved of nerdlings*, then i proffer this other little doodle of RStevens' making unto you. Strangely reminiscent, dialogue and all. Except, alas, my man isn't a robot, despite appearances. My life is not yet THAT perfect to combine my love for things of the android variety and things of the high-pantsed nerdy Croation variety all in one metallic package. Pah. I speet on life's shortchangings.


*I'm allowed to call him that only if I also mention yet again that he is, indeed, the lurking Croatian forces of evil. The alternative is having him tell me about some bio thing. Ggeuch.

A few thoughts

- If a container of baby powder is improperly closed, then it will spill all over the contents of the makeup bag in which it has been packed, giving them a nasty old appearance.

-If one's figure has successfully turned the corner from Slim into "A little sump'n sump'n to hold on to" (complete with BREASTS!) as a result of boredom-bingeing (TM) chez granddad, one gym visit and intense drinking of water and thinking healthy thoughts will not suffice to reverse the condition.

-Nor will trying on a tight leather skirt and trying to will one's ass into not looking hookerishly obscene in it.

-The gym visit will, however, be useful for the observation of the hideous yet strangely fascinating phenomenon of concave behinds in the dressing room.

-Nooooooo.... I'm not obsessed with butts. I promise. Nooooo. Particularly not my own.

-Also, pain of an unpleasant nature, as opposed to all that pleasant railroad spike through the jaw- pain, will result from this, indicating that future gym-visiting should be avoided at all costs.

-However, I feel slightly disloyal saying that, as an ex-jock, and do actually enjoy having my body function in a non-geriatric manner, so I might continue to work out. But only when necessary for sanity

Am actually not really concerned with the weight gain, beyond the amount of concern inherent in being female-- It's only a little bit, is mostly in the T & A area, which actually looks good, but having breasts again is a pain in the butt, as regards the clothing-obscenity department, and I really do prefer to not let my fat cells run wild and free and unchecked. Just a matter of downgrading my eating everything in sight for no reason whatsoever to simply eating the world, but only when actually hungry and when it's worth it. Mmmm.... foooooooood. Am going to a lovely Japanese / French fusion restaurant tonight. Yummy.

On another note: MY GRANDAD HAS A GIRLFRIEND! I SAW THEM KISS!

I think this is cute.

Sooooo confuuuuuused.

Guest room, sweet guest room.

-Stop it! You're scaring her!
-I know!
-That's not good!
-I know!
(keeps on shooting at the dog with his GI Joe tank. Dog cowers in my lap, tensing her tiny Jack Russell muscles as she wonders just how much intermittent abuse she is willing to put up with in exchange for a life of complete and utter laziness and luxury.)

Ahhhh... ten year olds and their dogs. Particularly dogs like this one-- my dad's little Jack Russell, dubiously monickered ChaCha, who wears a pearl necklace and daintily crosses her paws while sitting on her embroidered silk pillow in the sunshine. She rules the household and has even wormed her way into my heart enough to prove that not all small dogs are the runningmates of Satan. This one is quite tolerable-- catlike, even.

So, somehow defying the whims of fate and air traffic controllers, I have managed to wend my way to the fine city of Seoul, for this [sob] last visit before my father's family moves to Hong Kong. Tough life, I know. I am doubly impressed with this visit, because not only did I arrive at the same time as all my baggage, an event that has not happened in roughly four years-- I kid you not-- but also I managed to meet an unsavoury Canadian while still in the airport. Ahhh... what would we do without skeezy men? This charming gent struck up a conversation with me while I sat quietly reading my book, disturbing nobody (Nabokov's Despair if you are curious-- quite marvellous thus far) and persisted in discussing:

• "You know, everyone who comes to visit me always wants to go to the strips clubs. Montreal is quite famous for its strip clubs."
• "Italy? Are you like... down with the Mafia and stuff?"
  
• "I just love travelling in Asia... it's so great to be able to get away with all this stuff, just 'cuz... you know... the police aren't going to mess with a white guy."
  
• "Japanese people can do so much... I was in Tokyo once, and they were doing this dance... it was like.... Jamaican... or like black American.... and yeah... they did it really well, even though they were Japanese..."
• "Yeah so... you should give me your number... y'know, in case you need country info or something..."
  
• "Oh these roses? They're for the girl I'm meeting... (long pause, blushes, stutters) My girlfriend, I guess....So uh, who're you waiting for?"

He was in Korea to teach English, but thought he might leave soon, because, y'know, he was dying for decent food.

Ugh.

Ye Gods

My dad just said: "I don't know if you know Eminem and Eight Mile High or something... you got one shot."

Bear in mind that my dad is blonde, WASPy and 52.

I think it says something about me that my clear-out of my facebook groups involves removing "HateW", not because I don't hate him, but because the idea of being in the group bored me and seemed obvious, but did not involve the removal of such fine groups as "Early 90's Dance Music" or "Harvard Students for Woody". I guess it's safe to say I show where my priorities lie.

(BTW: I might just be broken up with as a result of this post. Jura, if you're reading this, as I'm sure you are, rest assured that I do think that our president is a complete idiot. I just don't feel like displaying it on my already-long list of facebook groups.)

In other news, I had yummy mexican food for lunch, and pretty much proceeded to wrap myself in the tortilla and roll around in the refried beans, promising never to subject myself to the evils of New England food again.

I have also acquired a book called A Treasury of Royal Scandals: The Shocking True Stories of History's Wickedest, Weirdest, Most Wanton Kings, Queens, Tsars, Popes, and Emperors. It looks promising... I hope it lives up to my need for tripe and gossip of the antiquated variety.

Semi-normal posting will return once I can get to a computer without looking over my shoulder for my grandfather's approach. The man lives at his keyboard. It's quite amusing, actually.

Sitting in my grandfather's living room in Redlands, California. It's a nice place-- he and my grandmother moved out of the big house over on West Crescent Ave when she hurt her leg and they realised they were just rattling around the place. He fell to pieces a little bit when she passed, but now he's gotten his stuff back together and even makes his strained jokes again. Redlands... is a town. It's about as close to Middle America as I've ever gotten-- strip malls galore. I was introduced to In'n'Out Burger yesterday, which was decent, and I believe may have been my first fast food experience in a couple of years. Seeing my dad and my grandad is nice-- we have three generations of opposable pinky toes and ginormous calves assembled in one room.

Will post something productive in a while. Really am just doing this to counteract boredom.

-At some point, if I get inspired enough, I'll knit you a sweater.
-A turtleneck?
-No. I hate you in turtlenecks.
-But I love wearing turtlenecks! What's wrong with my turtlenecks?
-Well, they actually do make you look like a turtle.
-But that's the whole point!

Like, whoa.

Everyone's a frickin' jewellery designer these days. I was at Sabine's last night for her party, and I happened to comment on Leticia's earrings, pretty ovaloid dangly hoops with an ethnic-y, not-quite-polished feel. She'd made them herself. Sabine's earrings were also noteworthy, as she was the birthday girl and also French and thus everything about her appearance has to be carefully catalogued and complimented. Plus she looked pretty. Anyway, upon mention of her earrings, the pile of foundation and bleach perched anorexically across the room piped up. "Oh, I made it for her," she assured us, staring down her pinched nose. "I have a website. I sell jewellery."

Thats right, folks, we were in the presence of Coco Chanel reincarnated, with a dash of Maggie Thatcher thrown in for kicks . This girl-- not only she is a student, but she sells jewellery. On a website. And here I am, having forgotten to burn offerings at her altar. You know, not everyone can... string beads.

(That's the part that annoyed me. The earrings were a ludicrously simple, not very exciting, design. Power to her to thinking outside the box and all, but... ack.)

Also overheard at the party:

-"She totally alpha-femaled me."
-"She alpha-femaled you?"
-"She alpha-femaled me. She totally did."

But all in all, it was a lovely event, and Sabine did look gorgeous and 'twas lovely to see her, Nicole and Tisha. However, when stuck at a party where I know four and a half (the half being compromised of three girls who I know slightly, with whom I discussed shoes) people, simply because the person in whose honour the event is being thrown is one of my best friends, I reserve the right to mock some of the other participants, if they rendered themselves mockworthy. I shall stop by tonight and present her with an Italian book and then there will be much rejoicing.

Who will buy my sweet red roses, two blooms for a penny?

I have the entire score of Oliver stuck in my head. This is better. Last night it was Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat and I was rocking out to "Potiphar was counting shekels in his den below the bedroom when he heard a mighty rumpus clattering above him..."

You can just imagine what happens next...

On another, related-if-you-happen-to-live-in-my-head-but-not-otherwise-so noteI have developed the sleeping habits of a geriatric. Whereas back in the day I was bopping away the night with the best of them, not calling it late unless I was sitting on the stoop nursing whatever SUPERMEGASUPREMEREALLYGREAT energy drink Cal and I happened to be testing what week, bitterly chainsmoking and watching the people roll into work, bright and chipper, now I'm out like a light at 12. Oops, it's that time. Off to beddy bye I go.

This really wouldn't be a big deal had I oodles of oodles of time, but with 75% of my waking hours consumed by work, and with 3 and a half days left on this coast, I feel like I need to be getting a lot more USE out of everything. As well as doing things such as packing. I am currently in a stage of disorganised mess-dom, with no real location for my possessions and no Russian visa as of yet. I conversed with the lady at the embassy and finally ascertained, through layers of static and bad accents that yes, I can get my visa in Korea and no, they won't arrest me as a spy.

Anyway, Jura has closed himself in the closet, as I told him to go away while I was writing, so I fear I must go liberate him. Or perhaps I'll leave him in there and cavort around his suite, making free and messy with all his VERY IMPORTANT papers and organisational system. Apparently the place has turned into a pigsty since I've semi-established myself here. Pigsty? Shoes in the middle of the floor, a couple books out of place. Heaven help the poor boy if he ever actually would have to live with me.

Oh poo... I thought he couldn't get out on his own. Alas, he found an inner knob. A tragedy, that.

This is a Public Service Announcement

The fact that you are a 70-ish year old man riding in a bright yellow sports car does NOT give you the right to ogle girls' legs just because they happen to be wearing skirts. The girls are a third your age and anyway, you forfeited all your ogling rights when you hopped into the bright yellow sports car. Plus, the car means you are the nasty kind of old man and not the lovely powerful knowledgeable kind who don't have tiny impotent penises and wrinkly butts for which they need to compensate. Sexy old men wear their paunches with pride, underneath their sweatervests.

However, if you happen to be a 70-ish year old woman in a yellow sports car, power to you. Ogle all the young boys you want. Date the young boys, if any happen to meet your standards. Dye your hair purple with pink edges and be outrageous. Have cats, by jove! Lots of them!

Kheel.

So it turns out that I am indeed going to Yaroslavl... on City Day, which happens to be the day after I first set foot in the country. Paul promises that I'll get more drunk than I've ever been. Lovely. Welcome to Russia. Your attempts at speaking the language have you sounding like a person who had their tongue ripped out in a prison camp? Splendid! Drink up! It doesn't matter that you can't communicate-- you are Amereecan gerl, and that group of Georgians lurking on the street corner will take perfect care of you, should we happen to get separated.

No, I'm sure it'll be a lot of fun, but the idea of being launched into a large event in a country where I am going to be lost is a little scary. Ah well, we'll see how it goes. Hopefully I'll be able to do my signature "sit there and look fascinated while calculating how large exactly a bucket of grease went into crafting this particular hairstyle" move, and all will be well.

Ahh... I am excited, I swear. The idea of City Day with Paul in Yaroslavl just makes me very, very tired.

Seeing as I completely and utterly missed National Poetry Month, I thought I would make up for that by putting up one of the few love poems I can stomach, though it is on the slushy side. This poem is in Alex Soderberg's honour-- she first made me read it, and I happened to stumble across it today, so... here:

(of course, the poem in the greater sense of it being lovey-dovey is directed to Jura. But that goes without saying, really. Ack! Saccharine! Yeuch!)

Mad Girl's Love Song - Sylvia Plath

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

!!!

not to turn this into a craft blog or anything, but...

cutest things ever.

ackk.... i want i want i want.

But she breaks just like a little girl...

Informal poll question to all two of my readers--

Does anyone know of a female that has not heard the song "Just Like a Woman" and decided it was completely and utterly hers, and nodded along knowingly to the verses, occasionally getting a faraway look in her eye?

Particularly if the listening occurred shortly after doing something stupid?

I thought it was just me, but no, I keep finding more and more girls with that self-same soulful look in their eyes as they realise that they too are vulnerable behind the strong front they put up.

That and "Lay Lady Lay". I hate to admit it, but I stumbled across a reference to this in a book, and was angered to find that I was not the only girl who got a glimmer of an unknown something on swaying to the lyrics in their bedroom, aged 11 and slightly awkward.

I don't know why this is a Dylan day, I really don't.

Bleeding thumbs...

It's getting to be that time of year again, when I embark on completely over-the-top projects I want to make for people. This year, Jura, Anya and Ana are graduating, and I'm leaving Meg and Joori, so that's five things. I also need to make Alex S. a long-overdue present in exchange for the coaster she decorated for me. Craftster has some bloody amazing things but I am sadly lacking in funds, time and motivation.

Jura is getting a stuffed water bear, which he will huffily inform you is ACTUALLY a tardigrade, but since I'm not a pompous biologist, I'm going to go for the colloquial term. And gee, is this a pain in the butt. I had forgotten how tedious sewing is, because you are wielding SHARP POINTY THINGS that can MAKE YOU BLEED (if you're a.) hemophiliac and b.) a gigantic wuss) and thus not at all like knitting, where stabbing someone would actually require effort. Ahh.... knitting needles. All those beautiful possibilities. Stabbing needles... Hee.

I am pissed that I was not able to go to my once-yearly pilgrimage to church last night with Liza. It was Orthodox Easter, which is supposed to be glorious, but I was dead tired and had had a crappy day and have 9343982403284 things to do for Russian today, so I had to pass. Next year.

My internet connection keeps skipping out on me, and my cat very much wants to sit in my lap, so I am out. Tonight-- Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy! I'm very scared... I love those books so much that I'm terrified I'm going to be scarred. Review to come.