Wednesday, August 31, 2005

Tuesday is Triv Day

Today I completely ignored an assignment I have. It's only for 500 words, though. I'll do it when I get off Eviljob tomorrow.

Today we were talking (I have no choice but to talk, seeing as how I no longer have any privacy...), and someone commented that I'm always so nice to people, and everyone agreed. All I could think to say was, "Geez... none of you guys have seen my blog!" They totally cracked up!

No, I'm serious. Here I sound like total bitch. There I'm sweet. And intimidating. I'm still trying to figure that one out....

So I have a mile-long list of things I didn't do today after I got out; I watched Flood News...errr...Fox News. I saw a Macy's almost underwater--which I found really distressing--and it looks like the WSOP or whatever that Meg was planning to go to in Biloxi is going to be unlikely...or uncomfortable. I just hope Boomtown is ok. :-) I like that place 'cos the few times I've been there, I've had a good time. It's not as fancy as others, but the people are nice. Or were. I've stayed at the Imperial Palace in Biloxi, and it was...ok. Better than others, not as good as many; just ok. And a handful of years ago, I actually did pick up someone there, in a temporary sense. I don't do that sort of thing now, but it was justified and fun then. So I like Biloxi. I kind of like Tunica better, but I don't want to. :-) And I kind of like other places better, but I don't want to. So I'm sad that they're having troubles. And I'm also sad for the casino cats. There are a lot of casino cats; they hang around outside, usually in the parking lots. I hope they ran away from the water. :-( I'd like to think they did. And one of the conferences I go to is slated for New Orleans next year...I hope they've worked stuff out by then.

And my mother's concerned--really--for a flame point Siamese that lives in an art gallery in the French Quarter. She made friends with him or her the last time she was in New Orleans, and she's mentioned it about a dozen times. I told her to call the art gallery and ask, once the phones are back up if she's that worried; they'd probably appreciate the concern. It sounded like a cute cat, though; Mom said it would go out onto the sidewalk, like it was trying to invite people into its art gallery. :-) That's a Siamese for you.

I have my own stories of New Orleans, but they're...involved. As is everything else with me, it sometimes seems. So I'll just report hers for now.

I went to play trivia with Son-Friend tonight, which I try to do every Tuesday if possible. He looks forward to it, and it gives him the opportunity to talk to me. Usually it makes my brain hurt. :-P

We were in a bar (with me drinking diet coke and him drinking I think tea; I am too cheap to do a whole lot of drinking in bars, and Son-Friend can't drink. These Tuesdays are leaving me sick of bar food.), and Son-Friend was trying to tell me as we watched trivia and poker on ESPN that he would really be a good poker player, if I'd just give him a shot. Oh, yeah. Like the last time I took him. He became so emotionally involved that he had seizures. No, thank you. We'll save that for when your meds work.

And Son-Friend got annoyed when I casually commented that Phil Gordon is cute. I'm so glad that I didn't mention the fact that I think he's absofuckinglutely beautiful most of the time (*most* of the time). Thank goodness for that.

I think Son-Friend is concerned that I'm going to cut him off financially if/when I get with someone or married. Not that I ever have in the past. Who knows; he's mental. There's no talking with him.


So then I came home, and wrote some stuff while I played *more* trivia. Ok, so I'm taking way too much time for myself, I know, but... I didn't play for almost a year online, and I really enjoy it. And one of the chatroom denizens came up with a good enough superhero name:

Danger Cat!

I like that way better than Sporkgirl.

And I also talked to Nurse Betty via IM (I am the QUEEN of multitasking!); she wants to buy a huge piece of land in I think Arizona, and develop it. One of her other friends did that, and has this cool-ass home for vacation/retirement now. Nurse Betty's a little older than me, but neither of us are anywhere near to thinking about retirement, but some of these parcels, she says, are going to go up in price when some highway gets built. So she & Mr Nurse Betty are looking to buy now, and she thinks that I should buy, even if I'm going to just sell later. I told her I want a *huge* piece, on which I'm going to build the Mall of the Universe! It'll make Mall of America look like a postage stamp! West Edmonton Mall will look like a tiny CONDO compared to my Mall of the Universe! And as a novelty, I'll have one level that is reachable only by gondola! And I can put a beach in there, and an airport, and a train, and maybe some mountains! I think Bass Pro might like a store on a mountain!

Nurse Betty asked me why I'd go get high and not invite her.

Oh, ye of little vision! ;-)

Monday, August 29, 2005

I'd rather clean all the bathrooms in Grand Central Station...with my tongue.

Well, we had our first meeting of the semester today. Ummm...sure; I guess it could have been worse. And I even got a word in edgewise. A couple of times, even. Go figure.

Though when it ended, I wasn't heartbroken.

Oh, can't you see what I'm trying to say, darlin'... I'd rather have my blood sucked out by leeches...

Though I did get an offer of help in gathering up all of my crap to re-submit, and that was very nice. :-) Help--when it is actually *helpful*--rocks. And this help was helpful. Everything's in and done.

And then I decided to stay late at the school and use their computer lab. I guess for no real reason at all, other than I was looking forward to working alone and walking around campus after dark, something I don't always get to do. Well, ever. I usually have urgent crap that has to have been done yesterday. I still did, but...I don't know. They have this area that is almost park-like, and it just looks very pretty and...civilised. Can't help more than that. The grass is short, the trees are pruned, the sidewalk area is lined with streetlamps (not enough to be obnoxious), the buildings have a nice lighting effect from lamp-y things in the flowerbeds surrounding them, and it's in the direction of the Observatory, so the view has stayed unobstructed (I guess intentionally, though I am not 100% up on how observatories work), so if you walk out into a grass clearing away from the lighted areas, you have this beautiful view of the sky, and benches, too.

I mean really, it's gorgeous. The only thing it's missing is little lights in the trees, and it would be perfect. I love walking there at night, and especially when it's cold. It's not cold now, but I stayed for that. I would have taken my laptop out there and worked, but it was too hot, and there's something about working in the lab that makes me actually *work*. Well, stay on-task better, at least. Not that I usually have a problem, but...I need less breaks, I don't do so much personal stuff...all of that. It was kind of a reward, or me-time, or whatever.

I do this kind of thing when I'm feeling out-of-sorts; I had a weird dream last night, and it set the mood for my whole day. I dreamt that I was in New Orleans (a/k/a, Venice of the South), and I had to save Squooshable from the hurricane, but I didn't have a place to stay, or money, or a car. Or a freaking cat carrier, and Squoosh was being squirmy. And none of the shelters or anywhere else would let us in because they didn't take pets. So I was going to have to find a way to break in to somewhere, and then re-secure it so that Squoosh couldn't get out, and that was going to be difficult to do whilst holding Squoosh the whole time, 'cos I had nothing to put him in (I was looking for something to put him in, too). And I didn't have food for either of us, on top of everything else, so I had to get some of that for us, too. So I woke up upset. And tired from all that walking around, carrying a squirmy Squooshable. Sigh. And I know that by getting upset over it I'm minimising all the disaster that people who are there were and are going through, but I can't help what I dream about. That's why I'm happy that I don't remember my dreams usually; they're almost always bad, big, complex, with horrible things in them; terrible problems that have to be solved, huge disasters, and so on. For whatever reason, for quite a while I've been spared having to remember them, and that rocks. And I would have figured it out and saved Squoosh and myself if the alarm hadn't gone off. I'm pretty resourceful.

What also pisses me off is that since I didn't get to think through it, if anything like that ever happens, I won't have many good suggestions already prepared. Bastard alarm.


So as I'm driving home, Son-Friend calls; his cat had disappeared a few weeks back, and shown up with an injured tail. I paid for the vet (I made him go to Dr Vet), and his Snowball (a black cat, which illustrates more about S-F's personality than I can) is on antibiotics and has a tail bandage and so on. Dr Vet decided to try to save the tail first. But S-F has run out of bandages, and ::drum roll:: has no money. So I met him at the store near my house. Seventy dollars later (bandages, plus some Son-Friend food), I get to go home.


And I still have to help him with his rent for September, and finish buying my textbooks, and I'm of course still waiting to get reimbursed for my travel expenses. I can hear my bank account balance dropping like a god damned pachinko ball.

No, I didn't say anything to him about it; I wouldn't ever. It's my problem, not his.

If I ever run away from home though, I'm going to remember to bring a cat carrier. A big one, so that I can keep them all in one carrier (in my dream, Romeo and Weebie were with Meg, and I figured that if I died, she would take care of them), and a rolly-cart thing to lug it around on. And a big golf umbrella. And food. And something to secure the umbrella to the rolly thing. And...

Well, I've got to hammer it out *sometime*. And running away from home has an appeal at times...

I've Found a New Hermeneutic.

Now really, what are the chances--two days in a row? I'm so glad that I'm a skeptic, and not inclined to see pattern where there is none. And no; I didn't think about my title yesterday. As I always do, I tried to think of something that summed it all up, Sparky.


I have more The Powers That Be than you could shake a stick at. I have enough TPTB roaming around that I'm just wanting to grab a knife sometimes and freaking cut them. Bad. So bad that they'd say, "Oohh...she cut me bad!" Yeah. That bad.

I'm so glad that I'm not violent. Anymore.


So for the RCMP stuff that I'm doing, I have to run it past a TPTB. This TPTB's job is to make sure that I'm not luring grade 4s to my Evil Lair by promising them crack cocaine and group sex, and then performing Evil Experimentations upon their personages. Especially were I to not then pony up the crack cocaine and group sex. In fact, sometimes I think that this particular TPTB's biggest problem with the aforementioned scenario would be if I were to fail to follow through on the crack cocaine and group sex, 'cos then I'd be luring them in under false pretenses. But whatever.

I've just spent the past five hours changing my What Ancodia's Doing submission in response to their looong-ass email detailing everything I do wrong. It's not just me; they do it to everyone. Their biggest complaint this time is that I don't correctly use the terms "anonymous" and "confidential".

Ummm...yes, I do. You can complain about a lot of things that I do, but I do correctly use those terms.

But trying to talk them out of something like this is like trying to get Squoosh to stop biting your foot when he's on fire. It's just not going to happen. With Squoosh, I move around on one foot whilst he tears around the other, all sharp claws and teeth, until he gets bored with that foot and leaps to the other like a little tailless black piranha. Then I switch feet. :-) With TPTB, I'm just re-writing to accommodate their concept of "anonymous" and "confidential". Some fights just aren't worth it.

I *want* to be a bitch. I *want* to go get a copy of any dictionary and present them with it. My *dream* response is that, if data are being reported in an aggregate form, then that implies anonymity to the individual; however, conversely, the fact that I might know them--or certainly do after I've seen their name to assign them their number--would imply that they are *not* "anonymous". Moreover, I am dying to reply, the fact that I'm then assigning any type of nominal identifier to them, in the strictest literal terms, *further* means that they are at no time *literally* "anonymous". And although one could say that their responses and participation are "confidential", they actually aren't and cannot be. If they are a student, their instructors know. And me. And whoever might be running it for me. And anyone who sees them come into the room. And everyone in my workgroup, should they look at my stuff, or even just ask me. Additionally, participating in my RCMP study means that they can't participate in another RCMP study. So *those* RCMP peeps know. And so on, and so on...

And I'd close by telling TPTB that they have given me a raging migraine, and I have decided to become a shepherd.

Or maybe we should just let Ancodia say "your responses will be anonymous, and your participation will be confidential". Assholes. This is an imperfect world. And so on.

But no...I'll do it their way. I've changed everything, 'cos god forbid I should misuse the terms. Hmmph.

And they have some Pythonesque fascination with locked filing cabinets. It reminds me of the self-defense skit with the pointed stick. Every other comment is enquiring as to whether I intend to place all of this into a locked filing cabinet! WTF?

No, but I have a god damned raspberry, so there.

How To Defend Your Data, by Ancodia

"Hello, there! I've come to make off with your data!"
"Well, have you placed it in a...LOCKED FILING CABINET?"
"Bwaah! I *knew* I should have used one! Curses!"
"I'm just going to have at it, then..."
"Ho-ho! Never! For although I lack a locked filing cabinet, I am armed with a BANANA!"
"That thing's not loaded."
"It is too! And I know how to use it!"
"You're holding it backwards."
"It's my...idiom."
"I'm taking your data."
"Oh, come won't like it."
"And I'll take this stack..."
"It's boring, really."
"And this one..."
"And I'd like any disks and printouts you have...SAS, SPSS; it doesn't matter to me--I'm pillaging!"
"No! You can't have them! We'll lose the farm!"
"Should've thought of a locked filing cabinet, then."
"You leave me with no alternative!"
"Oh, I'm scared."



So ok, fine. I assured them that I was going to get a locked filing cabinet and put everything in there. I didn't think they'd be receptive to Squooshable guarding it all. Though he'd do a better job.


To anticipate their next desired revisions, I wanted to assure them that I was most certainly going to keep the data in a locked filing cabinet in a disused lavatory that has a sign on the door that says "BEWARE OF THE LEOPARD". And, as god may or mayn't be my witness, if they *do* return it to me again and ask where the filing cabinet is going to be kept, that *will* be my reply. Choke on it. Pffft. I've served ten thousand years at Eviljob...TPTB is no match for *my* bureaucracy. I can do it "their" way for only so long.

Now I just wish I knew why they let the one last term just go with only teensy, minor revisions. What'd I do to become interesting?

Sunday, August 28, 2005


Today could have sucked worse. :-)

It's so completely almost autumn! You can almost feel it. Well, almost. And I'm tired. And Squoosh is making with the kitty kisses something fierce. I think he thought I had given him away.

I must--*must*--find a way to get to sleep at a reasonable hour. It's just depressing on Saturday nights, 'cos I miss a trivia game that I love playing. But I can't keep dragging in to damn near everywhere all punchy from a lack of sleep.

To that end, I'm going to attempt sleeping now...

Saturday, August 27, 2005

Ancodia's Day Off

Ok, so like I was supposed to go to class today. Heh.

So I suck; I overslept. Well, that, plus I didn't correctly remember that this class is a three and a half hour class, not a *two* hour class. After I'm an hour and a half late to anything, I figure "screw it", unless whatever is going on there involves giving me money.

Who is the genius that made up a 3.5-hour class? Fridays are going to be *long*.


So I did nothing constructive today--not that even here in the first week of the term, I'm lacking in things I could do that might be beneficial to someone, particularly myself. I'm still decompressing, really; I feel like I could sleep for a week, even now. And I want to walk in and quit the hell out of Eviljob tomorrow. Argh.

I posted a few more pictures, but I haven't gone through them all, and it looks like posting them to Blogger breaks Blogger, since the menu stuff is all fallen down to the bottom of the page (at least the way I see it). So I may or may not get more off of Flickr to stick here, 'cos it makes the formatting look weird. I'm probably doing something wrong, but I don't know what it is. Pffft.

The short of it is that I've broken Blogger. Again.

Squoosh had a sneezing fit tonight, and I'm just mentioning it in case something later happens and I have to think back and figure out when that occurred. Note To Self: It was tonight.

So I'm going to go check on him and go to bed. And hope this post fixes Blogger. And as god is my witness, I'm spending this term getting my pathetic credentialling together and hoofing it to find some teaching job so that I don't have to Be at Eviljob come...well, let's be realistic here...January. I've been putting it off because I'm either lazy or a coward; I can't decide. Perhaps it's because I'm ambivalent. Or noncommittal. Who knows?

Or indecisive.

Ok, I'll stop. :-)

So that's my mid-year resolution. Well, one of them. We'll see how well I follow through. Hmmph.

Maybe it's because I'm skeptical and pessimistic?


Thursday, August 25, 2005

No parking, Baby?

No parking, Baby?, originally uploaded by Ancodia.

My caption:

Meg and I both stared at this sign for a full ten minutes, trying to figure out if we could park there. She's the rule-based, mathematical one, and I'm the intuitive, affordance-based one, and neither of us had a god damned clue at the end of that ten minutes. The car was still there when we came back, for what it's worth. No wonder people in DC are fucked up for life.


In all honesty, Meg thought we probably could park there. She said she was about 80% certain. On the other hand, I thought we could not, and was approximately 50% certain. Not good odds at all. To this day, I still am not sure why our car was still there and unticketed. It may have had something to do with the three cars illegally double-parked beside a car illegally parked in front of a fire hydrant right ahead of our car. Though who knows, really. Traffic-wise, it's bedlam there. I guess I'd have to be addled or insane to really, truly understand it.

Squoosh vs Camera Bag

Squoosh vs Camera Bag, originally uploaded by Ancodia.

Ok, I lied. One more, to make up for quoting Adam Ant.


Playing the fool in public

It's Just Me, Isn't It?, originally uploaded by Ancodia.

Ok...last one for tonight, then I have to go to sleep.

What in the hell?

I saw it all over--ALL OVER. The Capital Gym. The Capital Beltway (or whatever it's called). The Capital Hilton.

Am I missing something? Is this like naming yourself "AAAAAAAA Locksmith", to be listed first in the phone book?

Am I wrong? At this point, I have to believe that I must be. Even Meg insists that, with the "Capital Beltway" being a Federal road, the likelihood of it having been misspelt (on everything--maps, signs)is minimal. I'll grant her that. I have to be wrong. HAVE to.

So what's the deal? I just decided to look it up. Yep, I'm retarded. And after all these years, too. Sad, that. Glad I'm accustomed to it by now. Bless you, Paul Brians. And now, in the spirit of honest self-disclosure, I'm going to go ahead and post this anyway...

Doubly sad, that.

This town needs an enema!

This town needs an enema!, originally uploaded by Ancodia.

Ok, enough dicking around. I came here to work,and to work. This town really *does* need a fricking enema; I wouldn't be a superhero here if they paid me, which they wouldn't. Hmmph.

The whole city is beautiful history and architecture destroyed by self-centred freaks. And I mean that on both sides of the political spectrum. Or all four sides. Or eight. Whatever. Ever see Bambi Meets Godzilla? Well, Bambi's the hope of our nation and the blood, sweat, and tears of everyone. Godzilla's the selfish, shallow mislabelled public servants. Splat. And everyone's doing it, and nobody cares.


Needless to say, I'm freaking and panicked. Well, more than usual. Well, for me. I'm sure that everyone will hate me, that I'll be a failure, and that I'll be burnt at the stake for incompetence. Or something like that. You know the drill.

Beautiful, though.

But DC has its horrible side, too. Everything is two to three times more expensive than it should be. Everything. And there are people who are just not making it. They need help. In the very city that you would think should stand as some kind of bastion of liberty, equality, and brotherhood (unless I'm thinking about the wrong country, eh?) has some pretty downrtrodden people. Voici l'opportunite nous Incroyables.

Yeah. What he said.


It's pretty. And I have a sick fondness for overcast skies. Perverse, iddnit? Oh--and water. Can't forget that.

It was hot, my stuff went ok (with the exception of one asshole who just wanted to be obnoxious, but who cares). I saw a lot of things. I talked to a lot of people. I talked to one guy as I was handing stuff out for Kidlet (long story) whom I should have tried to pick up. I didn't. I'm a yellow coward when it comes to that stuff anymore, so I just hang my head in shame. He gave me every opportunity; he truly did. And the number of intelligent, nice guys I'll meet dwindles by the day. Not that I'll ever *get* one. I'm a god damned idiot. But who knows...he might have just been *pretending* to be a nice guy. They do that, you know.

Bok, bok, bok.

So all over DC, everywhere you look, there is something amazing going on. People fighting for illegal parking spaces. No, rilly. DC has some of the worst drivers I have ever seen in my life. I think the traffic laws there are decided upon democratically, or something. I literally saw people just pull up, get out of their car, lock it and walk away--leaving it on the street! In the street!! Literally!!! I saw signs all over that said traffic violations were being captured on camera. Bullshit. If that's the truth, then Washington, DC must be singularly responsible for the Kodak company staying afloat; they would be the single largest consumer of film in the UNIVERSE. And what in the hell do they do with all of this film? It sure as hell isn't writing any tickets, 'cos the populace seems unafraid...

The license plates there say "Taxation Without Representation". They aren't kidding; from your license plate to god's ears.

oh, wait--I'm agnostic.

Baltimore Aquarium, by Sporkgirl

Baltimore Aquarium, originally uploaded by Ancodia.

Baltimore is just beautiful. It really is. I shouldn't say anything other than that but I'm a fuckup, so I'll go ahead and wreck it and keep yapping.

There is just something about the Nat'l Aquarium (in Baltimore, not in DC where it's nowhere near water, and appears to be in the basement of something that looks like a library, but I'll not go there. Poor fishies.) that is captivating. Now I know that my picture sucks, but work with me here. It's the angular style--square, triangle, lines--contrasted with the water, and the sky. And it looks best when the water and sky complement each other--kind of like it did here, but when not in the hands of a shit photographer like myself. A good angle was hard to come by because of all of the people there. And there are a LOT of bums. I mean like a million billion. I think there was a bum convention whilst I was there; everywhere you turned--*literally*--there was someone(s) asking for money. It felt like I was in freaking Calcutta.

But I think the building is beautiful. And I like fish. And water. And it's just sexy as hell for all the right reasons. Wistful sigh.

After the Aquarium, we ate at City Lights, home to a cool-ass crabcake. Lump. Yay. And then after exploring around the harbour, we went around the city. Didn't see Tracy Turnblad *anywhere*. :-)

But Baltimore would be such a totally WONDERFUL city to be a superhero in. I know I'd already written this, but it bears repeating. They're spread out, have cool buildings, tunnels, a harbour...just everything a superhero would need. Now if I could only shoot webs, or fly, or had all kinds of neato gadgets. Or all three. Oh--and a butler named Alfred. Four. And a cool superhero name. Squooshable could be my Supercat sidekick; I'd let him ride in the sidecar of my motorcycle, and he could Murder Death Kill bad guys. He'd like that. I wonder if he'd wear a cape without too much fuss...

And Romeo could be a sidekick, too--he's already wearing a facemask! :-) His weapon would be sarcasm. You can just tell that he's putting you down.

And Weebie could be a sidekick--she could headbutt bad guys. She's good at headbutting. But I think she'd protest being *only* a sidekick.

I could be Catwoman, but that's kind of already taken. Oh, the injustice.

Anyway, we went around the city. It was beautiful. Yes, I mean that. Words really cannot describe, so I'll do an interpretive dance...


There. Did that help?

You know where you stand in a...

Nashville, originally uploaded by Ancodia.

ok, ok...I'm kidding. I like Nashville. No, rilly. Even though I'm a reformed goth girl. They have a weird public access station there (is it ch 19?) that has some tres-way-weird stuff on it. I guess that makes up for some of the god-awful country music.

Speaking of which, I forced Meg to sit through the Country Countdown, and we heard (if I remember the name correctly) "Billy's Got His Beer Goggles On", as well as some song that was just so godawful that I thought it was a joke about some girl who wants to win the lottery and sit in a limo and drink honey from a pickle jar. WTF? I proposed to Meg that this was metaphorical, and spent a few hours trying to think of what it could be a metaphor *for*. I'm still dry on that one, but god was that memorable. Sigh.

So the last time we were in Nashville, it was because Meg was a lecturer at Vanderbilt. No, seriously. That sort of thing is what Meg does when she's not grumping at me, giving pop quizzes to her students, or trying to win a WSOP bracelet. And she says *I* should focus. HAH!


So the last time she was there, I went also because I was owed vacation from Eviljob (this is pre-job sharing & my current program), and I had nothing better to do. Plus, I know someone who went insane in Nashville, so I wanted to see it. No, rilly. And I wanted to see Meg talk, even though I was asleep in five mins. The things Meg talks about are boring as hell. No, rilly. So instead of also staying for Meg's even more boring friends to talk, I told her she was great and went shopping. :-) That's what Ancodias do best! I bought a Vandy shirt (and one for her) in the bookstore, then had to move on to bigger game: a very cool soon-to-be Dead Mall, and part of Opry Mills. But the point is that I spooged on my Vandy shirt beyond Zout repair because I have my pig moments, so I wanted to get another one. Guess what Meg said?

Exactly: No time.


She told me that if I said one more word about it, she would make me ride in the trunk.

Grumpy beyotch.

She was just pissed at me 'cos I took the Path of Least Resistance and booked us into the same place we were the last time we were there. Meg hated it then, and she hated it this time. My theory is that we knew where it was, it is safe enough, not expensive, clean enough, and we were only going to be there for one night. So who cares? Well, Meg.

Oh, whatever. She's mastered the zen of anger. :-) Giggle.

While we were there, we saw a bar called "Bar". It's kind of across the street from the Hard Rock, next to a restaurant I really liked but can't remember the name of. Meg and I tried to go there (the Restaurant of The Forgotten Name) to eat, but they were closed. But Bar reminded me of this restaurant near where a friend of ours (more hers than mine) teaches that I don't think *has* a name--just a big sign out front that says, "CHICKEN". Everyone calls it "Chicken". I told Meg that she never takes me anywhere nice, like Bar or Chicken. Meg offered to drop me off at Bar and come back for what was left of me later. I declined.


And of course, No Shopping. Hmmph.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Where's the Bucket?

Where's the Bucket?, originally uploaded by Ancodia.

going to graceland we're going today! i'm so happy i just can't wait! gonna see the place where elvis presley died when we get to graceland we'll have to ride a bus we'd better watch our language or the guards'll beat us up we'll get to make some cheap jokes and buy cheaper souvenirs if this were disneyland i'd buy a pair of elvis ears they say it costs eight-fifty just to see his house where they keep all his records and his fifteen foot long couch it might seem like a rip-off but i'm going anyway we're going to graceland today going to graceland it's gonna be great! i'm so happy i just can't wait! gonna see the bucket that elvis presley kicked going to graceland gonna be fun we'll get to see all of elvis's guns gonna tell us all about his favorite tv shows going to graceland we'll stand in line we'll get to have a wild time gonna get to buy love me tender shampoo when my time comes that's how i wanna go - stoned and fat and wealthy and sitting on the bowl lots of people say that it's sad the king is gone well elvis might be dead but his cash flow lives on i'll be so excited when i see the jungle room where elvis made some records including moody blue graceland is calling me i just can't stay away we're going to graceland today going to graceland we're gonna cut lose there's plenty of tourists for us to goose we're gonna act real stupid and try to pick up girls going to graceland we're gonna go wild gonna go to his grave and try to smile gonna buy velvet painings and elvis presley forks going to graceland we're going to graceland we're going to graceland we're going to graceland going to graceland we're going to hell we're gonna sing heartbreak hotel gonna see the uniform that elvis presley wore what are we waiting for? let's leave right now we're going to graceland and i don't care how e pluribus elvis that's what i say we're going to graceland today


It was up in the air as to whether Meg was going to come with me or not; she'd won a chip into a larger satellite, but then when she toasted about halfway through, she decided to call it quits and come back next tourney & try again. So we left on foot. Well, ok--in car. Now, when this WSOP gets aired, Meg's going to be all temper-tantrum throwing, telling me it's my fault and if she'd stayed she'd have made it or whatever. Hmmph. She's just pissed off 'cos in the three days I was there, I made $400 and she made a stupid move (her words) and it cost her the medium satellite she was in. Sorry, Meg; I dinna do that. So we left. I wanted to go to Graceland. Meg sez no. Meg sez no a lot. Frickin' control freak. :-) You can't take pics in a casino, or I'd have made some of Meg licking poker chips and then going all in. That's how she got sick. Swear to god.

Oh...wait...I'm an agnostic.


So we left Tunica. And there was much rejoicing.


Shiny Disco Squoosh!

Shiny Disco Squoosh!, originally uploaded by Ancodia.

I'm baa-aack! And I'm saving photos as I speak. Or type. My first one is from a while shiny disco Squoosh! He's grown since this, but by the time I get newer ones posted, we'll both be on Social Security. Not that I'm disorganised, or anything. :-) His eyes are actually more gold, but he's still gorgeous. Everyone at Dr Vet's loved him, and came out to say g'bye to was kind of cute! And he was happy to be home--he gave me tons of kitty kisses, and even grabbed my upper lip with his mouth and held it, which I think is like a hug. We're a happy, friendly baby. I love you so much, Squooshable!!!

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

'cos I've seen blue skies through the tears in my eyes...

This has been From Hell. Fun, but From Hell. I was originally going to post via phone when I had downtime (after it occurred to me, a few days into this trip), because Meg talked me out of bringing my laptop since she was bringing hers. But then she turns out to be a total Laptop Nazi; she keeps asking me what I'm doing! Bwaah! And then I just became too busy! I had a post that was deleted by my stupid phone, and after that I just gave up. Too much going on. I have literally not stopped for a week solid. My stuff went ok; I got to hear and meet cool people, and blah, blah, blah. And now it's over. Thank the lord for small mercies. Westward ho the wagons, and all that. Hang in there, Squooshable; I'm coming!

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

This town needs a superhero!

I called to check on Squooshable today; they said they just love him, and he's doing great. :-) Today I went to Baltimore on a self-indulgence day, since my thing doesn't start 'til Thurs., technically. I finally did get to see the Aquarium! I'll remember to 'splain when I have more space. There are a lot of bums in Baltimore; everywhere somebody's asking for money! But it would be a cool-ass city in which to be a superhero. Not Sporkgirl. I'd want to be a cool superhero, like Spiderman, or Batman. Why are all the cool superheroes men? But it would be so cool to zip around Baltimore, fighting crime! It's not so crowded, like NYC, but it sure looks like there's enough crime and injustice to keep one busy. I'd just have to come up with a good name. Not Sporkgirl.

Monday, August 15, 2005

Six million ways to annoy Meg. Choose one.

Meg is still grumpy; it's because she's sick. She has a snuffly nose, and I think it's from her licking poker chips in a pathetic attempt to get opponents to fold. It didn't work. She's taking her grumpiness out on me, so I'm making her listen to an AM oldies station. Heh, heh. She won't let me drive anymore. She says it's because I wake her up when I scream, but I think she's just being grumpy and controlling. I mean, there are a lot of trucks and hills here. It's scary. But the hills look beautiful...they're all sparkly with lights! Well, many of them. I'd still be pointing them out to Meg, but she said that if I poke her one more time, she's throwing me out of the car. What a grump.

From Frozen Head to Gemstone Mines

How in the hell could "Frozen Head State Park" have gotten that name? I'm trying another phone post, 'cos Meg's tired of talking to me. ;-) We stayed near Vanderbilt, in the Days Inn we always stay at in Nashville, and I saw some Nashville goths. If that isn't sad, I don't know what is. After we got into Virginia, we stopped quickly at a gemstone mine, and we panned for gems! Now we're at Country Cookin' and so i have to eat, 'cos now Meg wants to talk to me again... LOL

Sunday, August 14, 2005

Taking the girl out of the country...

I miss Squoosh. Meg and I are driving through TN. I'm listening to the country countdown, since nothing else is on. Some demented girl has a song about drinking honey out of a pickle jar. Did I ever mention that I don't get country music? Is that a metaphor?? Meg did admirably, but now we're on to the conference. Hoo-hah. I'm posting by phone, so let's hope this works...

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

All 'round me burdens seem to fall

Ok...I'm taking a break from packing.

I have some audio/visual stuff that goes with the thing I'm doing, and it's all been done wrong. This is what I get for letting someone else put it together for me. GRRRRRRRRRRR! This will teach me to not do every single last little article of minutiae my very own self. It's not fixable, and at this point, I'll be damned if I'm going to pull an all-nighter to try to re-make it all. So screw it. This sort of preventable disaster really ticks me off.

And I don't want to go. And I am going to miss my cats. And everybody's a bastard.


And I hate that I am going to forget things. And I really at this point hate flying. If I forget to pack my year-old Xanax and have to drink again, I'm going to really be ticked off.

At this point, I'm just looking for a reason to get more ticked off. :-)

I need to get moderately plowed when I fly because:

(1) I am deathly afraid of crashing.

(2) I am a control freak, and do not trust the pilot, the co-pilot, or the tower.

(3) I feel, deep within my heart, that one day I will be on a plane and the pilot and co-pilot will have a lovers' tiff or something and shoot each other and if I'm not asleep, then I'll have to be included in some coin flip of moderately competent-looking people to see who is going to get to learn how to pilot a plane (see how I phrased that positively?), and I probably couldn't learn, and I don't trust whomever else might be doing it. I'd rather just be sleeping.

(4) I've read The Langoliers; I know how this stuff works.

(5) I've studied far too much about air disasters and human performance to ever feel safe whilst on board a plane ever again.

(6) Did you ever see Die Hard II? If mercenaries take over the airport in order to steal away with some general whatever, they're going to be basically holding me hostage up in the air without my knowing anything, and I'll have to have like, some radio that picks up tower talk and realise that I'm not hearing anything and then have to somehow fix the whole problem from Way Up There, 'cos god knows no one else on the ground is going to do it right.

(7) For some peculiar reason, the airports get really annoyed when you call them from the plane and ask to speak with the tower so that you can ask if the whole airport's been taken hostage by mercenaries. I mean, it's your credit card you're running up...what do they care? It's a simple yes or no question, for god's sake. If you don't know, then go find someone who does and put them on.

(8) Most stewardesses find me difficult to get along with when I am not asleep. I try to keep the questions down to a minimum--only the most important ones, like "WHAT IN THE FUCK WAS THAT NOISE?!?!", "Is the pilot ok? Are you sure? Could you go check?", and "It really feels to me like we're going down...might I come up front and actually *see* the altimeter?". I don't ask to point fingers--I try to take a blame-free approach to life ('cos really, when so much around you is FUBAR, what else can one really do?); I just know that vigilance isn't a long-term thing, and there's an attention decrement, and I feel that my questions kind of re-balance the signal-to-noise ratio for a little bit. Yeah. That's what it is.

(9) They don't provide parachutes. I don't *want* a flotation device--if we start going down, I want the fuck OFF. And I don't really want to parachute. I'd probably freak and pass out. I am terrified of falling. What is parachuting? Um, falling. Dur. But notice that they don't even give you the *option* of parachuting. I find that suspicious, to say the least. What--they're afraid that some people might survive and talk about how the crash was all the fault of the airline?

(10) I have no idea what condition the plane is in. The entire crew could be the most competent in the world, and maybe the maintenance personnel slacked off. I know *I* don't want to be the one to have to climb out on the wing and repair something...and I'm not exactly sure how to best present that to someone else so that they get all fired up about it; my leadership skills aren't *that* strong. And plus, they might repair it incorrectly. Or they might get out there and freak, and then you have to go talk yet another person into doing it. You just never know about people, and that thirty-two feet per second per second thing *sounds* like a long time, but I'm sure when you're living through it, it's a lot shorter.

(11) I think that many of the people with whom I am travelling look suspicious, peculiar, or like plain-and-simple dead weight. I dread not knowing how best to allocate tasks as we plummet towards the ground because I'm not familiar with my team, and most everyone looks like a mouth-breather. Or maybe they're the person who unplugged the engines when they were back in the bathroom for a long time. Or they might be in cahoots with the mercenaries who took over the airport. You just can't be too careful about these things. I'm not even sure how to throw someone off if need be, and the damn stewardesses won't ever tell me. And what if one of them gets cabin fever and becomes dangerous? How am I going to disarm and kill them when I don't have anything 'cos it was all confiscated back at the security check? What am I supposed to do--stab them with my plastic spork? That is a lot of unnecessary work, plus it doesn't sound good. I don't want to go on Good Morning, America as "Spork Girl". Who would?

I could go on, but that's my abbreviated list.

Now I have to finish packing.

For really this morning I've nothing to do.

It's morally wrong to think a gay man is really sexy, hmm? I think it probably is, if you're doing it in a non-abstract way that is specific to a person, and not like the disassociated, "gosh, Mr Moviestarwhoisgay is a real hottie". I mean, they're committed--even if it's not to another person at that very moment--so I'm sure it's hugely disrespectful of their thoughts, wishes, and rights. I'm sure of it actually, now that I think about it.

I'd better stop doing that then, yes? This morality thing blows goats, bigtime.

I spent this morning at Eviljob. Yay, that. Hmmph. But I think I have a new work-friend, which is cool. He's gay, but such a cutie. It's times like this that I wish that I were a six-foot tall lumberjack. Or maybe one of the Village People. Were I one, I'd want to be the Indian; that headdress totally rocks. Or I could live with being the biker, too. But I'd be happier being the Indian. I'd be a cool-ass toppy gay Indian with a lot of feathers, I tell you. And I would also like painting my face all up--that would be cool as hell. And carrying a big errr...thingy. The whatsit... Not an axe; I'm blanking out here. Ummm... Well, anyway, I'd whack people with it, and whoop and holler. It would be great! And I could learn to throw it skillfully, so that it would ploop! and stick in the wall just inches from people's noses, and really scare the bejesus out of them. And I'd also carry arrows, and a bow! And I'd push some filing cabinets down and pop up from behind them and boing! pop unsuspecting people in the keister with an arrow, just on principle. And I'd carry Squooshable in a papoose everywhere. I couldn't carry Romeo that way; he'd just get grumpy. I'd have to leave him back at the teepee.

...what was I talking about again? I forgot.

Anyway, so then I went to son-friend's hearing. Since yesterday, he'd had three seizures, probably from the stress. Obviously from all this he was a complete wreck, which I'm hoping will work in his favour. I went in and bore witness, and that seemed to go well enough. So after that, I had to drag him with as I went to fill out yet more travel paperwork that they'd just invented to annoy me. I tried to make it fast, but he became bored; by the time I came back to the car (he's not allowed access to the building I had to enter), he was blasting the stereo and playing a game on his cell phone.


Since I needed to get a pedicure anyway (I don't want everyone's first impression of me to be nasty feet at this thing, and I want to be able to wear sandals if I choose) and today's my last chance (I transcend being fully booked tomorrow), I told him he had to come with on that one, also. After that, we were going to go play trivia. I offered him a pedicure, and he declined. Fine, I said; you'll be sitting there doing nothing for a while. Once we arrived, just as soon as I'd started, he changed his mind. I think son-friend has a thing for Asian girls. Of course, he wants his toes candy-apple red. I'm of the impression that nail salons get this every once in a while. The ladies didn't seem to even notice. Son-friend just likes to be weird. Well, I hope he likes it, at least; he's not got much choice in the matter, 'cos he *is* weird. If you were to club Penn Jillette really hard in the head with a cast iron skillet, you'd have son-friend.

Sigh. If reincarnation, karma, and all that were to be true, about now I'd be pretty convinced that I was like, Adolf Hitler in a past life.


He tried to talk to the girl who was doing him, but she doesn't speak a word of English. She's a nice girl, though. On the other hand, the lack of a common language might end up being a boon to son-friend; perhaps I should consider that further later. :-) They still have mail-order brides, I mean...I know they do, 'cos I know someone who has gotten one. Oh, that's a story in itself, but...

Butsoanyway; son-friend kept trying to talk to her and kept pestering me for help. And some of the other girls were trying to help her out, and with all of this the place was bursting with the most extremely cacophonous noise--it sounded like sixty cats were being dragged backwards through a hedge by their tails--all at once. And my massage chair was on the fritz. I kept trying to summon a waiter for a complimentary vodka and valium, but the son of a bitch didn't show, no matter how many times I yelled.

The next time I bring son-friend, I'm leaving him home. :-)

After, I insisted he take me home so that I could check on Squooshable before going on to play trivia; I'd given in to his persistent whining, and let him have the wheel again. Not ten minutes into our drive, he has another seizure.

Just fucking shoot me.

So at the light we trade off seats. He thankfully goes to sleep for a few minutes, and I get home. I tell him if he moves, I'll hunt him down and kill him. I run in to feed and water Squoosh, and dash back out. Oh, yeah--he's back asleep. Ok, fine. So I tell him no trivia, and he agrees. But he wants to hang out with me (Why me?!?!). Ok, fine. So we're going to eat, and then to the mall superfast to pick up a shirt I saw and want to buy for Meg; it's this gorgeous blue and green, will look faboo on her, and I've had the guilts for a week solid that I hadn't bought it before when I'd first seen it.

Dinner's uneventful. We get to the mall, and Meg's shirt is on sale! And a few others that I'd thought cute, but not at full price (that's my Inner Jew speaking). So I'm picking through, doing a 'needem, gottem', and son-friend wanders off. I end up buying basically only what I'd come for, sort-of, and go off to find son-friend. I find him upstairs, in Housecrap. He needs This, That, and The Other. Ok, fine. Fine. Sigh. Fine. They're having a sale, so ok. Plus, it's not like he can live with nothing he wants, ever. I have guilt like that. So I buy all the stuff he needs, plus a few things he wants. He's an expensive freaking son-friend. And no, I didn't make him feel bad about any of it; it's not his fault that he's got no money. I have to walk a thin line between being Miss Moneybags and a total meanie who will drag him off to shop when he needs things and buy nothing for him. Ten out of ten times, I err on the side of buying him everything, because I don't like saying no to him--it makes me feel horrible. I'm such a pushover mom-friend. And I made him buy a decent pillow. I tried to make him buy one for his girlfriend, but he insisted she loves her pillow and would hate a new one. I'm not really clear on how anyone could hate a $60 pillow (it was on sale), but ok, I'll buy that; after all, she's mental. Fine.

So we shopped and left. Then son-friend mentioned that he didn't have dog food, son-friend food, and other incidentals. Sigh. I wish this'd been brought up before the pedicures...I'd have skipped and done my own. In the telling, it sounds as if I'm just reciting examples of my largesse, but that's really not the case at all. I *am* actually trying to keep to a budget (especially now, with peculiarities occurring at Eviljob), and, well... I'm not trying to whine, and of course I didn't say this to him, and, well...

I'll just shut up now.

So then we went grocery shopping. And I had to buy a dvd of some movie for him. He likes movies. Plus, it's a particularly good bargain to buy movies for him, 'cos a week from now, he won't remember having seen it. That sounds cruel, but it's the truth; I'm hoping that if he gets Disability, he'll be able to get a neurologist to shuffle his meds around so possibly some of those memory problems go away. But in the meantime, he gets a lot of mileage out of a movie.

So then we parted, and I called him for his drive home, to make sure he didn't have another seizure. I'd tried to get him in as happy and stress-free a mood as possible (stress is usually what causes his seizures), and I guess what I did worked. He made it home just fine, and is now fast asleep (with new bedding, pillow, shower curtain, and...everything else). I hope he's ok. I really, really do. He's not a bad person. His girlfriend is a weirdass, but he's not a bad person.

So now I'm home, finally. I'm exhausted, but I needed to vent. About whateverinthehell it is that I've been rambling on nonsensically over.

And after everything, I still have to pack!


Monday, August 08, 2005


So I'm riding around today, trying to finish all of the ten thousand and one errands that I have to get to in order to be able to leave on Thursday. I'm listening to Fresh Air, and they're doing a sploop (bigger than a blurb, but not yet a full-out story) about Paul Anka's latest CD.

It's awesome. I've just bought it. I *had* to. Anyone who is covering Van Halen, Lionel Ritchie, The Cure, and Nirvana (among others)--all on the same cd--rates a preeminent spot on my cd shelf.

And it actually is pretty good. So you kind of have both types of entertainment working for you here. That's always good. And for what it's worth, I do not ever say "Pull Anka", or "Pole Anka". There was some debate about that today, when I took a break for an early dinner. Assholes. :-) And I mean that in the nicest way possible.

Mom's fine. She says her cat was depressed because she was gone. :-) I'm certain it was. Her cat is just like her--fruitcakey and annoying. I think that if I spoke cat, I'd find that she calls me "Loser". Mom calls her "my daughter, the one with grey fur", and I'm sure she loves her better than Meg and me put together. It's amazing that those two found each other in this great big world, because they're soul mates. Her cat--Arby--even eats yoghurt, baked potatoes, and vegetables, because that's what her Mama eats. Well, that, and because Mama isn't really devout about keeping to scheduled mealtimes. I figure that with Mom, children exhibiting pica is kind of an adaptive, evolutionary thing. Oh--and Arby eats those meal bars (I just call them all Power Bars). And she also eats berry-flavoured cream cheese and Healthy Choice frozen dinners. She's an amazing animal. So's Mom, for that matter.

Our drive home wasn't too bad, save my mother's criticism of, well, everything about the way I drive. As if she should talk. She has two modes: accelerating, and braking. Hard. I won't let her drive my car, 'cos I'd like to keep it. She's never gotten into a wreck, but that says nothing about how many she's caused and driven away from obliviously. :-)

Ok...I have to go get productive. :-) I can't wait for Meg to hear the Paul Anka cd; she's going to love it! I miss her. Sigh.

I pour the drinks and crush the flowers

In accordance with the Soviet Volunteer System, I've kindly offered to pick my mother up at the airport.


I came in from Eviljob exhausted. I mean really, really tired. It's difficult to work now. And as I plop down to slowly starve to death on my sofa as I fall asleep watching a movie, my phone rings.

"Her flight's delayed, and she wants to know if you can pick her up at the airport at 2:10 a.m."
"Wrong number." Click.


"Don't hang up on me--she wants to know if you can come get her, or does she have to take a cab?"
"Who in the hell is this?"
"Why do you sound like that?"
"I borrowed someone's phone; my battery died. Could you focus? Can you come get her?"
"She said you'd come get her." Oh, great. Use guilt.
"She lies. I didn't even know she was leaving."
"She says that she told you."
"She also says that she's given Elizabeth Taylor makeup tips. She also says that she's going to move out of the country within the year--and has been saying so quite faithfully for the past fifteen years. She *also* says that she regularly checks her blood sugar, but yet doesn't do so half as religiously as she says that she's moving out of the country. Why was I supposed to believe this?"
"She wants you to pick her up. You should."
"I'll tell her that means yes, then."
"'bye, now." Click.

Sigh. So I'm staying awake. And it's freaking *painful*. And I'm supposed to go file travel forms tomorrow morning, but I'll never get up now. And I have to listen to Mom for an hour.

At least that might not be too horrid; Meg says she's in a great mood. She's had a wonderful time, and is mad that she only went for the weekend. Because (begin Mommy Logic) she doesn't like to travel, but will if she has to, and she had to this time, because Ancodia is being irresponsible and not taking care of Meg. So she went--of course not for herself, but for Meg--but not for long, 'cos she doesn't want to go, so she'll stay out of Meg's way and go do things on her own, so she never actually sees Meg much since she's not bothering her. But once she got there, she started having fun. But she's committed (and should to return Sunday night, so has to leave, and isn't that a real pisser? (end Mommy Logic)

Although it's alleged to have happened before I was ever born, if Mummers actually did corner Elizabeth Taylor in the bathroom of the Whatever Hotel that some political convention was at, I think I understand why Liz took to drinking and pills. If there ever were to be an inquiry into it, I think we'd find that Mom actually is responsible for a *lot* of people's escapist addictions.

She can do that to you. Swear. If rehab centres paid on commission, my mother would be on the payroll schedule of damn near every one on the North American continent. In the same span of time it takes to say, "could you please pass the salt," my Mommy can turn you into a raving heroin addict.


As far as "handling" her goes (I kind of like that idea--it brings to mind herding her about with a whip and stool), Meg is better at it than I am. I'll spend most of the drive trying not to wreck her mood (and I hope that no one at the airline has beat me to that, which is likely--she's a hard one to coax, er, handle when it comes to things like waiting, following directions, and so forth), and I'll tamp down the urge to throttle her when she suggests we all go back this weekend (she's great at remembering Meg's schedule, but can't remember mine for ten minutes).

And if she's true to form, she'll want me to take her somewhere to eat...only everything is closed. Denny's, ho. Sigh.

And I just want to sleep, but I have to leave now.

What have I done to deserve this?

Sunday, August 07, 2005

Supertoys Last All Triv Game Long


The same person who made the Alice Everyday reference did just also comment (to the answer "superball") "Superballs last all summer long".

I find it actually scary that there's someone out there who thinks the same way that I do. And with what's looking like the same font of references, to boot.


Saturday, August 06, 2005

The Terrible Twos

Squoosh is into *everything*. All at once. When I got home from work today, I had to re-kittenproof the bathroom, 'cos he'd learnt how to jump onto the counters while I was gone today. I need to quit feeding him Science Diet and Iams...his brain seems to be developing just fine. Maybe *too* fine. Everyday it's something new anymore.

So I let him run around the house (he was alternately chasing and being chased by my measles--only they *mean* it, and he doesn't), and I cleared off (as much as possible) the counters. Now I have nowhere to put this stuff, but I figure that when I get him back out of storage, he'll be out of this phase of being into everything, and sticking freaking everything in his mouth and trying to eat it, so I can put it all back. I hope.

He literally puts everything in his mouth and tries to eat it. I've never had another cat do this, and it's driving me nutso. I can't baby-proof the whole house! Sigh.

Frickin' dental floss eater.

I'm mostly worried that he'll do something like knock off one of my bottles of perfume and hurt himself on the broken glass. Yes, I have too much crap; it's spilled out of my bedroom in to my bathroom, and then out of my bathroom into Squoosh's bathroom, but it's too late to change that now.

(small fugue)
I can't believe it, but in the online triv game I'm playing, the (anagram) answer was Dahl All Day (long story for the question), and someone in there commented, "Roald Dahl Allday has the most interesting things to say". Slay me completely! And I'd here just commented about no one remembering Book of Love! Too funny!

Ok...back to Squoosh. Or my makeup, perfumes, and jewellery rather. So I'm a consumer. Shoot me. I've nowhere to put a boxload of this crap now, and it's only a matter of time before he discovers the shelving my mother so kindly erected last year! Sigh. I hope he grows out of this whilst in storage. Please. I fed him in the hopes that he won't be a Squoosh on Fire after he eats. ::fingers crossed::

I just love the little pig noises he makes. :-) And it's quiet in there now. Should I be afraid?

I'd love to go into Eviljob, but I have something funnier that no one will care about. :-) My mother at the last second decided to go up and be with Meg--like literally day before yesterday, and I didn't believe her that she was going. Well, so much for that--she got in late yesterday night. So today she decided that she wanted to play craps. Now my mother doesn't actually *play* craps--she just likes to roll. No, really. She can't bet for shit. But sometimes she goes on these monster rolls, and Meg says that tonight she did just that--she rolled for like twenty minutes. Of course, that made her happy. And of course, Meg had to drag her away from the table to go eat.

So Meg says she drags her--all but literally. And there's a waiting list at the restaurant, so mi madre wants to go back to the table and play whilst waiting. Meg gives in because well, what else can they do? Sit and stare? Okay--so back at the table, my beloved mother positions herself so that she can roll next (did I mention that she only likes rolling?). When her turn comes, she rolls and gets her point (the number she has to re-roll to win). Her next roll bounces off of the side wall and pops a guy right in the forehead. She re-rolls. This one bounces off the side and pegs one of the bases. So the Mommy of Doom rolls *again*.

This one hits the sideboard and careens off into Parts Unknown. No, really. They didn't find one of them.

Someone politely suggests Mummers should stop throwing like a certain overexcited little midget cat (okay, okay--it was Meg). So she rolls again.

She rolls a seven.

Pouting, mommy suggests they go back and wait in the bar by the restaurant.


And I'm wishing Meg a lot of luck tonight, 'cos after dinner she's going (or actually, by now she is there) into a private game. I know she doesn't like those--she feels intimidated. Poor Meg. And my mother as I type is probably back at the slots (Meg and I call her a lab rat when she plays them).

Friday, August 05, 2005

Squoosh runs down Diagon Alley

My poor little cock-headed beast runs's kinda cute. :-) He walks fairly normally, but when he takes off in an amazing display of Squoosh speed, he runs diagonally.

Yeah, I love it. :-)

NP loved the tube. I kinda knew she would, but it was a relief to get it over with and find out for sure. We had a nice lunch. :-\ It's weird. Now I like her in a way close to how I liked her when I first met her. Sort-of. I guess she's another one who would have been a good woman if someone'd been there to shoot her every minute of her life.

Or something like that. Maybe it's just that she's being nice because she's getting what she wants. I just don't know. Nor do I really care; it's just an issue of she's easier to be around when she's like this.

After I came back from her, I had son-friend come over (of course I needed to give him money), and help me hang up some new curtains. He has a hearing about whether or not he gets disability. I hope he does, 'cos he is hell on my bank account. His rent's due, and so far this week, I've given him $325. Sigh. Oh--plus gas. And he currently has my BP (pronounced "Beep"! :-) Ok, well, if you're me. ) card. I don't know whether to leave that with him while I'm gone, or not. I'm having a hard time thinking ahead with him; I am just keeping my fingers crossed that he will get disability. If he doesn't, I'm going to scream.

After we hung the curtains, I *meant* to get back to work typing crap. What I *did* do was accidentally fall asleep and have a really weird dream. And when I got up, I finished checking my email (well, somehow I managed to actually never *start*), and now, added on to everything else I have to do before I leave, I have to get a proof of enrollment for my tuition waiver in the Fall.

This is the stupidest system ever. In my program, since it's a fairly small and competitive one, practically everyone is on a waiver. It's part of the offer they put together when they're first luring you in like a big wall-eyed bass (Or is that a pike? Trout? Flounder?). It would be more effective to have the ones that *aren't* taking waivers (or are getting them through elsewhere, like their employer) to come in and fill out whatever. But that's just me, who doesn't like to drown in paperwork.

Back to NP, she's asked me to keep in touch with her via her online journal. She of course doesn't know about this one. So now, I guess to be social, I have to start another blog. Sigh. I have to register to make comments on the one she's on. I think I'll go the route of registering and not actually keeping a journal there. For numerous reasons--one, I'm not all that crazy about their format; two, if I kept a journal there, I could mention everyone by name, and talk about my work and research in a non-obfuscatory way, but otoh, I couldn't be honest. I'd have to say nice things that I don't mean, and sound enthusiastic when I'm not. I do that enough already. So I'll see what happens. I'm not completely into this sort of's just Not Me.

Ok, now to plan for tomorrow. Pfft.

Very Wonderful...

This is amazing: Postsecret

It made me think so much about...things. I want to make up my own postcard now, though mine would probably suck. This is very cool awesome art. Like Art art. I can't think of cool things like that. Or, in fairness, even if I thought of something cool like that, I would never get around to doing it, or would not do it right. But...well, wow.

Meg's doing fine. :-) Everyone is, really. Me too, I guess. I have a lot to get completed before I leave, and I hate this part of travel. Once I'm there, everything's always ok; it's just all the crap planning leading up to it that blows--the making sure you didn't forget anything, that every reservation &c is made, that someone will feed my kitties, that I've turned off everything, that someone will pick up my mail, that...

Oh, just name it. ::singing:: And I'm so worried about the baggage retrieval system they've got at Heathrow...

Yeah, my theme song. :-)

I think I have almost everything taken care of. And I'm playing trivia online right now, and losing miserably. It's a chatroom trivia game; it's hilariously funny, but for some reason I do better with non-chatroom trivia. I don't know why; maybe it's the distractions of the funny people. :-) But the host of this game is a really nice person that I pestered for suggestions about one of the cities I've got to be in. I like this group because they're very friendly and nice. This same host told us tonight about a stray dog he found and is keeping because she's older and would probably not find a nice home if he turned her in. Why can't more people be like this? Just...nice.

On a different topic (the "being nice" wasn't meant as a segue by any stretch of the imagination) I've gotten a going-away prezzie for Nastypants. I guess I should change her name. She could suck worse. I mean, I'm still so completely anti- nastiness to waitstaff and all, but...I guess she could be a worse person. And she's somewhat calmed down. Maybe she really was that unhappy before--who knows? So I bought a cylindrical carrying case (it's supposed to be for blueprints and such) for her posters/presentations, and then I had to construct a handle for it which was tricky, but I managed. I might get one for Meg later on; I've already gotten one for myself, but no one in my group has ever seen it. They're terribly useful (at least in my/our field), and oddly, I don't see many in use in my/our field. This is the resourceful former theatre tech in me coming out. :-) When I was doing theatre stuff, we used to go drool over things in the art store. We were relegated to drooling 'cos we were all broke, but that's a different story. But so I sashayed my self down to our local art supply store and bought one for her that is big enough to carry her posters in as well as other people's if need be, but not so big in circumference as to be obnoxious. Plus I bought two extenders so it will be long enough to house the typically asked-for poster size. Then I went to the fabric store and bought a bootload of nylon webby stuff and made a handle that can be hand-held or hung from the shoulder. All in all, it wasn't overly expensive; I brought it in for around $35-ish. I hope that doesn't make it worth less in her eyes (I'm unsure about that part), but I figure that if it does, then that's her damage. Not that I'm going to tell her how much it was, but... There's enough of her negative personality shrapnel still around that I have my doubts. But oh, well. I'm not changing it; I'm so against trying to buy friends, plus doing more money-wise (but less in terms of knowing someone's needs and trying to anticipate them) would make for a lame-ass blowoff kind of gift.

In my opinion.

But then again, most of my prized-possession gifts are things that someone cleaning my house would probably throw away. :-) My favourite is a small wooden goblet that I was given back in my theatre days; the girl who gave it to me painted it with white-out and red nailpolish (did I mention we were all poor as hell?), and wrote something nice on the bottom of it. And, honest, if someone tried to steal that from me, I'd fight them for it. They can take my jewellery, electronics, whatever. Put the goblet down, or you're dead. :-)

Most of the things I gave back then were stuff like handwritten notes, stories, poems, and that sort of thing. It's funny now, but I was like, the *absolute* poorest of the lot; I'd done the dropping out and running away from home thing, and I was back in school, but still intermitently running away from home, and wasn't in a position to ask either parent for money, seeing as how I wasn't talking to either of them at the time. :-) Yes, I know that if your mother knows she can find you sleeping in the prop room (provided she remembers how to get to your theatre), it's not *technically* running away from home, but whatever. Doing that sucked significantly less than the period of time that I had *actually* run away from home.

Well, it was decidedly less cold and rainy indoors. I'm slow to pick up on things, but I'm not *that* slow.

And this period of time is now something that is family legend, for the most part ("Remember back when Ancodia was a kooky little fuckup that we were sure was destined to end up dead in a gutter somewhere?").


I must be on a theatre-reminiscing kick, or maybe it was going to this same art store a few days ago to get Meg's charm beads (like this whole chaining thing, where now I'm thinking theatre everywhere). When I stopped on the way home to procure food (I'd gone in for only cherries, grapes, and soy milk; that was my intended dinner), I passed by the microwaveable burritos, and I bought four. I didn't eat them yet, but I maybe will. Well, not all four at once, but eventually over time. When I was doing the living in the theatre thing, I practically lived on microwaveable burritos. Those kind that get sold in vending machines and 7-11s. I mean like one a day, literally. But it worked out, 'cos they were only like, $1.00 or so if I remember correctly. Once, one of that season's directors was trying to talk everyone into going out to eat, and I (of course) didn't have the money to do it, so my plan was to surreptitiously skulk back upstairs, wait until everyone left, and then go get a burrito. :-) Well, I didn't want to cramp anyone's style--especially since I was the youngest there, and in a lot of ways they were totally tolerating me. So just as I was thinking I'd made a clean getaway, this director screams--literally--*screams* out, "ANCODIA, GET YOUR ASS BACK IN HERE! YOU ARE *NOT* GOING TO EAT ANOTHER GOD DAMNED BURRITO!"

:-) Okay, that was really embarrassing. So I went back down (one did *not* fuck with him when he screamed), and he drove me and paid for me. Awfully sweet. And he said I had to eat a salad and something with protein so maybe I would stop being so weird. :-)

Sigh...weirdness induced by a protein deficiency. If only it were that simple.

I have to meet Miss NP tomorrow. That means I have to wake up at a reasonable time. Sigh. And I'm physically exhausted, but I'm not mentally tired. I hate it when that happens. Hopefully I will be once I get off the computer. But I'm going to check on Squoosh and then go sleep on the couch. CNN should have me asleep within an hour. Lord...I hope. If not, I'll have to bring out the Big Guns.

Yep, C-SPAN.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005


Bye, Meg.

She took off this afternoon. That gave me enough time to go to Eviljob (I now work--closely--with some peculiar people), go to my meeting, and meet Meg for a late farewell luncheon. And I gave her two new beads for the charm bracelet I also gave her. Neither of us believe in luck as such, but all the other poker players have a lucky this-and-that, and I guess since all of the cool kids are doing it... :-) Last time I gave her my lucky Bufus Buddah Frog and it didn't work. Before that, I gave her an orthodox ring (that she can't read and I had to translate), and a necklace with her name on it in Our Mother Tongue (that she can't read and I had to translate...where the hell was she when I was having to learn two alphabets, and two names for every number?), and they didn't work. Before *that*, I'm hazy. But basically none of the lucky things I've given her so far have done squat. Hopefully these charms will.

Not that I believe in it, or anything. I just hope she wins something, anything, so that I don't have to keep coming up with new stuff...this is getting expensive. Two of those dinky little charms cost me $30, and I still have my own to finish building. I tried to tell her to take Squoosh as a good luck charm, but she wouldn't; she said he'd try to Murder Death Kill the dealer and get her kicked off of the table.

Fine. Squooshable didn't want to go with you anyway. Hmmph.

Eviljob was...interesting. I'll have to devote more time to that later. I don't know about this. I'm now mere feet away from a very weird little man who called me on the phone (yes, from a few feet away) to ask me if I was mad at him. It must be that intimidating thing. I don't know, you know, who knows. Go figure. And I also have a view of the Not-Our-Office Admin (why is she *there*, then? Go figure.) that I kind if have a problem with. I'm nice to her, she's nice (enough) to me...she's just weird. I have a pile of theories about that, too. One of my work-friends (Five-O) thinks that she's got some problems, but maybe that's just us. So, in short, I'm still evaluating; the jury's out still.

My meeting was...weird. As usual. Nastypants has settled down greatly over the past few weeks; I think it's a result of having whatever issues she had settled, or...whatever. Sophie threw a temper tantrum. As usual. Did I mention that the mean age in our meetings is probably somewhere around thirty-two-ish? And that's with Doogie skewing the curve to the left a bit, making up for two who are around forty. What I'm saying in a roundabout way is that you'd think Sophie'd have developed different coping skills by now; this is a long way away from kindergarten. But in spite of that, there she is, damn near every meeting when she feels like she's not getting enough attention, acting out. Imagine someone who looks like The Ugly One from Teen Girl Squad, trying to act like whazzername...


...Oh, yeah--the Angelina Jolie character in Hackers. Acid Burn? That's just completely what Sophie reminds me of--some off- off- off- off- off-Broadway (think like Bohegan, IL) actress doing Acid Burn. I wish she'd go pester the Comp Sci department and leave us alone, but they probably have already run her out of there. The day she refers to herself as "elite", I'm leaving. Yet today, she will admit that she doesn't know Visual Basic to get out of doing something (that I wouldn't trust her to do anyway, were I my advisor), but throws out all these references about how she wrote this code, and blah, blah, blah...

Yeah, right. Maybe if that "code" was some kissy-face crap in Klingon to your fucknut husband who is still an ugrad at like, thirty-four though he tells everyone he went to (insert prestigious university here) implying he graduated from there when what I'm sure he means is that he once pulled into the parking lot there to turn around, sure. I'll believe that. You were up all night coding and doing whatever else Cool Sophies do.

No, I just smile and nod. It's easier.


I really have no problem with...err...geeks, for lack of a better term. I just have a problem with pretentious dingdongs who are full of themselves. *That* is my problem with Sophie. And her fucknut husband, who occasionally hangs around though no one asked him to. And until about a week ago, Nastypants. At least Fluffer isn't pretentious--she really is full of herself and convinced she's all that and a bag of chips, as it were. That's tolerable. Well, mostly.

But, in short (heh, heh), the meeting was the same as always. I'm glad I'm going to get a break from this. I think--honestly, from the bottom of my heart--that we could accomplish something of substance if we could do the Working Together For A Common Goal thing. And if people like Sophie don't want to do that, then eh. Some of us can do it without her. But really I believe it's not just a paycheck, or another line on my CV; I wish everyone else did, too. But I guess that's life.

I'm going to call Meg and make sure she's ok and then go to sleep. Tomorrow Romeo gets his staples out. That's what I do love about this blog--it's easy to go back and check these things instead of relying on my own memory. Sure, I could use an agenda, or a PDA, or something, but I know me...I'd never enter it, figuring I'd remember. Which I don't, ever.

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Kiss Them For Me


I hate it when Meg leaves for Elsewhere without me.

It's not that I have to be involved in everything; it's that I worry about her. Really. I just feel as if she'll be ok if I'm there, and it's up for grabs if I'm not.

As I said before, at least I'm an honest control freak. Honesty is important.

Meg takes off tomorrow. She'll be wandering around for a week before I swing through. Yeah...a whole week. I dunno how she's gonna survive, either. :-)

Yes, I know that I am neurotic. But what's weird is that I'm not neurotic about myself--just others. In actuality, I'm lucky as hell, and I know it. I've been held up at gunpoint, driven across country longways in a crappy car three times (and a million billion interstate trips), beaten up more times than I care to think about, stalked, shot at (I think it was a warning shot, but I'm counting it), in accidents, rode around with scary people collecting money (let's not go there; it was illegal), wandering around under the influence of one thing or another, taken rides from strangers, given rides to strangers...and I'm fine. And that short list didn't even touch upon some of the things that have happened to me that I consider really, REALLY bad things. And I'm still fine--even with those bad things. I mean, I'm not dead, maimed, or anything, for the most part, and my brain usually works mostly ok. I do have a couple of interesting scars, but no one ever sees them. :-) So they don't count. I have a charmed life, or something. And I worry about all of the things that could happen--I really do. To other people.

Like right now, Squoosh is on the floor by me playing with a bigass pink Superstraw from Panera, and I'm afraid that he's going to pith himself with it.

And I'm afraid that I'll not get up in time tomorrow...doublesigh. I hope Meg stays safe.