Category: Mockery

Now the trick is to believe that the rhino is really this cute…

*Sigh*

Y’know, I’m an idiot.

Okay, in some ways, that’s just a given: most people are. But I’m an idiot because I think I sucked up most of my available brain width between the ages of 3-5 with television. The square-headed, one-eyed sitter was my constant companion as my mother toiled ceaselessly in the kitchen and my two older sisters utterly ignored me. I must have watched hours, and it impacts my life still.

I mean, seriously. Mac asks if I need anything from the store, and I invariably say, “A loaf of bread, a container of milk, and a stick of butter.” After the first couple of years we were together, he finally asked why I always said that… and thanks to the magic of Youtube, I could not only explain it, but show him.

But the Sesame Street sinkhole otherwise known as my brain often sneaks up on me. Mac made pie, and though the lemon filling was tasty, the egg content (in the meringue, too) gave me and our guests who’d never had lemon meringue pie (which I thought was a British dessert, but Scotland — is so not part of GB. They pretty much let you know that every day) the shudders. I’ve been plotting to recreate a pie we can all enjoy, and instead of making lemon, use lime… and coconut.

Of course, I had to do a little cha-cha and sing, “you put the lime in the coconut and eat it all up.”

To which Mac said, “What?”

Me: “It’s a song.”

Him: “Is that from Sesame Street again?”

Me: “Um, no…?”

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Oh, snap. Yes it is. The HOURS I must have spent when I could have been playing Baby Einstein or taking Suzuki violin lessons and becoming a child prodigy. But no. I was dancing in the living room and learning all the words to The Rainbow Connection by heart.

Guess that’s not a bad trade-off, when it all comes down to it.

The Guardian had a funny little piece on caffeine and coffee-culture that made me smile. Me and my coffee… as the writer opined, those of us who add enough sugar and milk to undermine the whole process of appearing as stern intellectuals end up drinking what looks like melted coffee ice cream. We need to regress as much as we yearn to evolve. That sounds about right.

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So, I had a conversation with my sister. I do that from time to time, somewhat fruitlessly, as she’s sort of from another star system though undoubtedly from the same universe, as people occasionally can’t tell us apart. Mind you, they’re stupid people, but it does happen. Anyway. I was gabbing with her the other night about how weird it is to wear hats constantly, and the fact that it’s always so breezy/windy/cold that my hair is either bird’s-nest snarled, blowing straight up or split-ended and dry. “I’ve given up on my hair,” I laughed. “I’ve gotten false eyelashes.”

That led me to another story about my entertaining trip to the Stirling High Street to buy lip balm on a very windy and cold day when I was caught without, and chapped nigh unto lip-death, and I related how I’d seen lipstick in this gorgeous velvety Bordeaux shade, and had brought it and my black-cherry nail polish (see how these things add up? What had I gone in for: lip balm. What had I come out with? Too much…) to the counter, only to have the clerk dig through the bargain bin (“These are only £1.89”) to find me something close to the shade I wanted — and cheaper.

I was shaking my head at the whole thing — how crazy it was to have someone actually want me to buy something less expensive, and what kind of clerk does that, when my sister interrupted me.

“What you really need is a good foundation.”

“What?”

I heard a deep sigh. “Haven’t I told you before? If you’re going to wear lipstick, you need a good foundation. Otherwise, your lips just stand out too much. It looks too obvious.”

Foundation? Foundation? Did she not just notice I said I’d gotten fake lashes? Did she not notice my Ironic Image, my combat-boot wearing, slash-of-bright-lipstick donning anarchist ideology? What’s this foundation crap? Foundation. Followed by face creams and ‘Night Repair’ cream and wrinkle-fills and Botox shots …suddenly foundation sounds like a gateway drug to…old.

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Of course, at the rate my adolescence is progressing, I’m well into my tweens now, and making the same geeky misjudgments I somehow escaped back then. This week, I was chatted up by a university professor and I didn’t catch on until he was passing me his email address with a meaningfully smoldering look.

It started well enough – he’d written a fairly brilliant paper, and I’d briefly discussed it with him, and then discussed American politics (yawn) with him, and he evinced actual interest in what I do (and you’d be surprised how seductive that is — anyone who a.) actually asks me what I do, b.) doesn’t think I’m an idiot because I write for young adults c.) is still there when I’m finished talking about publishing has my vote for Nice Person). We had quite a nice chat, with him running and refilling my tea and pointing out which cakes I should taste — me sitting perched on a radiator (happily ON!) and him leaning against the wall with his arm braced above me.

Now, I’m short. I accept that. So taller people do all manner of weird things in order to lower their ears into my general vicinity. I don’t think anything of people leaning close to me, and I accept that people from other cultures have different ideas of personal space… so this person leaning on the wall next to me, about a foot away? Okay. I’ve had people rest their elbows on the top of my head (usually they get bruised. Violently.). At least he wasn’t doing that, right?

We returned to session at this conference, and he sat in the row ahead of us, so I brought my notepad, handed it to him and asked him to write down some locations in his country of origin that would be great to visit. When we were in conversation, he’d told them to me, but my Polish… well, anyone’s Polish is just too hard for me to spell, so I wanted to be sure that my w’s and v’s and j’s were actual and not ‘y’s or something else. By the time he was giving me his email address and telling me to keep in touch, I had some small inkling I’d missed a cue. When he refused to relinquish the notepad, saying, “I’d like to be your guide and take you to my hometown,” complete with meaningful look I thought,”

“What?”

Oh, shush. I’m not naive, it’s just I never get “chatted up,” never. I’m not that type of person (not that there’s a type or there’s something wrong with people who do, etc.). I wear big boots. I hit people. I scowl. I intimidate people, and generally I’m pretty happy with that. (Okay, fine, it’s unintentional, and I get tired of people saying I sort of freak them out, but most of the people saying that were sixteen and under, and my students, whom I GLADLY freaked out.) I’ve worked hard on being really straightforward (meaning, difficult). That’s why I completely missed this. Honestly, sometimes I don’t know how I ended up with anyone — I don’t do this subtlety thing very well…

*sigh* In the great scoreboard of cluelessness, it’s Life, 134095684776034.7, T – Zilch. I can’t believe … ugh. I’ve never been so embarrassed …well, not this month yet. This is the most squicked out I’ve been this month.

Never mind the pseudo-intellectual coffee, the Bette Davis eyes, the scowl and the combat boots. I’m apparently still a dorky fourteen year old, longing to evolve, fearing that regression is the only thing left.

Sheesh.

Quite disturbing — but way too true. They say writers are eavesdroppers and observers: do they also realize we’re restless psychopaths?

Welcome to the nasal universe in which ‘gone’ and ‘strong’ actually have matching internal rhyme. Urg.

Still here, and not feeling particularly strong. Not feeling too anxious, either, since this has more the feel of planning an invasion than of making a move thousands upon thousands of miles away from even a known way of telling the time (Church service is at 1900 hours? Really? Is that today or tomorrow?) and no handy formula to keep in mind to transfer Celsius to Fahrenheit and thus into comprehension. (Oh, WHY did the U.S. have to be so independent that it could not at least have stuck to one system of measurement? Why does the UK have to be so bloody-minded!? ‘Cause you know I blame THEM.) I’ve got the pounds thing down well enough – the rate of exchange is fabulously awful enough to just say “double it,” and go on – $2 U.S. to one cool L that I haven’t found the keystroke yet to make (so unimportant, but annoying to me, and now I must find it and record it for posterity. Alt + 0163= £! Tada, I did it!!).

Lord. Packing, selling, and now — Drugs. I’m stockpiling from the pharmacy, since it may take a while for the UK healthcare thing to kick in. I have to order disposable contact lenses. I have to make sure I have plenty of all medications. And then — and THEN! Hep A. Hep B., Meningitis, Tetanus/Diphtheria Pertussis, Varicella, Influenza and Pneumococcal injections will inflict my life. I have to make an ASAP appointment to get all of this stuff in so that I don’t spend half the time I’m meant to be packing sick and stiff. I’m so afraid I’m not going to get this done. Next week I *HAVE TO* spend at least one day putting together stuff for my panel bit on PowerPoint. I HAVE TO. And then I HAVE TO finish four chapters on this revision/expansion and send it off to my erstwhile agent who is probably having way too much fun at the moment in Italy.

I have to find time to get shots and ask for a certificate to prove I don’t have TB – I feel like a diseased reject they’re trying to keep from their country, jolly Scotland. I have to take pictures of EVERY. SINGLE. THING. we’re trying to sell and put it on Craigslist, like promptly. I can do it. I have to… but Lord, where is the money going to come from for some of this? I need to look up the going rate for 2004 HYBRIDS, and hope people are gas-unhappy enough to buy my car for a LOT of money. I don’t want to cheat anyone. But oh… Oh. So much to do…So much in need of sleep…

Interstitial Moments

Google Maps: Take exit 304 to merge onto I-80 E toward Cheyenne Passing through Wyoming, Nebraska, Entering Iowa,
1,053 m.

Yes, indeed, my dear. You’re already gone. Merge onto I-80 and just keep on going for another thousand miles.

Found this out, too:

• You will need a TV licence to use television receiving
equipment, including TV sets, videos and personal
computers. Annual licences can be bought at any post
office or direct from TV Licensing by calling 08705 22 66
66. This facility accepts payments from a range of debit
cards, or you can set up a monthly, quarterly or annual
direct debit payment. For general enquiries, call 08705 763
763. A colour licence costs £112. One television licence
will cover all the sets in your household. The television
licence also authorises the use of satellite and cable
services. You do not need a licence to listen to the radio
(although if you are sending and receiving amateur radio
signals you must obtain an amateur radio licence from
the Radio Communications Agency). British television
broadcasts on 625 lines UHF using the PAL system.
Television sets designed to receive other line definitions
cannot be converted.

Bizarrely enough, the University Church serves student lunches in… the… CRYPT of the church across the road. In. The. Crypt.

• Wellington Church, University Avenue. Times: Sunday 11.00 and 19.00
Student lunches in the Crypt daily during term time – good food and a warm welcome.

“Good food and a warm welcome” says the sign.

Can you imagine? “Oh, do sit down, Hermes and Hades and Death are awfully glad to serve you…”

All right, to sleep, perchance not to dream about that. I can see that I am rambling and becoming more weary as the seconds pass. More fruitless worrying tomorrow, I’m sure.

…if I wanted to submit a photograph for the cover of my novel.”It’s completely optional,” she said earnestly, “but do you want to?”

You know my response, right?

“HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!! HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA!! HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA! HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!”

Whew.

Fortunately this was via email. And I recovered myself enough to say, politely, “Oh, no. I’m sure nobody cares what I look like.”

Good grief.

Like that was ever going to happen.

By Jove, I think I’ve got it.

SHOES.
What, of late I have been asking myself, motivates me?

What is it that gives my ego that vicious little pinch which makes me perform? What causes me to set my jaw, grit my teeth, dig in my heels and try?

I have to say that nowadays it’s shoes. Or books. Or books and shoes. In college, I used to promise myself a bookstore trip if I wanted to trick myself into finishing something hard and ugly. No new book until you tell Dr. Anderson that no, you can’t take on another three hours of grading. No new story magazines until you tell Giselle you actually hate her, and this whole roommate thing needs to end. Now. No scoping out the $5 bins at Payless Shoes until at least half your Victorian Lit paper on Mary Wollstonecraft is done… It’s a bit psycho, actually, how the voice that was our nagging mother’s voice has morphed into the nagging voice of …us, but psycho as it may be, it’s what’s going to have to do the trick now.

Shoes.

I hereby declare in the sight of these (virtually) unseen witnesses: there will be NO shoes until a.) the manuscript is finished (oh, agony), and ten pounds minimum is lost. (Please note: the weight sounds easier, which should give some indication on how the @(*$%#*%! novel is going thus far.)

No cute new skimmers. No flashy patent t-straps. No strappy summer sandals. No bargain basement velvet flats that are on clearance this minute, nor sueded knee-high stretch fit boots for next fall. Not. A. Thing. Nada. Zilch. Zippo.

Sucks to be me right now.

Sooo. How’s your writing going?