Martial Arts & Crafts

Let's talk about my recent crafting failures, shall we?

So when searching online for wedding items and ideas, I discovered these beautiful, absolutely blinged the fuck out, bridal bouquets:

And goddammit if I didn't decide I wanted one.  But if you click through any of the links, you'll see they are not cheap.  I think the least expensive one I found was still over $200.  For one small bridal bouquet.  Matching bridesmaid bouquets, boutonnieres, etc. are a whole different story.

So I kept searching, and stumbled across several different DIY videos to make your own "brooch bouquet" as these are apparently called.  There are even some kits out there with the materials to make your own.  I watched about five such videos before deciding I would give this a try (with just a small bouquet) to see if I could do it myself.  And in true Leonard fashion, I sort of took the elements I liked from the various videos to see if I could piece them together.

One video involved painting the styrofoam half sphere and covering it with glitter first. And it's literally a brooch bouquet.  She glues brooches onto the foam -- and also includes feathers! One video involves gluing satin flowers all over, and then adding the bling on top.  And yet another has you put the bling into the center of the artificial flower with floral wire and stick them into the styrofoam.

With the all satin flowers, I didn't like how it looked; it was too symmetrical, the flowers all look the same.  And I definitely didn't want the "just brooches" bouquet, and the added feathers -- well, this isn't The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.  Also, two of the three video involved using a wooden dowel (wrapped in ribbon) as the handle; the third uses an actual floral bouquet handle and bouquet collar.

Fail #1:  Measurements

Math is hard, y'all.  The all-glitter-and-feather-and-brooches bouquet used a 5" diameter styrofoam sphere.  Most of the others are in the 8" range.  I wanted to start small to practice, so I tried to find the 5" foam.  But I couldn't.  Plus, all the measurements were weird.  They didn't say "5 inches."  They said things like "1.9 in. by 3.8 in."  What does that even mean??  But that seemed close to five inches?  So I ordered it.  And I laughed at how wee it was when it arrived.

Please insert your own joke about how women can't measure because men say "this" is six inches here.

But that wasn't all.  The wooden dowels, while actually 7" long (heh), were only 0.5" in diameter instead of one inch.....but they actually worked with the teeny styrofoam ball.

And last but not least, these bits of bling.  One of the videos showed gluing rhinestones, etc. to cover any extra space that the flowers didn't cover, so I bought some.  Or so I thought.

Here's what I got:

Can you tell? They’re really, really tiny. 

So we're off to a rocky start, but it's okay 'cause it's just practice! (Right?)

Fail #2:  Ribbon Twirling

I attempted to cover my wooden dowel with ribbon.  The ribbon is slightly smaller in width than in the videos, I think (another measurement fail); some videos have you cover the dowel with ribbon first, and then glue to the styrofoam; others attach the dowel, then cover it.  I went with the former, and as you can see, my ribbon twirling skills need some work:

It shouldn’t be lumpy like that. And this is before the next fail. 

Fail #3: The Glue Gun Won

When gluing my (poorly) beribboned dowel to the styrofoam, things took a horrible, horrible turn.  The glitter & feather video said to use a ridiculous amount of glue.  Okay, fine, so I did.  And when I inserted the dowel, some of the glue squished out.  And my brain said, "You just should spread that around a bit, evenly."  So I stuck my right index finger directly into the mess of hot glue.  And then the screaming began.

I don't know why I did it! It made sense at the time!!!

And I must have touched my finger to my thumb in an attempt to get the glue off because the pads of both digits ended up with second degree burns (they're still healing now, two weeks later).  I could only yell, "HOT! HOT! HOT!" and run, crying, to the kitchen sink to thrust my fingers under cold running water.  Le Fiancé asked, "Oh no, did you accidentally touch the metal tip of the glue gun?"  But I couldn't make words, let alone explain to him that it was so much worse than that.  And I had to peel the drying glue off of both fingers (under the running water) and hope it wasn't also taking skin with it. There was much sobbing and bawling in pain and frustration.  That night was one of the longest, most painful I'd ever spent.  Just searing, burning, screaming pain radiating from my finger and thumb, especially if I moved them away from the ice pack (wrapped in a towel) I was clutching. 

Here's the thing:  this is not my first time using a glue gun.  I grew up with a mother who was sewing and crafting constantly, and I crafted the shit out of some stuff in the 80s and 90s, most of which involved using a glue gun.  But clearly my brain had forgotten some key elements.

Fun fact:  this is also not my first major burn on my dominant hand.  In 8th grade, I had left my curling iron plugged in for about 4 hours and at the time, had the very bad habit of picking it up by the rod.  So I picked it up, seared my right hand, dropped it (almost burning my foot), and ran to the bathroom to again plunge my hand into cold water.  I had second degree burns with blisters on every "section" of each finger and my thumb and all over my palm.  That night was probably the first night of "I'm in so much pain I can't even sleep" that I've had.  At least this most recent time, as an adult, I could self-medicate (and I did!).

Needless to say, I took some time away from this project for a couple of days.  When I plugged the glue gun back in again, I

1. alerted Le Fiancé so he could be on standby.
2. made sure to turn it to "Low."  (It had previously been on "high."  It only has two settings, and no On/Off switch.)

...which brings us to the next fail.

Fail #4:  Flower Power

I don't want to say I bought the wrong flowers, because I don't think I did.  I bought these flowers by Ling's Moment, and let me tell you, they are beautiful.  However, they are not the silk type flowers you find at your local craft store.  They are more like foam, sometimes called "real touch" because they do feel velvety, more like the real thing.  And the colors in her "Vintage Blush" collection that I purchased were 90% spot-on (the dark "dusty rose" color isn't really in my palette).

But, with DIY Tutorial #3, where we put the brooches in center of some of the flowers, you have to be able to pop off the plastic stem and then thread the floral wire through the flower.  With foam flowers, well, it doesn't quite work that way.  They're better made than your typical craft store flowers, so the stems don't just "pop off."  And 26 gauge floral wire is a bit too delicate to just shove into the foam flower and hope it comes out the other side (trust me, I tried).  The wire just starts to curl and bend (rather nicely, I might add) under the pressure.

So I was a little "stuck."  My thought process was to then buy some cheap craft store flowers to try the process again and sort of see what happens.  I did glue some of my brooches directly on top of the foam flowers, and it looked okay.  But I didn't want to do that for the whole bouquet, practice or no.  Speaking of the brooches...

Fail #5:  All Your Brooches Are Belong to Me

I bought two different packages of rose gold brooches from Amazon, and I made sure they were in different sizes.  Visually, you don't want everything to look the same, y'know?  You need to break up sizes and shapes otherwise it just looks off.  Not that we expect anyone to think these flowers or this bouquet is "real," but you also don't want it to look like it was purchased at a 1980's craft fair.  (And believe you me, I went to a lot of those.  A LOT.  So many crocheted Barbie outfits!)

And yes, while the packages had two different sized brooches, they were nearly all the same shape.  Not 100% identical, mind you, but not enough difference in shape and style.  At first glance, the eye thinks they're all the same.  I kept referring back to the pictures of the professional bouquets (like the ones I shared above, plus others) to identify what I liked about those and how mine was different.  And being able to have different shapes/types of brooches and other bling was a big part of that.

So now the plan was to buy more fake flowers, more brooches, more wooden dowels, possibly a bouquet holder if I could find one.  The Muppet Man patiently went with me to the Dollar Store and Michael's to pursue my craft extravaganza.  He's even gotten proficient at finding items in the right color scheme; I'm so proud.

Now let's look at all of my failures put together!

This is actually the 2nd attempt at this practice bouquet.  Because so many of the flowers previously were just stuck into the styrofoam (no glue), I was able to take them out and reuse them, rearrange them, et cetera.

I've numbered the specific places of fail for your convenience.

1. Wonky ribbon (previously mentioned)
2. Exposed styrofoam and some wires. 
3. More ribbon failures (this time trying to put it along the edge of the half sphere).
4. A blank spot?  Let's just stick another happy li'l brooch right in there:
5. Pearls.  I didn't even talk about the pearls in the main list of fails!  But they weren't what I expected, so I tried to "sprinkle" them on this rose.  It didn't work out exactly.  (And you can see the glue).
   

   
   
6. through 8.  These aren't mistakes.  But because I'm me, I decided to add several other (larger) pink pearls like pretty little clitorises because why not?
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   

The Cost of Failure

How much has all of this cost?  Wasn't doing it myself supposed to be cheaper than buying?  I mean, yes, mostly cheaper.  But also a bit more fun (minus the second degree burns and shame) and also a way to be sure to get exactly what I want in terms of color and shape and other details.  But for actual cold hard cash, right now I've spent $216.54.  And that's including supplies to make a second (real) bouquet, some extra items we purchased while at the Dollar Store and Michael's (unrelated to this project), and the fact that I currently have enough materials to try my hand at making my own boutonnieres and corsages for the wedding party and parents (pictures below).  And that's still less (by four dollars) than the cheapest premade bling bouquet I found online.  And I know this because I have it all written down in my Wedding Spreadsheet (maniacal laughter).

I'm Proud of You

or "Not My Love Language"

You know the 5 Love Languages, don't you?  In short, there are five basics ways we either express love or like to receive love.  They are, in no particular order:

• Physical Touch
• Gift Giving
• Acts of Service
• Quality Time
• Words of Affirmation

You can take a handy-dandy quiz to see how you view them or "what your love language is."  (There's also a book, but I've not read it; I just take the quiz every now and then to see if anything's changed.)  There is no right or wrong love language; it just makes it easier to communicate with your partner if you know the love expressions that are important to them (and vice-versa).  My top love languages are Physical Touch and Gift-Giving, FYI; the other three (Acts of Service, Quality Time, Words of Affirmation) all rank pretty low with me.

Now that that's out of the way, a story:

Last November, I was in rehearsal for a play, as I often.  We were getting close to opening night, and I had texted the boytoy, probably something like "headed home from rehearsal" or maybe even "working from today" or something similarly innocuous.  He texted back -- brace yourselves -- and I quote:  "I'm proud of you."

And reader, I was flabbergasted.  I was nearly speechless -- ME!  That's saying something.  Somewhere in there he also had written, "I know you've been working hard."

I was still mostly stuck on the "I'm proud of you" part, although the combination of the two statements had also given me heart palpitations.  It took me a moment or two verbalize what I was feeling and why I was so shocked.

1. It felt odd for him to be proud of me for doing something that I just do.  Theatre is my thing.  It's what I do.  And while I almost always work hard on whatever production I'm involved with, it isn't often hard for me to do (if that makes sense).
2. Has anyone ever told me they were proud of me for going to rehearsal/doing theatre like I do?  If they have, it was so long ago that I've forgotten it.

So for someone to acknowledge my hard work on what most people regard as "just as a hobby" shook my world a little bit, in a good way, especially when it's a vocation that takes up time I could be spending with him.  It was also a weird feeling because, like I said, Words of Affirmation isn't one of my love languages; in fact, it's probably rated the lowest for me because words are just that.  If you can't back them up with actions, I'm not interested.  But these words didn't feel all that empty, which was a pleasant surprise.

Since that day I've actually started saying "I'm proud of you!" more.  It's still a weird feeling, but in a different way.  But I like when people when they try to learn a new skill or continue to hone their craft or do major work on their mental health or make hard but mature decisions.  Those things should absolutely be encouraged and celebrated. 

I particularly like when people do things outside of their comfort zone; actually, I fucking love that, especially when it comes to working on our art.  I want to clap and cheer sometimes because I know what it feels like to do things that scare me.  And far too often actors/artists just start to rely on their usual "shtick" (whatever it may be) because it's comfortable and has been working tolerably well for so long, rather than pushing their own boundaries.  So I've changed my usual "Good for you!" or "Good on you!" (which I always meant sincerely) to "I'm proud of you!" (which I also mean) because all of the aforementioned things are rarely easy.

I haven't been saying to everyone because then it will possibly lose some meaning.  But all of this leads me to the thought that I may actually be becoming nicer....and that's a terrifying thought.
To quote Margo (The Magicians), "Don't you go accusing me of catching feelings!  It's insulting."

Introspective Valentine's Day Post

I need to write this quickly before my feelings evaporate (I have them so rarely, you see).

Say what you will about Valentine's Day -- it's a made-up holiday, just commercialism, etc. -- I will agree with you.  I also agree that it can be fun if not taken too seriously.  I am also not used to celebrating it.

10.5 years with my former partner, and there were several reasons for the lack of celebrating:

1. Her birthday is also at the end of February
2. Her anniversary with her ex was apparently on Valentine's Day (poor planning, people!)
3. Our anniversary was in mid-December, and we usually didn't get to celebrate it until January or February (if then) due to her work.
4. We were often broke (according to her)

But we mostly said stuff like, "We're adults!  We don't need this stupid holiday!" or "Why spend money we don't have?" after giving each cards the first year or two of being together.  And that was it.  And, like our actual anniversary, it just fell by the wayside, not celebrated, not taking any extra time to appreciate each other, etc.

And that, friends, should always be a sign that things are not going that well.  It's not that Valentine's Day is a super important holiday; it's that if your partner isn't willing to take the time to think about you (on any given holiday or anniversary or at any time), that's problematic.  And it's possible to think about and appreciate your partner without spending a dime.

And that little bit of introspection (as the boytoy is, by all accounts, preparing to go overboard for our first V-Day together), sent me down a bit of a rabbit hole where I am amazed at the crap I put up with for 10.5 years.  Because it wasn't just Valentine's Day.  Or our anniversary.  Or Christmas.

Here's a story for you:

In 2015 I got a job outside of academia, a "real" office job, with a salary and benefits and vacation days.  And it paid about double (annually) what I had ever made as adjunct faculty.  So that was exciting.  So I decided, for my birthday that year, I wanted a tea party.  I had started a Silmarillion read along group, and hobbits love tea (and snacks), so I figured I would just invite those people and some others, not a big thing.

And this was a tea party at a specific place: a tea room here in the city which required a deposit for the party (because they provide tea and all the foods and the room, etc.).  So at first I inquired to see if there was any interest among my reading group and my nerdy friends because not everyone wants to (or can) pay around $20 a person for someone else's birthday.  I get that.  And I think I needed at least a dozen people (minimum reservation).

At any rate, it was going to cost me a couple hundred dollars for the deposit.  And my ex was pretty livid at the idea.  She saw it as a waste of money.  Even though we had extra money now because of my job and it was my birthday dammit; I wanted an actual party, something fun.  She eventually, begrudgingly, "allowed" me to spend the money and plan the tea party, all by myself.

And you know who didn't go to said tea party?  Her.  Because "she had to work."  It was on a Saturday afternoon, and while her job could schedule her to work on almost any day of the week, it's not like it was a last minute work day  Nor was it a last minute tea party; it was planned about a month in advance.

She could have asked off.

She could have said "I have to be done by noon" (or 2 p.m. or whatever fucking time the party was).

She could have made an effort.

But she didn't.  So I had my tea party (complete with fancy hats) and had a lovely time, despite everyone asking where my partner was and me saying, "Oh, she had to work."  No, she didn't have to; she chose to.  

And I put up with bullshit like that for the better part of ten and a half years.  Where I don't think I was ever a priority.  And I went along with it because I was trying to be an adult, because spending money and commercial things don't matter, because "it's just stuff," and "there will be other birthdays" or "other holidays" or what the fuck ever.

In my effort to be mature and to "not be a nag" I let myself also not be made to feel special or important or that someone was randomly thinking of me.  Don't let that happen to you, friends.  And definitely don't let it happen to you for a decade or more.

The Universe Is Cruel

The other day my sister was making one of our HelloFresh meals for dinner:  Mexican beef burrito bowls with poblano peppers.  I don't find poblanos to be all that spicy, but my sister does, and she dutifully washed her hands after cutting and handling the pepper.

Sometime later, she had to blow to her nose.  Now, I'm not exactly sure on the details, but she said the Kleenex "broke" while she was blowing, so I guess her bare finger ended up touching her nose?  Again, I'm not sure, but shortly after I found her laugh-crying in the kitchen about "hot peppers" holding a fingerful of yogurt up her nose.

And I laughed, too.  More "at" her than "with" her, especially as she still had one finger up her nose, trying to hold yogurt in place (no easy feat, I assure you).  I helpfully offered to remove most of the poblanos from her presence during the meal (by eating them).

A few days after this incident, I made our other HelloFresh meal:  one pot chili with pork and black beans.  Sidenote:  I've only ever made chili with beef, so this was an interesting change.  Oh, and the recipe involved one (singular) jalapeno: half of it minced into the chili, the other half in slices for "garnish."  And as my sister taught me (even before the poblano-yogurt incident), I was sure to thoroughly wash my hands after handling, cutting, slicing, and mincing the jalapeno.  And even after washing, I avoided touching my eyes, face, etc.

Later, a good twenty minutes later, as the chili had been simmering, but we hadn't yet eaten, I, too, had to blow my nose (my eyes had been watering when dicing the onion).  My Kleenex didn't break.  I'm not sure what happened, actually, but some of the jalapeno oil must have gotten somewhere, because a bit of my nose and my entire upper lip felt like they were on fire.

I washed my hands again.  I tried lightly washing my face (with cold water, to ease the burning), I applying some light, soothing lotion, I put on chapstick, but still the burning remained.  It wasn't awful; mostly just annoying, but my sister got a laugh out of it nonetheless.  I ate the chili (delicious), and moved on.

And then after that, maybe an hour later, I was sitting on my bed, playing on my phone, whilst the boytoy prepared to leave for a few hours.  I had an itch in...an unfortunate place...and, without thinking, reached down and lightly scratched said itch with my right index finger.

And within seconds I realized my mistake.

And I said, hoarsely, to the boytoy:  "I should not have done what I just did."
"What?"
And I explained, my eyes growing wide as my crotch was burning with the fire of a thousand jalapeno suns.

I stripped off everything I was wearing from the waist down and did a strange hopping-waddle-dance to the bathroom to get a washcloth and soak it with cool water.  I pressed the cool washcloth to my poor burning vajayjay, and it only partially eased the fire raging.
All the while the boytoy was torn between laughing at my antics and feeling bad for me:  "Ohhh, honey!"

Sniffling, I asked him to run to the kitchen, get a small ramekin from the drawer, and put -- you guessed it -- some yogurt in it.  While I continued to hop and apply the washcloth to my burning private parts.

I managed to text my sister (who was only in the living room, but I wasn't going anywhere, not having any pants on):

"The universe is cruel.  I just scratched myself in an unfortunate place and apparently still had jalapeno on my finger.
I want to die."

She responded in the only appropriate fashion:  with a GIF.


The boytoy brought me the requisite yogurt as I put a towel on my bed and prepared to lie down, apply the cultured balm, and suffer (somewhat dramatically).  The boytoy had to leave;  I had to call to my sister to lock the door after him as I wasn't going anywhere.

I texted her from across the penthouse one last time:

"I will be in my room until further notice."

While lying there with my yogurt-slathered crotch, I thought for a moment and then swiped a fresh smear some on my upper lip, too, as it was still burning.

I got your fucking spa treatment right here.

Losing Leonard

A Story About Shrinking

(Meaning We're Talking about Weight Loss Stuff)

So I started a new weight loss/get healthy(er) program the other week.  Thanks to things like age and the fact that I don't walk across a campus and teach all day anymore, I was weighing more than I ever have before in my life.  I'm five-foot-three-and-a-half, people!  (And with a "small frame" if you believe those BMI chart thingies.)  I should not have the same "ideal" weight as a six-foot-tall man.

People said I "still looked great" when I would casually mention this and while I mostly believe them, the important thing for me was that my clothes were starting to not fit or be tight or uncomfortable or (worse yet) fairly unflattering.  And I simply don't have the budget to buy a whole new wardrobe to fit my expanding belly and booty and boobs (and other body parts that don't start with the letter "b").  And some of my current clothes are really cute, dammit!  I don't want to get rid of them.

And my previous ideas of using MyFitnessPal to log my meals and trying to work out wasn't cutting it.  Frankly, because I wasn't doing it (especially the "working out" part).  And this new program promised to help me build healthy, long-lasting habits which are (apparently) key to not only losing weight, but keeping it off.

One of the big things with this program is to celebrate my wins/successes/whatever.  That's not easy for me.  I mean, I will definitely toot my own horn about my awesomeness in other arenas, but talking about these goals/wins, especially since some of them are so tiny, feels weird for me.  It may be in part because I've never struggled with my weight before; I've never had to worry about what I eat.  I've always been curvy (read:  "BOOBS, I have 'em"), but I've also always been slender/properly proportioned.  But you know the old story:  you hit 30 or 35 and your metabolism suddenly says, "Well, that was fun!" and packs its bags, abandoning you mid-snack-break.

So this is me, trying to celebrate some "wins" and healthy habits.  For example:  I've been eating apples -- grabbing one on the way out the door to have as a mid-morning snack, having one as a side with my lunch instead of chips or bread.

And let me tell you, that is a BIG DEAL because I love me some crunchy, savory, salty, delicious carbs.  Keep your sweets, your desserts, your chocolate and cakes and ice cream.  Hand me a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine, and I'll be a happy camper.  

Don't mistake me; this program doesn't say to cut anything out entirely or to deny yourself things.  It's more about moderation; "moderation in all things," as Aristotle taught us.  So, y'know, I'm not supposed to eat just the bread, or ALL the bread ALL the time.

Today I ordered my lunch (before walking the 0.6 miles, roundtrip, to pick it up and come back to the office), and I hesitated.  I almost picked that delicious side of French baguette to go with my turkey chili.  I really, really wanted it.  And I can have it, remember!  Just not all the time.  And then I remembered that I'm planning on making pot roast with potatoes and carrots and gravy for dinner this evening, so maybe I should save some of my carbs and calories for that and holy shit another healthy habit just happened!

Planning ahead, also filed under "Shit I'm Not Good At."  

I don't plan ahead (food-wise).  I don't "meal prep."  I haven't been looking ahead at my calorie allotment for the day and planning accordingly -- or planning at all. 

But look at that!  Up there!  I just did it!  Go me!

So I ordered my apple and was a little proud of myself.  And I walked to the restaurant (0.3 miles, per Google Maps) to pick it up and then walked back to my office again (0.6 miles total because math).  And I opened my bag to get out my bowl of turkey chili and there was my apple, happy to see me.  But what's that?  The bag is still heavy?  I look inside, and the restaurant also gave me the chunk of French baguette (equally happy to see me).

Curse you, and your accidental carbohydrate generosity, restaurant!

I won't be eating either item anytime soon as I'm thankfully I'm stuffed from lunch -- well, not "thankfully."  The goal is to feel satisfied, not "stuffed" or uncomfortably full.

Today's Pro-Tip:  if you're also getting a smoothie, you probably only need a cup of soup rather than a bowl.

So now the apple and the bread are both just sitting on my desk, staring at me, possibly judging me.  #SuspiciousStillLife

Please note:  this post is not a request for tips or advice, nor is it an advertisement for said program.  If you want info on it, just message me directly.

I Saw the Sign

The owl came back!

So the artist formerly known as my Unit¹ and I were sitting outside on the patio steps again around 8 p.m. when Dogzilla raced straight across the yard to the back.  Sure enough, the owl was back because we saw her/him/them raise wings and effortlessly move to the right, out of Dogzilla's charge.

And we both oohed and ahhed.

And as before I immediately put the circus dog back inside (at just 13 lbs. he may very look like food to an ambitious bird of prey), and Dogzilla came bounding back to us with that look of, "OMG YOU GUYS DID YOU SEE THAT!?"

We went inside; I refilled my drink and immediately went back out to see if the owl would come back, but not before yelling down the stairs to my bird-nerd sister that "THE OWL IS BACK!"  Within moments of being outside again, s/he landed on the neighbor's swing set.  Bird-Nerd-Sister came outside quietly armed with binoculars.

We stayed out there for well over an hour, watching as the owl moved around, trying to hunt something on the lawn; sometimes s/he was very close to where we were sitting (well, close as far as I was concerned).  S/he is also still a big fan of the power line from the night before.  At one point s/he was "just walking on the tightrope," per my sister; there was a large tree in my view, but I could see the line bouncing a bit as the owl strutted.

We did, of course, take a moment to raise our glass to her/him/them.  Salut.

And because we are sisters, we argued a bit.

Bird-Nerd-Sister: "It's not a barn owl. It's definitely not a snowy. It's not a long-eared owl."
Me: (muttering) "Owls don't have ears."
BNS: "They do, too! They have holes in the side of their head for hearing."
Me: "Those are ear holes, not ears" (about to launch into the differences between seals and sea lions, including ear holes versus ear flaps)
BNS: "What kind of owl is it??"
Me: "You are asking the wrong-ass person." (beat) "What if it's here to give us our letters to Hogwart's??"
BNS: (laughing quietly)
Me: (hissing in owl's general direction) "You're late!"
BNS: (laughing more) "Here I thought we were going to argue about whose letter it was going to deliver, and you're busy sayin' 'bish, you're late.'"

And as before, when it got completely dark, the street lamp from across the way would catch the underside of the owl's wings and their breast feathers, especially during those brief flights.

Me: (soon insisting we refer to the owl as "she")
BNS: "As much as I hate to say it, it's probably a he. It's pretty small, and females are bigger."
Me: "Maybe it's a really small type of owl, and she's actually quite large."
Me: (happy gasp at another view of wings and light) "Oooh, it's like the opening of Labyrinth!" (another gasp) "What if it's the spirit of David Bowie??"
BNS: "That's it. I'm calling it 'Bowie' from now on."

Eventually my Bird-Nerd-Sister went inside, and I said aloud, "Well, it's just you and me, owl."  By the time I extinguished both of the citronella torches, Bowie had made it to the power line, the fence line, and then grass to my left (just beyond the torch I had just extinguished).  When I finally went inside (out of wine), they were back on the power line with no intention of going anywhere.

I may be the unofficial Queen of Small Animals, but birds are usually the exception.  If you know me at all, you know that I don't usually get along with birds, nor they with me.  The feeling is entirely mutual.  As I told my former Unit, I don't interact with Nature often, but when I do, it's always adventurous (read: "disastrous") and occasionally just a tiny bit awesome and magical.

And the former Unit commented earlier on all of the birds we've seen lately.  First, there was the hawk several times over a week or so.  "Hawks are messengers," she said.  "But I wasn't getting the message."

Then, within a day of our separation, there was the hummingbird.  Sometimes she saw it, once my sister saw it, but many times (like four times in two days), it was just me.  "Hummingbirds mean joy," she said.

And now the owl -- wisdom.

It may not seem like that big of a deal to you, but keep in mind all of these encounters have happened in the past month or so.  And frankly, a hummingbird?  In the Midwest?!?  I've never seen one outside of California before.

I'm not always one to believe in real-life "signs" and symbolism, but when the former Unit listed them outright like that, I had a shiver go up my spine, despite the summer heat.





¹We are in the process of separating.

Things Great and Small

My train of thought is a weaving, waving bit of transportation, but sometimes I end up at the depot of "How Would I Teach This (If I Were Still Teaching)?"  Last night's excursion went something like this.  Bear with me down this rabbit hole...

I am currently reading Starless by Jacqueline Carey (highly recommend!) and was thinking of how much I'm enjoying it.  And then I immediately compared it to another book I'm reading:  Homer's Iliad.  The Iliad is keeping my attention a lot less than Carey's novel, and so I got to thinking about why.  I never had to teach (or read) The Iliad, but I did teach classic Greek plays and Beowulf, and my goal was always to get my students to make connections between these ancient "classics" and contemporary literature, TV, film, pop culture, etc. because many of the elements of storytelling, of tragedy, of comedy, remain the same.  So how could I teach something like The Iliad if even I wasn't liking it?

So of course I went to asking students what they like about things they read and watch right now (particularly in the sci-fi/fantasy genre).  When I've taught, this is the section where they just get to shout things out loud and I get to write on the board (writing on the board was a huge reason why I started teaching in the first place).

• Epic
• maybe meaning large scale, like creating entire worlds
• maybe meaning giant, impressive battles
• Attention to detail
• So much food!
• Fashion!
• [more on attention to detail/world-building later in a wholly different blog post]
• Great deeds
• swords and dragons and rescuing people from monsters
• saving people from famine, being a voice for the downtrodden

And then I thought about The Lord of the Rings (frankly, when don't I think of LotR?).  While I will always contend that Jackson's adaptations of the trilogy are fairly faithful, incredibly well done interpretations of Tolkien's text (FIGHT ME!), there is one large, huge almost (pun intended; wait for it) difference:  Jackson's films have some beautiful, "epic" even, battle sequences.  I'll never forget the intense anxiety and fear I felt watching the battle in the mines of Moria for the first time on the big screen ("They've got a cave troll!").  There were so few of the Fellowship and so, so many of them, the orcs and goblins.  [Sidenote:  what is it about attempting to barricade a door against an oncoming horde that gives me palpitations?]  And at least four of "ours" were so very, very small.  Literally.  Small and woefully unprepared for battle of any kind.

And therein lies the difference.

Tolkien purposely did not write an epic heroic adventure filled with the usual heroes -- strapping swordsmen cutting a swath through the fray.  No, his heroes were two very small, very usual hobbits.  And while the battles do happen in the books, they often feel removed from the main action, almost in the background.  Because the main action is that of our two small heroes doing an awful lot of walking.  Seriously.  So, so much walking.  And then more walking.

(And occasionally breaking into song.)

Then we walk some more!

Because Tolkien's point (in addition to attempting to create a mythology specifically for Britain) was that small, "normal" folk can do epic things.  People who aren't martially trained, people with no talent for statecraft can accomplish things simply through virtue of being themselves with their own points of view.  They'll not come out of it the same as they went in, of course, because this is still a hero's journey (and that is the foremost marker of a hero's journey:  change), but they're a different kind of hero altogether.

And I think that, both in Tolkien and in other pieces of literature, touches on the very heart of human existence:  we want to do great things -- not just good things, but great things.  We want to complete a great quest, we want to bring salvation to a group of people, we want to be a hero of some kind.  But we are also so very small and normal, walking around in these very fragile bags of skin and water.  So the bringing together of the great and small like that is something we all hope to achieve, being able to accomplish these things just by being ourselves (and, apparently, doing a lot of walking; even hobbits have to do cardio).

And while I was sitting outside on the steps of my patio last night, with a drink and a cigarette, having these thoughts about things great and small, Dogzilla turned and rushed in the darkness to attack something.  It was an owl.  I know it was an owl because, thanks to a street lamp, I could see her/him/they outstretch their wings and silently, gracefully lift up and away from Dogzilla's reach, effortlessly, like pulling silk backwards.

Sorry, Dogzilla, but you are neither hobbit nor orc in this scenario; you are meddling mankind, and the owl is Gandalf.  And the wisdom of wizards (and owls) is always just out of reach.

Prosaic Little Epilogue:  As soon as the owl was out of sight, I scooped up my tiny circus dog and put him inside.  And Dogzilla soon followed.  And then I refilled my glass of Prosecco and went back outside to see if the owl would return.

In a few moments, there was a flicker of movement out of the corner of my left eye; the owl had landed upon the power line running between my house and the next.  That same street light reflected just the tiniest bit off of the owl's lighter-colored breast feathers.  That and those first occasional flutters of movement were the only way I could tell the owl was there.

[When you've worked around animals for years, you learn to not look directly at them, but to look towards the center and use what we Viewpoints actors call "soft focus" -- let your gaze relax; the periphery opens just a bit further, and then pay attention to the movement that happens.  Ask me about the ways to see "hard to find" zoo animals!]

So I continued to sit there, drinking and smoking, attempting to make my movements smooth and slow so as to not disturb her/him/them.  It wouldn't have mattered.  S/he was far enough away that I wasn't a threat and I'm fairly certain they gave zero fucks about me.  Sometimes I even reached for my wine glass to my right without looking, not wanting to lose sight of them in the darkness (and my very poor eyesight, particularly in the dark) as nearly any and all movement had stopped.  At one point I raised my glass to them.  Salut.

I stayed out in the sweltering heat as long as I could (over 90 degrees after 9 p.m.!), through two cigarettes and down to the dregs of my wine and finally went inside.  The owl didn't move.  After I was inside, I looked out the giant dining room window at the power line, but due to the angle, I couldn't see if s/he was still there.  And then I went to bed, dare I say somewhat peacefully.
Salut.

Goddess Artwork by Emily Balivet

Feelin' Good

Sometimes you just have a good audition.  I mean, you feel good about it.  It's not a matter of "Yeah, I nailed it!" but a matter of feeling incredibly satisfied with whatever you did in that room for those five or ten or fifteen or twenty minutes.

I had one of those yesterday.

And the experience reminded me of a callback for a Shakespeare show I had a few years back.  Despite having a Master's degree in English, Shakespeare is not my forte; in fact, I've only done four Shakespeare shows in my 30-plus years of acting -- and that's including a high school production of Macbeth.

During that callback (for a queen!), the director asked me to use my lower register and diaphragm and really let my voice resonate in the space during the queenly monologue.

And I did.

And it. Felt. Fantastic.

Very powerful -- hearing those words ringing in my ears and bouncing off of the rafters in the room.

I didn't get cast in that show; I'm not sure I could have even done the show if I wanted to due to scheduling conflicts.  But that callback is one of the first in recent memory that I felt good about what I did, and I knew I'd continue to feel good about it, no matter the casting outcome.

I didn't necessarily think, "Oh, I'm totally getting that part!" or "I nailed it!"  But I felt immensely satisfied with what had transpired in those few minutes.

And that happened again yesterday.  It was ugly and real and raw, and I feel good about it.

That is all.  Carry on.

Obligatory cat meme

The Good Ol' Days...of Parental Abandonment

And now an excerpt from my mom's holiday email:

Bet you didn't know I bought and then returned and got something else for you. Maybe even three times. Because I thought THAT thing would be the best thing. Once I even drove over to [a store] from [our duplex in a completely different area] to get in on the best price and while they still had one (whatever it was). Did I say it was 12:00 at night? This was the year stores started to be open 24 hours.  Fortunately, you were still sleeping when I got home.

Ahh, the good ol' days of the 1980s.  Sometimes I'm amazed my siblings and I survived at all.  But she was right; I did not know that.

Arachnophobia

In the old house, pre-Treepocalypse, this once happened.

My Unit: "...and there was a big fucking spider under the fridge that was alive. It may have been -- what's the kind with the fiddle on its back?"
Me: "A brown recluse. Was it a brown recluse?"
My Unit: "I don't think it was brown enough. I just saw something red on it before I sprayed it [with vinegar]."
Me: "That would be a black widow."
My Unit: "I don't know..."
Me: "Did it look like this?" Bringing up spider images on the computer.
My Unit: "I don't know! I already sprayed it."
Me: "Did it....look like Scarlett Johansson?"

Brown Bag, Indeed

When I was still teaching, I used to insist on having some kind of adorable lunch box to take with me.  And when my Unit was home, she would sometimes put together a lunch for me while I got ready for the day.

"Hey, I put some snacks together for you for today."
"Thank you!"
"But I had to throw away that kiwi you had in there."
"...kiwi?"
"Yeah." 

Eyes widening with realization.

"That wasn't a kiwi.  That was," {gulp} "the artist formerly known as an orange."

Unit immediately throws everything -- snacks, lunchbox, everything -- into the trash can.

"You need to buy a new lunch box."

The Joys of Working from Home

So sometimes you're loading dishes into the dishwasher (while on your "lunch break"), and Dogzilla comes to "help" (she likes to lick the dirty plates and silverware). And then WHOOSH! Suddenly the bottom rack is yanked right out of the dishwasher!
...because something is snagged on Dogzilla's collar, and then she's freaking out because an entire rack of dishes is following her, and you're trying to get her to be still to un-snag the offensive item from her collar. But she manages to violently wrangle herself free, breaking one of your nice(r) wine glasses in the process. So then you have to keep everyone calm and sitting still and DON'T WALK THERE! while you clean up broken glass from the kitchen floor.

Good thing I go back to the office tomorrow.

The Miracle of Laundry (and Tiny Games)

One Christmas, we decided to go to the West Coast for the holiday.  And by "we," I mean my Unit and her family.  Five adults (me, my Unit, Unit's sister and brother-in-law, Unit's mother) and two small children (Unit's niece and nephew, aged 2 and 6 at the time) all sharing a small beach house on the Oregon coast.  If you're thinking "That sounds like a disaster," you're right; we now refer to it as "the worst Christmas ever" (and by "we" I really mean "me").

There were a lot of things that went wrong during that week, but this is not that story.  And there were a lot of things that stressed me out when all I wanted to do was sleep, eat, knit, and relax (having just closed my sixth show of the year literally days earlier and my first year and a half of grad school), but this is only partially that story.

During our week-long holiday/vacation/forced interactions, my sister-in-law kept doing laundry (among other things).  We were staying in a house, not a hotel, so we had laundry facilities and a full kitchen and other regular house-type things that we all had to share.  And it seemed like she was constantly doing laundry, particularly for her two children.

Now I know kids can through a lot of clothes during the day, especially infants.  But these weren't infants, so why was she constantly doing laundry?  And my stressed-out-on-vacation self was all, Who the fuck does laundry on vacation?  Did you not pack enough clothing for all six days?  Did you just bring dirty clothes with you?  Hey, I did that a time or two in college when going home for a holiday or break.

I did not and could not understand the rationale, especially as it seemed to be one of the many things stressing her out, which in turn, stressed everyone else out.

Now let's fast-forward to six years later -- to August, 2016, to be exact.  My Unit and I are just barely recovering from Treepocalypse 2016.  On August 2^nd, we moved into an actual house ("temporary housing" from our insurance company), after spending weeks in both her mom's one-bedroom house and a hotel room.  We walked into a new, larger house, completely furnished -- but none of the furniture (or linens or dishes or housewares or ANYTHING) was ours.  A week or so after that, we were able to get the first portion of our items from the storage company, including clothes and MY SHOES.

And somewhere in there, somewhere between moving into the house with my bags and suitcases from the hotel and getting boxes of items from the storage company, I started doing laundry.  The "temporary" house included a washer and dryer, on the main level no less!  No more walking up and down stairs into a possibly creepy basement for clean things.  So I washed nearly everything I could.  And dried it.  And I happily folded things and stored them neatly in our new (to us) temporary dressers and closets and drawers.

And it dawned on me:  I know why* she was doing laundry!  I finally understood.

Because when things are chaos, laundry is one thing I can control.  When things are chaos, if I can at least get my clothes clean and put away, that will make me feel grounded and at home, at little less "all over the place" and a whole lot less like I'm living out of a suitcase.  That one small thing is done and clean and fresh and "ready to start the day" (or week or month or whatever).  The entire house (literally or metaphorically) might be a mess, but my clothes are clean and in their proper place.
I could have agency over this one part of my life.

And I've come to realize it's also why I often play tiny stupid games on the computer (in the "time management" genre):  because it's one small thing I can control -- a thing I can control and often complete.  They provide a wee sense of accomplishment (as does clean laundry), even if the tiny game is ultimately useless. 

It only took six years, but I finally understood the miracle of laundry.

*Either that, or she really did not bring enough clothes for her kids -- fuck if I know.

Day #1: Embarkation

Also Known As:  I FUCKING HATE EVERYONE

We arrived at the airport at 5:30 a.m. for our 7:40 a.m. flight.  We sat in the gate area, drinking water, saying goodbye to social media on our phones, and people watching.  And in came a family of eight (three adults, five children ranging in age from 12 to two, including a wee redheaded girl who clearly gave zero fucks as she kept trying to ditch her family to go exploring).  The size of their family wasn't the remarkable part; the fact that it looked like they hadn't checked a single piece of luggage was.  Every one of those eight people had at least two carry-on items (probably more), plus a blankie or two, and a stroller.  That's 16+ pieces of luggage to carry on!  And you know most of those children were not going to help carry things, and Mom was already carrying one of the younger ones (fast asleep on her chest because he had apparently had a meltdown earlier in the terminal).  What a horrible, uncomfortable way to travel.

As my Unit and I made our way to our seats on the plane we discovered that we weren't sitting together; we both had aisle seats right across from each other.  A single white man sat in the middle seat next to my Unit, and he quickly agreed to trade seats with me; in hindsight, I should have kept my aisle seat.

Seated two rows in front of us were part of the party of eight:  the mom, the sleepy kid, and wee redhead who gave zero fucks.  None of them, thankfully, were crying or having meltdowns, but the redheaded girl would sometimes just scream and yell for the fun of it, which I sometimes feel like is worse (it's not).  And in the row in between the family and us was an older woman who was only too delighted to strike up a conversation with the home-schooled mother of five.

Unfortunately, on an airplane, at several thousand feet in the air, with all engines going, holding a conversation basically means screaming at each other for everyone to hear.
Which they did.
Nearly the entire flight.
And then the redheaded toddler began playing a game on a tablet of some sort that sounded like a slot machine.  I know it sounded like a slot machine because they had the volume turned all the way up, competing with both the plane's engines and the two women talking.

This is not the point where I rant about small children and technology.  You want to give them a screen of some kind to occupy them in public?  Perfect!  But do it all the way:  give them earbuds, too, so the rest of us aren't subjected to it.

In response to the cacophony, I dug out my iPod for its intended purpose:  to drown out my surroundings.  So I did, and I was enjoying everything from Taylor Swift's "Look What You Made Me Do" to Lin-Manuel Mirando & Co's "Almost Like Praying" when my Unit nudged me and gave me a dirty look.

"What?"
"I can hear your music!"
"Well, I have it turned up to drown out all of that," I answered, gesturing to the rows ahead of us.
"Yes, but I'm trying to tune them out, and now I have to tune out your stuff, too."
"But, they're earbuds!" was my useless argument as I couldn't understand how she could possibly hear anything from my technology with everything going on around us.  (In her defense, they were older earbuds and don't quite go all the way "in" the ear as newer ones do.)
So I huffed and grumped and I turned off my music and slumped in my seat for the remainder of the flight.  When she said again, "I'm sorry, but I could hear both," I countered with, "So now we both have to suffer??"
Her:  "Well, yeah!"

And that, kids, is marriage in a nutshell.  Should have kept my aisle seat.

At one point, I needed to use the restroom, so I set my water bottle on my seat and squeezed past my Unit.  Returning to my seat after doing my business, I picked up my water bottle and noticed that it had leaked.
All over my seat.
A significant puddle of water.
I sighed in resignation as my Unit tried to keep her laughter to herself and went to ask a flight attendant for some paper towels.  She came back with a large handful of paper towels that I used to sop up all the water.  And I sat back down and sighed, realizing I had become "one of those people," the people who make a mess, who spill things, who just can't get anything right on an airplane, much to the dismay of their nearby passengers.  My apologies to the young lady on my left, in the window seat.

Our layover in Charlotte, NC was uneventful (after getting off the plane, following the family of eight and all of their misplaced luggage and children).  Next flight my Unit had the window seat, I had the middle, and another white man sat to my right on the aisle.  I'm gonna fast-forward, except to say that the A/C was cranked up so much in plane that you could see the air coming out of all of the vents up along the walls (I assume because of the difference in moisture/humidity).  It was a little disconcerting at first, looking like we were getting gassed with something.  We weren't, and eventually it got cold enough that I put on my sweater.

So, on behalf of perimenopausal women everywhere:  thank you, American Airlines.  I wouldn't be chilly again for at least another eight days.

Here's where things get tricky:  our cruise was scheduled to leave at 4 p.m. EST.  Our embarkation time was between 2:30-3 p.m. EST.  Our flight was scheduled to land in Ft. Lauderdale, FL between 1:30-2 p.m. EST.  Needless to say, we were worried about making everything on time.  We had purchased "cruise insurance" which covered us in case of flight delay, but still.  This was our first cruise.  Everything once we left the airport was new to us (in bold because that's important).

The info from the cruise line had said that porter service for baggage stopped two hours priors to leaving, so we assumed we'd have to schlep our bags to our room ourselves with our 2:30 time.  Apparently not so.  When our cabbie dropped us off, a porter immediately offered to take our bags (and got a generous tip for his effort).

And then we walked.  And then we walked some more.  I was trying to follow the signs that told us what to do.  I'm not sure what I expected, but I do think I thought I'd just be able to walk onto the boat, and that'd be that.  Not so.

More lines, more security checks, more longer lines.  At least we weren't schlepping our luggage.  When we got the last line to check in, the lady at the desk informed us that lunch on the Lido deck stopped at 4 p.m., but that our rooms should already be ready.  I remember that in the cruise line literature, too; something to the effect of, "many people enjoy a leisurely lunch on the Lido deck while waiting for their staterooms."  Okay, cool.

More walking, more ramps, some really steep ramps, and then finally, the boat itself!  Yet another person scanned our papers and gestured into a room that my memory can only partially register because of the sensory overload.  It was pink-ish colored, full of lights and sounds, and people with drinks, kids with ice cream, music, and shouting.  I just looked at the guy in the white sailor's outfit, lost, and said, "How do we get to our rooms??"
"The elevator," he says, with a gesture.

So we find the elevators and the long line for them.  This may have been the point where my Unit and I decided to take the stairs; it was only three floors.

We get to our room; our luggage isn't there yet.  Oh well.  I desperately want to change clothes and shoes into something cooler, but start to settle for stripping off every article of clothing and lying on the bed.  But my Unit stops me and says, "Let's get you something to eat and a drink."
Yes, please.  That's what vacation is all about.

So we head up to the Lido deck -- remember, the "leisurely lunch" from earlier?  I'm not sure what I expected, but I had an image of people sitting at white-clothed tables on an open deck eating, I don't know, tiny cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off or something.  I couldn't have been more wrong.

What we found was complete and utter MADNESS!  It was a buffet -- A BUFFET OF CHAOS!  I think even a "normal" (non-anxiety-ridden) person would have been stressed out at the pandemonium of this "buffet."  For me, though, a person with crippling anxiety who needs to know where I'm "supposed" to go, the order in which I'm "supposed" to do things, where the line begins, if I order my own food, and what "the rules" are, etc., it was torture¹.  I think my body and brain just shut down the moment we stepped into the room and were hit with the noise and bodies scrambling for food.

And then, to make matters worse, they announce over the loudspeakers that food and beverage service would be shutting down entirely for the safety briefing.  So then they start taking the food away!  Little signs start popping up saying, "Buffet Is Closed." And some devious chefs left the food out, but just removed the serving utensils.  I was carrying around an empty plate, almost in tears and walking aimlessly, when I found my Unit and just said, "They keep taking the food away!"
"Just grab something, anything!" she says before heading back into the fray.

I managed to put some squares of red Jell-O on my plate and two bars listed as "mint chocolate glaceau."  And that was it.  I didn't even have utensils; I ate everything with my fingers.  Rejoining my Unit, we searched desperately for an open (and clean-ish) table to sit; we ended up going outside to the humid deck and sitting down at a semi-clear table.  She had managed to grab some tortilla chips and potato salad and a napkin. We sat in silence and ate our miserable scavenged lunches, any thought of obtaining an adult beverage long since dashed.

Now begins the portion where we go back and forth to our stateroom in hopes that our luggage would be there.  Guess what?  It wasn't.  And every time we got back to the room I would strip down in an attempt to cool off.  This lasted throughout the hour-long "safety briefing" (mandatory attendance, outside, standing 3-people deep), my Unit going in search of the smoking area, and even a false alarm knock on our door that I thought was our luggage, but was the room steward asking when we wanted our room cleaned.

I was actually lying on the bed, sweating, my Unit out of the room, when the ship's engines started and we actually started to move.  I wanted to yell out, "We're moving!" but I was too exhausted and no one was around anyway.  I laid there, waiting to see if I'd feel seasick.  Nope!  I (mostly) loved the feel of the moving boat; it feels like lying on a giant, snoring dog (you can quote me).

My Unit arrived a bit after that with a glass in her hand.

"I got you a drink.  It's sangria, but it tastes awful.  Here, try it."

Again, marriage, folks.
And yes, I drank it.
It wasn't that bad; I discovered later it was sangria out of a bottle, not made fresh, which explained the not-fantastic taste.

We had hoped our luggage would arrive before dinner (we had the "early" dining time of 6 p.m.).  It did not.  So we went down to dinner in the hopes that it would appear by the time we returned to our room.

Dining on a cruise is an experience in and of itself.  For starters, you have the same waitstaff every night, so you get to know each other.  You are also seated at a table with strangers (unless you have 6-8 people in your own party).  And when you're two lesbians in a new situation among strangers, things have the potential to go badly quickly because, frankly, there are bigots everywhere.

On this our first night at the dining table, we were the first two to be seated.  And we waited and watched if anyone else would be sitting there, trying not to hold our collective breath if new people would suck or not.  Two separate times a waiter led people (women) to the table, in 2's or 3's, and each time there was a quick, hushed conversation with said waiter and anxious, furtive looks from the women, and then they were led away.

Now maybe they had mistaken the table number.  Maybe they had meant to sit with their friends?  Maybe it wasn't about us at all.  Or...maybe it was.  It wouldn't be the first time.  About halfway through our dinner a mother-daughter couple was seated with us and we all politely said hello.

My Unit and I ordered drinks with our meal, of course, and then, as we were looking at the menu, my Unit asks me if I think the theme drink for the evening is included in our drink package (because of course we ordered the drink package!).  Our waiter (Gideon) said that for drink package drinks the receipt handed to us should always say $0.00. 

Uh-oh.

Our drink receipts from the earlier sangria (and then a pina colada) had dollar amounts on them.  Then Gideon brought back our current receipts:  also dollar amounts.  He suggested we check with customer service about our package.  My Unit swore up and down she purchased the drink package.  She even remembered the total amount we'd be charged;  I remembered the day she did it (because I was working from home that day and she was trying to talk to me about drinks).  Nevertheless we were going to have to investigate; I needed to ask about our off-shore excursion tickets anyway.

We were going to hit customer service right after dinner, but first -- back to the room!  Joy of joys -- our luggage had finally arrived!  It had only taken five hours since we first gave it to the porter.  I changed clothes (finally!) and shoes and we trekked to customer service (down 3 floors and all the way on the other end of the boat).

As we didn't have Internet access on our phones (on purpose), we could not show the credit card charge for the drink package and stingray excursion to the customer service lady to prove that it had happened.  We ended up having to purchase everything over again (mentally deciding to check all statements when we got home again in eight days; if there were duplicate charges, the credit card company would remove the extras).  We purchased our drink package and two tickets for the stingray excursion in Half Moon Cay, Bahamas (Day #3).

And all we had to do was stand in line for 15-20 minutes behind a crazy lady who decided to befriend us.  She stood all of five feet tall (if that), had dyed blonde hair, and was in her mid-fifties (by her own admission).  And just beneath her blonde bangs were two jet-black eyebrows that had to have been tattooed on her forehead.  I couldn't stop staring at them; thankfully, it looked like I was making general eye contact with her as she chattered about why she was in standing in line.

"Eyebrows" (as she shall henceforth be known) had "spent the last three hours" cleaning her stateroom because it was "filthy" when she got there.  (By "cleaning," she meant wiping everything down with a damp paper towel, she explained to us.)  "None of the corners had even been touched by a vacuum cleaner."  And she cruises a lot -- A LOT!  She's a flight attendant, so she knows about these things.  And she's cruised with Carnival before, and she has never had a room this bad.  And she "told the steward it wasn't his fault, but really it is; I mean, it's his job."  And she would heave a sigh as only the truly put-upon can and say, "I don't want to complain; I want to enjoy my vacation,...but" (conspiratorially) "if the rooms are dirty, what else is dirty?"

But that's not the kicker.  And neither were the eyebrows the most bizarre part.  The bizarre part was during all of this conversation she had her room key in one hand and a black plastic knife in the other.
And we never found out why.
She never said why she had the plastic knife (or how it related to the room-cleaning saga).  Sometimes she would use it to punctuate her statements, as we saw when it was her turn at the customer service counter and the customer service guy would instinctively back away a bit when she waved it around.  We never saw her again during the remainder of the trip.  And we never could figure out the plastic knife.

After all was said and done, we got (more) drinks and sat on our room's balcony.  I took in the air, the stars, the waves, the rock of the boat (and my Nth drink) and finally, finally said, "This is very relaxing."  But it took the entire fucking day to get there.

Up next:  Our First Port

¹Other fun things I stressed out about during the time in the cabin and rushed to look up while my phone still had an Internet connection:

• Do we really have to attend the safety briefing?
• Where is our "mustard station"? ("Muster station," but it sounded like "mustard" every time)
• Where are the life jackets?  Are we supposed to wear them?
• Is this water included in the drink package?
• Are we supposed to eat in the dining room on the first night (or is it just more buffet chaos)?
• Where's breakfast tomorrow morning?
• Is there breakfast tomorrow morning?
• Why isn't it listed?
• I thought I read something about a brunch.  WHERE'S THE BRUNCH??
• How do we know when it's a "dress-up" night?
• What happens if you don't meet the dress code?
• What day is our off-shore excursion?
• Where are the tickets?
• This says tickets will be delivered to our room, but they're not here.

Listen to Your Gut

And by "your gut," I mean MY gut.  I've advocated frequently in the past for listening to your body, your "gut" and what it's trying to tell you about (possibly dangerous) people.  And I was recently slapped in the face by the Universe with not one, but two reminders to take my own damn advice.

Reminder #1:  If It Feels Awkward, It's Because It Is

Friendships shouldn't feel awkward.  If you continually feel awkward around a person or get a "weird vibe" from them, a second glance should be taken at said friendship.  Sometimes it can be hard because you'll tell yourself it's just in your imagination or even "Well, maybe s/he is just an awkward person."  Listen to your gut.  Even if the latter is true, you will eventually find a rhythm with that friend, and things won't be awkward.

Unless they are.

In which case, look for the patterns.  Dammit, Leonard, you're an analyst by trade!  You should have seen this sooner.  But just like in my day job, sometimes it's hard to see the larger patterns at work when you're up close and personal with the data.  Ya gotta back up a bit.

Patterns in no particular order include:  walking on eggshells for fear of upsetting said person, the giving of unwanted gifts, randomly showing up to a person's appointments and things (unannounced), continually having to defend said friendship as not being inappropriate or "that way."

There's wearing your heart on your sleeve, and then there's obsession with people.  And each obsession follows the same steps and same patterns above, lather rinse repeat.  There's having a friend with whom you can talk and discuss things, and then there's using a person as your personal (verbal) punching bag.  It took me five fucking years to realize this particular pattern and lesson, despite the awkwardness and despite my gut.

Reminder #2:  If It Sounds Fishy, It Probably Is

Caution should be taken when entering into business arrangements of any kind -- even businesses with friends and acquaintances, even business ventures that don't require any money from you.  I've realized that I tend to take most things at face value until proven otherwise.  But when you keep asking for data, for answers, for things to be accomplished, for months at a time, and it's a continual delay and/or lip service, Leonard is out.  I wouldn't put up with that during my day job or any of my other business dealings, why would I take it from an acquaintance?

And that's just it -- an acquaintance.  I had to step back and realize "I've only known said individual for X number of months."  Friends, those I've known for years, are deserving of some faith, some "benefit of the doubt"; they've earned some good will and a little free work (my time).  But even after that time has passed, I would expect results from them.

People who I have known for less than a year, I need to start asking for proof up front.  And sometimes when starting a project from the ground up, that "proof" won't be there.  And that's okay; that just means that I'm not meant to be part of the "ground-up" team.  Call me when you have data, answers, contact information, receipts, a functional website.

And again, look for the patterns:  continual removing and/or replacing of people.  The same or similar answers in response to "Where is this thing?"  Walking on eggshells, uneven temperament, extreme reactions to nearly everything.  None of those are ideal characteristics when trying to run a business, a foundation, or start a program from the ground up.

And frankly no one project is worth my feeling sick to my stomach every time I check my e-mail, wondering what fiasco, drama, or temper tantrum is awaiting.

Conclusion:

Some of this is on me.  I don't consider myself a gullible person (but what gullible person does?).  I'm a cynic, a skeptic, and an irritatingly rational person well-versed in the art of rhetoric.  I need that healthy dose of skepticism at the start of a project (or friendship), not later, when I'm waiting to be proved wrong.  A little less good will and a lot more "please provide your references."  I need to speak up louder when I begin questioning things and when I disagree and to not feel bad about doing so.

And, as always, I need to listen to my gut.  It hasn't been wrong yet.

Comic by The Awkward Yeti

Playing Possum

Last night, I came directly home after the show because I was hot and tired and in pain.  I was just going to take the dogs out and then go to bed, no excitement.....EXCEPT

...within seconds of being outside, Dogzilla has something in her mouth; 2 seconds after that, the circus dog wants in on the action.  I yell at her, which just makes her play with it more.  There's no squeaking or anything, so maybe it's not an animal?  (Or maybe it's already dead.)

I approach her slowly because if you run at her, she'll just run across our gianormous yard (with thing still in her mouth), thinking it's a game.  As soon as I'm within arm's length, I grab her collar, saying "Drop it."  But I can't see what "it" is (it's super dark outside at 10:30 p.m. in the county, y'all).  It's clear she's not going to leave it alone, so I prepare to drag/walk her inside by the collar.  Except she doesn't have her regular collar on (WTF?!?), something I failed to notice to before going outside.  So I lead her by the glow-in-dark LED collar we make them both wear at night (see above:  dark outside), but gingerly because

1. said LED collar can slip right over her head and
2. it's also a break-away collar

In fact, it DOES "break away," and so I grab her by the scruff with my cat-like reflexes so she can't run back to "i"t and then drag/walk 65+ pounds of dog back into the house, by her fur, with the circus dog running around my heels (his glow-in-the-dark collar still in tact).

I passive-aggressively wake up my sleeping Unit by saying loudly, "Rosie, where is your collar??"  A groggy, "Oh, it's in here" comes as a response.
"She found something in the yard," I announce.  "I don't know what it is," but I grab my phone and go outside to find out if it's still there or what.

My phone isn't giving enough light (and I deleted the flashlight app a long time ago), so I use the flash on the camera by snapping two quick pics revealing "it" to be....

a smallish possum.

Shit.

Back inside.  "It's a possum," I announce.  "Rosie killed a possum.  Or maybe it was already dead; I don't know."
Groggy mumbling in return.

And now I'm torn.  I don't want to go back outside, in the dark, and put the dead body in the trash can.  What if it's not really dead?  What if it's just, y'know, "playing possum"?  What if I try to grab it and it bites me??  And so I whine.  "Do I have to do it now?  I don't want to grab it in the dark!"

"But I don't know where it is!" is her rsponse, which translates into:  "I don't know what section of the yard to keep Dogzilla away from when I take her out at 4 a.m. because she will immediately try to 'play' with the dead animal again."
"And you're awake!" she adds (no translation necessary).

I sigh.  And find the one pink latex kitchen glove we have left (used the others in previous dead-body-tossings) and grab my phone and head back outside for a third time.  On my way out, I remember we do actually have a light for the back patio (duh!),  so I turn it on in an attempt to make things less icky/scary.

And then I grab a stick from the patio on my way to the possum.

Glove on one hand, stick and camera (using the flash on the "video" part now) in the other, I make my way back to the possum.  It's still there.  So I poke at it with a stick.

Nothing.

Poke.  Poke.

Still nothing.

Damn, it looks really gross.  Is it breathing?  I can't tell.  What if it bites me?!?!
Oh God.

And randomly, Damn, its tail is tail is a lot longer than I thought it would be.

Still using the phone for a light and keeping the stick for "self-defense," I very slowly pick up the possum's limp, furry body with my gloved hand.
Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod.

Nothing happens, but the possum is bigger than my hand.  So it's not a baby.  Maybe a teenaged possum?  (In its defense, Leonard does have delicate, lady-like hands.)

I'm standing, possum in one (gloved) hand, phone and stick in the other (non-gloved) hand and I find myself at a (figurative) cross-road.  Do I put the possum in one of our trash bins, like we have previous dead animals?  Or do I dump it somewhere else?  What if it's not really dead and gets stuck in the trash bin?  What if it's not really dead but tossing it over the fence causes a concussion or internal hemorrhaging?  What if it IS dead, so who the fuck cares??  Trash bins are to the right; to the left is the edge of yard with a fence and a drainage ditch on the other side.  Fence/drainage ditch is closer -- decision made!

I do a weird quick walk/not run to the fence, furry body jiggling in hand and try to "gently" drop the possum over the fence.  And I wince.  "Sorry, possum!"
Then quickly go back the other direction to the trash bins to ditch my pink latex glove only to discover a giant spider web between trash can and house that I nearly walk into.  Jesus!

Glove gone, go back inside.  Except I still have to take Dogzilla back outside to pee because she didn't do that the first time around.  Fuck.  She, of course, inspects the area where the artist formerly known as a possum was hanging out, not believing me as I say repeatedly, "It's gone, Rosie."  We come back inside for the fourth and final time.

I wash my hands, put on pj's, and then -- convinced that I'm going to have nightmares about possums -- look up on my phone (whilst lying in bed) how to tell if possums are really dead or just "playing" dead.

90% sure said possum was just "playing" dead (thanks, Interwebs!).

Update from this morning:  possum is no longer in the ditch.  Either s/he "woke up" and left or some other, larger animal ate it.

Last but not least, this all reminds me of a bit of perfect casting:  William Shatner as the father possum in Over the Hedge.  He does a Shakespearean-esque death monologue except

he. does it. in. the Shat. ner. style.

Fucking brilliant.