tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64365295321649563332024-03-13T10:46:15.733-06:00Does This Make My Blog Look Fat?Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.comBlogger117125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-57562551495971583092013-01-29T07:30:00.000-07:002013-01-29T12:16:46.011-07:00Why Do I have to Keep Explaining This?<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>Warning: this post comes dangerously close to just ranting, FYI. OK. Carry on. You've been warned.</b></span><br />
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<em>Let's just take a little trip down imagination lane, shall we? </em></div>
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<em>Leauxra has two children, a boy and a girl. The girl is older by three years, and is named Crayola Pavlov. The boy is named Vladimir Pavlov.</em></div>
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<em>Let's just picture them both as gingers, because my mom has red hair, and it could totally happen. Also, I dyed my hair red recently, and I'm pretty sure if I had kids when I had red hair, the kids would be redheads. That's how it works, right?<br /><br />Anyhoo.</em></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiafkw1PL3qdHJmh9JUej50DF_XFVBZPbtxx0VnHDpLtOFwzAMnrROUa2Gg9Bi1w18lVVCpbhpLjLSVUePxg9q3tK_AVp1QazPnBslWoHHpjixDT0e26Ud-Yjkc6StQCqQbXXiy-fEH/s1600/Sketch45223620.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiafkw1PL3qdHJmh9JUej50DF_XFVBZPbtxx0VnHDpLtOFwzAMnrROUa2Gg9Bi1w18lVVCpbhpLjLSVUePxg9q3tK_AVp1QazPnBslWoHHpjixDT0e26Ud-Yjkc6StQCqQbXXiy-fEH/s400/Sketch45223620.jpg" width="250" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vladimir Pavlov and Crayola Pavlov- my kids.</td></tr>
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<em>Crayola and Vlad would be bright children, but they would be around <b>me</b> all the time.</em></div>
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<em>Just let that sink in for a moment.</em></div>
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<em>...</em></div>
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<em><br /></em></div>
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<em>Got it in your head?</em></div>
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<em><br /></em></div>
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<i>I imagined up these kids when I was a teenager. Somehow, it scared no one.</i></div>
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<em>The reason I would give both of them the middle name of Pavlov is because I would most certainly condition them to respond to bells and whistles. For the rest of their lives, they would have an overwhelming urge to pee, eat, or sleep if they hear a certain sound. </em></div>
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<em><br /></em></div>
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<i>I would homeschool them, and not teach them how to count in decimal... they would learn binary, and when they're ready, hexadecimal. Really. It's the computer age, and we're still counting on fingers and toes? Screw that.</i><br />
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<i>I would make up an alphabet, as well as history. It would make their lives more interesting.</i><br />
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<i>I would also make sure that they are afraid of the light.</i><br />
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<i>Just because... reasons. I WOULD HAVE THE POWER!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Yeah.</i><br />
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-----------------------------<br />
<br />
Every few months, I get <i>the question</i>.<br />
<br />
No, <i>the question</i> is <em><strong>not</strong></em>:<br />
Why don't you play more <em>Dungeons and Dragons</em>?<br />
<br />
No, <i>the question</i> is <em><strong>not</strong></em>:<br />
When are you two lovebirds going to get <i>married</i>? <br />
<br />
No, <i>the question</i> is <em><strong>not</strong></em>:<br />
Are you a professional writer/artist/anything that doesn't involve a cubicle yet?<br />
<br />
While annoying and humiliating, these are not <i>the question</i>.<br />
<br />
The <em>question</em> goes something like this:<br />
<br />
<em>(Probably a)Well-meaning person:</em> "So! Do you have any kids?"<br />
<br />
<em>Me</em>: "No."<br />
<br />
<em>Well-meaning person</em>: "Awww... are your cats your babies?"<br />
<br />
<em>Me</em>: "... No."<br />
<br />
<em>Well-meaning person</em>: "Ha ha ha, well, you're young, you have time."<br />
<br />
<em>Me</em>: "No, I am not having children. And I'm thirty-six."<br />
<br />
<em>Well-meaning person</em>: "Well, that's not too old! My daughter in law had her first when she was thirty eight!"<br />
<br />
<em>Me</em>: "I don't want kids."<br />
<br />
<em>Well-meaning person</em>: "You'll change your mind."<br />
<br />
<em>Me</em>: "I don't think so."<br />
<br />
<em>Well-meaning person</em>: "What's wrong with kids?"<br />
<br />
<em>Me</em>: "Nothing, kids are fun. I just don't want my own."<br />
<br />
<em>Well-meaning person </em>(tapping the side of her nose meaningfully): "You never know what's in store for you."<br />
<br />
<em>Me</em>: "I know it doesn't involve spawning."<br />
<br />
<em>Well-meaning person</em>: "You don't have to get sarcastic! I know children are hard, but the rewards are endless!"<br />
<br />
<em>Me</em>: "Sarcasm is a genetic trait. And really. I. Don't. Want. Kids."<br />
<br />
<em>Well-meaning person</em>: "Well, I really think that every woman should have at least one child."<br />
<br />
<em>Me</em>: "I don't."<br />
<br />
<em>Well-meaning person</em>: "The Lord works in mysterious ways!"<br />
<br />
<em>Me</em>: "I wonder if I can get this fork all the way through your eyeball and into your brain..."<br />
<br />
<em>Well-meaning person</em>: "Ha ha ha. Well. You'll never know love until you do."<br />
<br />
<em>Me</em>: "Until I stab you in the eye?"<br />
<br />
<em>Well-meaning person</em>: "Have kids."<br />
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<em>Me</em>: "Which I won't."<br />
<br />
<em>Well-meaning person</em>: (looks at me knowingly)<br />
<br />
<em>Me</em>: (stabs well meaning person with fork, as promised).<br />
<br />
<br />
Kids are fun. They're great. I like kids. I just don't want to take them home with me. <br />
<br />
Fine. Endless rewards. Fine. Finally knowing true love. Fine. Great. Why does this even matter to you?<br />
<br />
My desire to remain mini-me-free is not a judgement on you, your choices, your children, or anyone else's beliefs.<br />
<br />
But? This conversation happens at family gatherings. At work. Pretty much... everywhere outside of a small group of friends.<br />
<br />
I owe no one an explanation. And really, how the fuck is it anyone's business but my own whether or not I wish to pass my genetic material on to the next generation?<br />
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<div>
One day, my mom, my paternal grandmother, and I were sitting around the kitchen table shooting the shit one afternoon and drinking daquaries (grandmama loooves her mixed drinks). I had pretty much trained my mother to stop asking the inevitable "when you havin' kids" question, since I had reacted sullenly, angrily, sillily, snottily, and violently since about age twelve to this particular line of questioning.</div>
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<br />
But... as things go, somehow the possibility of future great grandchildren came up.<br />
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I looked back and forth between the two of them, trying to decide if I should just leave, leave with the pitcher of booze, or what, when it finally occurred to me how I should answer.<br />
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"Hey Mom," I said.<br />
<br />
"Yes?"<br />
<br />
"Remember when I went away to college, and left the cats here?" I asked.<br />
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"Ummm.." she said.<br />
<br />
"It wasn't that I didn't love and care about my cats. They were awesome."<br />
<br />
"Ahhhh...."<br />
<br />
"I just couldn't take them with me."<br />
<br />
"Err...."<br />
<br />
"So," I said, "I can have kids. That's fine. Just don't be too surprised if I have to leave them here at some point so I can move on. You wouldn't mind raising them, would you?"<br />
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Mom and Grandma stared at me, Grandma's mouth slightly agape.<br />
<br />
"You know, Leauxra," said Mom, "You would probably be a good mother, but you shouldn't have kids if you don't want them."<br />
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I smiled. "Thanks."</div>
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<br />Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-17524722640957097362012-12-13T19:30:00.000-07:002012-12-13T19:33:57.025-07:00Call Me Grace<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I recently had the pleasure of participating in the wedding of a good friend. </div>
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The bride and groom rented a lodge in the mountains where the wedding party could stay for the weekend. Festivities were planned, and food would be provided.</div>
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I expected the mountain driving (especially with a snow storm on the way) would be the adventure of this little gathering. I am very good at getting lost.</div>
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I am also very good at visualizing my car sliding off a twisty mountain road over a cliff and then my car exploding on the way down in a comet of fire and confetti, probably because I missed a turn. It seemed like the natural conclusion.</div>
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But none of that happened. It was a remarkably pleasant drive, I had good directions, and arrived a little early for the rehersal.</div>
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What I didn't expect was that the bridal suite would have an INDOOR HOT TUB that we could use.</div>
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Which is where our adventure begins...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmlge3MwxuwCtdC_1MGunDjK78itU1865dN6tvVpLQTrcyVOVcIL6D9-nwGdiI6n_ikJmpUVbJC2p7RH7zG-mpkZArmzySrRHXq6eaIMDb4GDg0ECB1NcYy06bEKOXJB2xdORI8Qom/s1600/hot_tub_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmlge3MwxuwCtdC_1MGunDjK78itU1865dN6tvVpLQTrcyVOVcIL6D9-nwGdiI6n_ikJmpUVbJC2p7RH7zG-mpkZArmzySrRHXq6eaIMDb4GDg0ECB1NcYy06bEKOXJB2xdORI8Qom/s400/hot_tub_1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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While I have recently lost quite a bit of weight, I may still have some <i>minor</i> body issues.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_y3Phigta3kRzGcl8DhWnfG1izwZPR7OAjTW_znsVl_FCm_tXqSsvp5rxrURaboRKfbY7IGYw7hEaTD64v7BCOS2RmbRiM1IRA8fhmg1bvUDNayuLnBrP76-Ct8xAKFGqfRoWWNqo/s1600/hot_tub_2_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_y3Phigta3kRzGcl8DhWnfG1izwZPR7OAjTW_znsVl_FCm_tXqSsvp5rxrURaboRKfbY7IGYw7hEaTD64v7BCOS2RmbRiM1IRA8fhmg1bvUDNayuLnBrP76-Ct8xAKFGqfRoWWNqo/s400/hot_tub_2_2.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
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Creepy smiles always help to make friends.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoYX673e5dC_gx34rLDsOnKqJu88-9Cfj9camXzopjqhD6rIXbF5bSl-V6midPpDsI7VytDSZpkdZkD_droDt0C1ayHyVNCmkgWPI_dAwII9PqjFQ7e00X1N6H2LOQhGL3wiXaf_wx/s1600/hot_tub_2_2_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoYX673e5dC_gx34rLDsOnKqJu88-9Cfj9camXzopjqhD6rIXbF5bSl-V6midPpDsI7VytDSZpkdZkD_droDt0C1ayHyVNCmkgWPI_dAwII9PqjFQ7e00X1N6H2LOQhGL3wiXaf_wx/s400/hot_tub_2_2_2.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>
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I decided my best course of action would be to get in the hot tub as quickly as possible and pretend I was not as ridiculous as I felt.<br />
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So, I walked over to the hot tub...<br />
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...put my foot on the step...<br />
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...and...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfhdv6obLBqqspDVlkolCRXmOx06JsP_ctx7esj3eKXY9pgYOuLGtwSpZz_-ju7wksMwk1_JTwzy23dgXcc5NHRN65Xp1wpnMeQDx9jizka0GDuIU6NzwxfF2OquNaomFxLT0RSBfE/s1600/hottub4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfhdv6obLBqqspDVlkolCRXmOx06JsP_ctx7esj3eKXY9pgYOuLGtwSpZz_-ju7wksMwk1_JTwzy23dgXcc5NHRN65Xp1wpnMeQDx9jizka0GDuIU6NzwxfF2OquNaomFxLT0RSBfE/s400/hottub4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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The step was not a step at all, but a beautifully hand crafted creation of doom.<br />
<br />
It tipped a little.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheTBk7LSopwaKEbNEjdnraa7lck8SYefN-Z13I2utNSeOKFopwhtbBDO2cyR4ymbauEPwsPk-qSzMv-1eWblKSmFhv6hwEsdDgClLrCz8r25PWPJ1JyGQs_6kkhgYPrMsY7DTIbuNL/s1600/hottub5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheTBk7LSopwaKEbNEjdnraa7lck8SYefN-Z13I2utNSeOKFopwhtbBDO2cyR4ymbauEPwsPk-qSzMv-1eWblKSmFhv6hwEsdDgClLrCz8r25PWPJ1JyGQs_6kkhgYPrMsY7DTIbuNL/s320/hottub5.jpg" width="309" /></a></div>
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And then it tipped some more...<br />
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I attempted to regain my balance for a moment...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF6LmdS47xuii-6NdwH66dRPZ7VEfy941P5j7MH63Qq4ty-dn8nm2Zexd6cwgwAiIpfXd8t4aLjt31XcPoLnNivIVejcgrC2zCY2Z86xs5Di04FnC7vVZjpb6fA92TrMDOqckMoaIH/s1600/hottub5_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF6LmdS47xuii-6NdwH66dRPZ7VEfy941P5j7MH63Qq4ty-dn8nm2Zexd6cwgwAiIpfXd8t4aLjt31XcPoLnNivIVejcgrC2zCY2Z86xs5Di04FnC7vVZjpb6fA92TrMDOqckMoaIH/s320/hottub5_2.jpg" width="314" /></a></div>
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But there was no help for it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Bs0ODhW3czmfoA99Ib_w5JYu9rA2pe80-36vmIZHnaX8i-nZNY_RCGz1ZxdVVvhbiezrnLEy7V9BTdgqq7dSkOwL4E3EFHXqSOfNCe8bUIikm_RrnNNCAIpRtAQxGFeaTnPUCBDq/s1600/hottub5_2_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Bs0ODhW3czmfoA99Ib_w5JYu9rA2pe80-36vmIZHnaX8i-nZNY_RCGz1ZxdVVvhbiezrnLEy7V9BTdgqq7dSkOwL4E3EFHXqSOfNCe8bUIikm_RrnNNCAIpRtAQxGFeaTnPUCBDq/s320/hottub5_2_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I went down.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlfIItUcunkpQlLt1J5VBt2j4zptNh5bZT9d_ORVphVuKVHgNB2TymRQGkduy2wNRj-RyOpEXM_l1Upibw6C26yREoOGYbr1L9PVdQrV_00K0y_J0BmN6i-oa8c7Qwsls57Y1nveI7/s1600/Fresco1114257562.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlfIItUcunkpQlLt1J5VBt2j4zptNh5bZT9d_ORVphVuKVHgNB2TymRQGkduy2wNRj-RyOpEXM_l1Upibw6C26yREoOGYbr1L9PVdQrV_00K0y_J0BmN6i-oa8c7Qwsls57Y1nveI7/s320/Fresco1114257562.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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For a moment I lay on the floor, basking in my utter humiliation, and wondering what I had broken. Besides the last vestiges of my self respect, I mean.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiScsK_2fwrN-nTfMegWNMuWrNT8BvLHpuff8TTtbu4njfkKHGdbMkeafTVBkzsTv7hN7ECX_mu7vBUdd0zKKRLLDFOqJ0hd3tBfamxH9i-2Hyir1bZ4kmOIl5-j1Znkf3m9uUPsvQx/s1600/hottub6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiScsK_2fwrN-nTfMegWNMuWrNT8BvLHpuff8TTtbu4njfkKHGdbMkeafTVBkzsTv7hN7ECX_mu7vBUdd0zKKRLLDFOqJ0hd3tBfamxH9i-2Hyir1bZ4kmOIl5-j1Znkf3m9uUPsvQx/s320/hottub6.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMnJ6OjMvgQyvpJ2q1LnIp7xNVN2fYCMuVTR7i96QfCufuk3FdiEPReeRdK465t4wSxjDbiHMPF6iGVrZUTLgRB1TBW0tE9KMx9OY817CgkUK_2Z-lo7EUrfCU3pcSl2lqe9YWOfM_/s1600/hottub6_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMnJ6OjMvgQyvpJ2q1LnIp7xNVN2fYCMuVTR7i96QfCufuk3FdiEPReeRdK465t4wSxjDbiHMPF6iGVrZUTLgRB1TBW0tE9KMx9OY817CgkUK_2Z-lo7EUrfCU3pcSl2lqe9YWOfM_/s320/hottub6_2.jpg" width="316" /></a></div>
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With a Herculean effort, I pulled myself up.<br />
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And I realized that everyone in the room, maybe a half a dozen brides maids, was staring at me.</div>
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I tried to reassure them.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGoUvIlalJkLdZglKjQ2rslcXwYTL4seInOFPICqCx5Os9IVRkMhI0VY-d1rWdZutt3mYCn1btcYl2NG72SwBCro7rzkofdYLDqdjmD0337anHa4qsGPlSG4h4GyUC61eA4GZw6EBF/s1600/hottub7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGoUvIlalJkLdZglKjQ2rslcXwYTL4seInOFPICqCx5Os9IVRkMhI0VY-d1rWdZutt3mYCn1btcYl2NG72SwBCro7rzkofdYLDqdjmD0337anHa4qsGPlSG4h4GyUC61eA4GZw6EBF/s400/hottub7.jpg" width="397" /></a></div>
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The most certain way to make sure everyone thinks you're drunk is to assure them you are not.</div>
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So I (very carefully) hopped into the hot tub, realizing that everyone was sitting on the edge because the the temperature was set roughly to that of molten lava.</div>
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I will neither confirm nor deny that I may or may not have screamed.</div>
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Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-5312860363188233622012-11-25T20:00:00.000-07:002012-11-26T09:19:34.681-07:00Shut Up, Mouth! <br />
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Recently, I was fixing myself a sandwich for lunch at work...<br />
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Sometimes I feel like I should come with a warning label.<br />
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<br />Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-57481362867680798742012-11-21T04:00:00.000-07:002012-11-21T04:00:08.467-07:00The Time I Almost Accidentally Prostituted Myself for Sushi<br />
I worked in an art gallery at the time.<br />
<br />
People would come in, look at stuff, buy arts, and then leave. Sometimes they would just come in and ask to use the bathroom (<i>No</i>! <i>We are a block from Bourbon Street, get your drunk ass back to the bar!</i>). Occasionally, someone would walk in and try to chat me up. Most of <i>those </i>were somewhat unbalanced or homeless or both, but it went with the territory.<br />
<br />
Summertimes can be slow in New Orleans. Any distraction is usually welcome.<br />
<br />
On a particularly hot day one July, an older gentleman walked in to the gallery. He was probably in his 70's, but looked 80 or maybe a little bit older. He carried a fancy walking cane and had a lift in one shoe.<br />
<br />
He was dressed in a suit that made me think he must be sweltering, but he seemed unconcerned and strangely un-sweaty. <br />
<br />
I sat behind the desk, taking a few minutes to read a book after I finished dusting the frames and vacuuming the carpet.<br />
<br />
"Well hello," he said as he walked in.<br />
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I put my book down and gave him a nice, friendly, customer service smile. "Hello," I said.<br />
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"I'm not interested in buying anything," he said, cutting me off.<br />
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I raised my eyebrows. <i>Then get the fuck out of the store? </i>Customer service is not something that comes easily to me, especially when it's face to face. I tried to keep my expression customer-service neutral: vague, interested, pleasant, but I was annoyed.<br />
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"I walk by here almost every day, and you're always in here reading," he said with an ingratiating smile, "I always see you reading..."<br />
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"Oh," I said, glancing down at my book. <i>Why was he watching me?</i><br />
<br />
"My question is... what are you reading that's so interesting?"<br />
<br />
I picked up my book and handed it to him. He didn't <i>look</i> like a stalker. He was just another face in the Quarter. After a while, everyone who frequents the French Quarter starts to recognize everyone else. <br />
<br />
"<i>The Lives of the Caesars</i>," he read. "Are you in school?"<br />
<br />
"No," I said, "I just like the Romans."<br />
<br />
He opened the book and flipped through. "'Quicker than boiled asparagus' was one of his favorite phrases," he read.<br />
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I nodded. Augustus was one of my heroes.<br />
<br />
The man handed me back my book. "My name is George*," he said.<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">*Not his real name. </span> <br />
<br />
"Leauxra," I said, extending my hand. He shook it, then took it in both hands and patted it in a fatherly way. <br />
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"Well," he said, "I better be off. I'm going to brunch over at Brennan's. I'll be seeing you."<br />
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I said goodbye, and he continued his walk down the street.<br />
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<br />
George stopped in several times over the coming weeks, always around mid-day, and always when no one else was around. I noticed when he walked by, too... sometimes in a hurry, but always sending a friendly wave at me.<br />
<br />
It broke up the tedium.<br />
<br />
When he came in, he would ask what I was reading, or tell me a funny story about New Orleans in the "old days". He was never in the gallery for more than a minute or two, and never overstayed his welcome. I got the impression that he was bored and lonely.<br />
<br />
By the time he asked me out, I had spoken to him probably 20 or 30 times. He said, "You know, I'm always going somewhere when I go by here... It would be nice if we could actually have a conversation. Would you be at all interested in having dinner with me some time?"<br />
<br />
I have a feeling my eyebrows tried to push their way into my hair, and he said something like, "Just, to, you know, talk. I would like to hear more about what you're reading."<br />
<br />
"Hm," I replied.<br />
<br />
"Well," he said, "Think about it." <br />
<br />
He left with a wink. He asked me to dinner again about a week later, and I said OK. He seemed harmless enough, and I was between paychecks. I could use some sushi. <br />
<br />
I didn't know where the sushi place was, but I had ordered take out from there a few times, so we were going to meet in an area I was familiar with and walk together. <br />
<br />
I locked up the gallery after work that evening, and went to the agreed upon location. George was standing there, waiting.<br />
<br />
"Well hello there," he said with a smile. I smiled back. I was hungry as I hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast. I was down to pasta and condiments at my house, and I was looking forward to a change.<br />
<br />
"I was thinking," he said, "Why don't we just go to my place and order delivery?"<br />
<br />
I hesitated.<br />
<br />
"I live right here," he said, pointing his cane to an apartment entrance between two store fronts in a historic building.<br />
<br />
"I... guess that would be OK," I said.<br />
<br />
"Sushi Blah-blah* closes at seven, and I don't want to have to hurry," he said.<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">*Not the real name of the <span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">restaurant</span>.<span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
I shrugged. "That should be fine," I said.<br />
<br />
I followed him in through the locked door, making sure I wouldn't need a key to exit. He clumped up the stairs in front of me, and I followed. I didn't particularly care to be going to a stranger's house, but as I watched him teeter up the stairs and grunt with the effort of it, I realized that he really wouldn't pose much of a threat to me. I could always leave if he turned out to be a weirdo.<br />
<br />
Unless he had a gun. Then I would just be fucked.<br />
<br />
He opened his apartment door, and held it for me. I walked in, looking around. I had always wondered what the inside of these apartments looked like, and I was slightly disappointed.<br />
<br />
The floors were beautiful polished wood, and there was a ton of space. The ceilings were high, and there were windows all over the place, but it was decorated like they wanted it to look middle America. There was no feeling of New Orleans to it at all. It felt more like suburbia. The walls were light blue, the picture molding flat and plain, the furniture a nicer version of what I could buy at Target, the art on the wall bland, dull, and only a step or two above framed Thomas Kinkaid prints.<br />
<br />
He took my coat. I noted the closet where he put it, and followed him as he offered to show me around.<br />
<br />
The place was bigger than my original impression, small rooms leading to hallways leading to larger rooms. It was obviously two or three smaller apartments renovated to be one large space.<br />
<br />
The windows looked directly across a small alleyway and in to the next apartment over. George said I shouldn't stand in the window because the neighbors might see.<br />
<br />
"See what?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Well," he said, "You. My wife is out of town most of the time, but she gets jealous."<br />
<br />
I shrugged and stepped away. He offered me a drink. <br />
<br />
"Sure," I said, and George showed me a six pack of club soda in little bottles sitting out at room temperature, a small bottle of expensive gin and one of cheap vodka, but didn't try to make me a drink. I poured a club soda and vodka into a plastic Solo cup, and offered to pour him one. "Oh no," he said, "I can't drink."<br />
<br />
"Oh," I said.<br />
<br />
"Well, maybe a little," he said with a wink.<br />
<br />
I wandered away while he poured himself some booze. When were we going to eat?<br />
<br />
As I entered what turned out to be a library, he said, "You should see something." He reached down and opened a small case and picked up what appeared to be a small ivory statue, and handed it to me.<br />
<br />
I looked down at it. It was an ivory statue. Of two people fucking. Graphically.<br />
<br />
"Um," I said, "Neat." I handed it back. George then launched into a detailed story about collecting these little figurines from all over the world, which were actually counterweights for money pouches in Japan before pockets. I nodded, trying to look interested, but mostly annoyed that I was out of booze already. He handed me several more sexy statues, and I tried to pretend I gave a shit.<br />
<br />
It had finally occurred to me that George was probably expecting "payment" for dinner. I sighed, and looked towards the closet where my coat was. Should I just leave, or... Damn, I really wanted some sushi, though. Dinner last night had consisted of stale bow-tie pasta, some questionably old capers and olive oil that I'd pan fried. I was getting down to the last of the stores, and I really couldn't come up with a meal to make out of mustard, stale oatmeal, and several varieties of hot sauce.<br />
<br />
I realized that George was asking me a question. "I'm sorry," I said, "What did you say?"<br />
<br />
He laughed, but I could tell he was pissed that I wasn't paying attention. "I said, should we order dinner?"<br />
<br />
"Oh," I said, "That would be good. I'm starving." I smiled. <i>Finally</i>.<br />
<br />
We walked back into the dining area, and he handed me a menu. "Pick whatever you want."<br />
<br />
"What about you?"<br />
<br />
"Oh," he said, "I'm getting one of the dinners."<br />
<br />
"OK," I said, and had to really try to keep from rolling my eyes. Why the hell would he agree to sushi if he didn't care for it? He could have suggested something else.<br />
<br />
I circled three rolls... enough for dinner and leftovers tomorrow. I was getting annoyed with the whole situation, and I was bored. I had planned to tell him about a book I was reading as it had some amusing anecdotes I thought he might appreciate, but he was completely uninterested, constantly steering the conversation back to stories about wild parties and loose women.<br />
<br />
I had had to stop myself from ordering the most expensive sushi rolls I could find on the menu out of pure spite. I managed to choose things I actually liked instead of being an ass.<br />
<br />
I sat down at the table while he talked on the phone, and stared at my empty glass. I should have skipped the club soda and gone straight for the booze. It was obvious George was not going to offer a refill.<br />
<br />
After he ordered and sat across from me at the table, launching into a ribald story about something that happened back in the 60's. I tried to pretend to be interested, and laughed politely at his story. I imagined him seducing young impressionable and highly sheltered debutantes in previous decades. His stories may have titillated me when I was eleven years old or so, but I had discovered the internet early and was raised by HBO. There was nothing new here.<br />
<br />
"Mind if I fill up my drink?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Oh, pardon me," he said, "Help yourself."<br />
<br />
I stood up and walked to where the booze was and topped off my drink. I only filled the glass halfway with vodka, despite the temptation to just drink it straight and make the evening less painful. As I turned around, George was standing less than a foot behind me and leaned in for a kiss.<br />
<br />
I stepped back, knocking the six pack of club soda off the small counter top with a loud thunk.<br />
<br />
"Give us a kiss!" he whispered, leaning in. I turned my head, and he managed to give me a sloppy kiss on my cheek, and I managed to spill half my drink on his arm. <i>Did he really just say that?</i><br />
<br />
I realized he wasn't backing off a moment later. His arms were pushing me in to the window, and I was tempted to kick him in the 'nads. Instead, I bent quickly under his arms, easily breaking his grip, and picked up the fallen soda. I took a step away. "Oh good," I said, "It didn't break open." I think I did a good job pretending I hadn't noticed his aggressive pass at me.<br />
<br />
He blinked at me several times, and I walked back into the kitchen. I heard him come after.<br />
<br />
I was just deciding that I was going to leave without my damn food when the doorbell rang.<br />
<br />
"I'll get it," he said, making his clumpy way to the door and down the stairs.<br />
<br />
I sat at the table staring at my reflection in the window, realizing that the neighbors could definitely see everything that was happening in the apartment, and that I was being a total dickwad. I had no intention of giving George what he wanted, and was using him for sushi. I should go. I should stop embarrassing him and me. I should tell him that I wasn't going to sleep with him. <br />
<br />
But I didn't leave. And I didn't say anything.<br />
<br />
I was going to get my damned sushi. <br />
<br />
George came clumping back, and he asked if I needed silverware.<br />
<br />
"Chopsticks are fine," I said, snapping the disposable wooden ones in half and rubbing the tips together to smooth out any splinters.<br />
<br />
We ate in nice uncomfortable silence. I offered some to him and watched as he made a disgusted face at it. Shrugging, I ate a bit more in silence, downing my drink.<br />
<br />
"Well," I said, shutting the cover on the take out box, "I better get going. Early day tomorrow." We had been eating for maybe five minutes.<br />
<br />
I stood up and started walking towards the closet that contained my coat.<br />
<br />
"Wait," he said, following, "You... I... " he looked around. "At least let me drive you home."<br />
<br />
"Hmm," I said. "I'll walk."<br />
<br />
He beat me to the door and insisted helping me with my coat.<br />
<br />
"It was nice," I said<i>. </i>I didn't even try to be convincing.<br />
<br />
I walked out the door and down the stairs, George following a few paces behind. When we got to the bottom he said, "You know, I have three scars." <br />
<br />
I turned to look at him.<br />
<br />
"I have an appendix scar, some shrapnel in my leg, and a vasectomy."<br />
<br />
I felt my face freeze. I had no response for that. Really? He faltered under my gaze. I didn't even try to pretend that I gave a shit.<br />
<br />
I opened my mouth, "Neat," I said.<br />
<br />
His shoulders slumped as he deflated, and I walked out the door, my box of sushi clutched tightly in my arms. I didn't look back.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-10621535746916880842012-10-15T04:00:00.000-06:002012-10-15T04:00:07.542-06:00November is Coming<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
It's getting to be that time of year again... Some people get depressed when the weather changes and the days grow shorter... I tend to find myself in the opposite predicament. Suddenly, I am <i>Absolutely Certain</i> that I will succeed at everything I try, that I am an amazing artist and writer, and that I should <i>Do Something About It.</i></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
So.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Let's just overload our schedule, shall we?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
First, it's <a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/dashboard">NaNoWriMo</a> time again... that is, National Novel Writing Month in November.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Last year I won. I wrote 54-odd thousand words in 30 days. I made promises to my imaginary friends (my fellow bloggers) to allow a select few to read and edit the thing.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And then I quietly never mentioned it again and hoped no one would ask.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It was...</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>Not good</i>.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
But I did it. I wrote a novel! In a month!</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
This year I am planning. I have a plot (I <i>KNOW</i>, right? A <i>plot</i>?). I have characters I already love, and a few that I hate. And one that terrifies me.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I have a setting... where it's cold and dark and airless. Where the world ended, but everyone tried to pretend it didn't.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I am terribly, terribly excited about it.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I am going to write another novel! This November! And this one should be something I can share with others! </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
A few days ago, I also found <a href="http://terribly.deviantart.com/art/30-DAY-ART-CHALLENGE-330788048">this</a>:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK1G72ZBxJkYWBWUlFpD5lfcJSeTGB6ZZe8cTOQGiVcW8ES-eEFR9ii_QpeuyJ984L5lYUr2We9YnHfGcq6A-1e6ZXPzAglhww1EdbYucaE6yCNk3xOBqVjsEickkEr1eGPAL_-zmv/s1600/30_day_art_challenge_by_terribly-d5gxxow.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK1G72ZBxJkYWBWUlFpD5lfcJSeTGB6ZZe8cTOQGiVcW8ES-eEFR9ii_QpeuyJ984L5lYUr2We9YnHfGcq6A-1e6ZXPzAglhww1EdbYucaE6yCNk3xOBqVjsEickkEr1eGPAL_-zmv/s400/30_day_art_challenge_by_terribly-d5gxxow.png" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://terribly.deviantart.com/art/30-DAY-ART-CHALLENGE-330788048">http://terribly.deviantart.com/art/30-DAY-ART-CHALLENGE-330788048</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Draw a picture every day? That sounds like a good idea, doesn't it?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>I know! I'll do it in November!</i> <i>Because I won't have enough to do!</i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
So.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Yes.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
So... I'll be posting my progress, pictures, and the eventual collapse of my psyche.<br />
<br />
Sounds fun, right?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Oh, and here's an octopus.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhQZzbm7PGTQ6IVkbimlxf9H88DRQcI1GAj0jzuXhfdjIxUw22MpX9cMRoYphUYKdAV1pHFwZjO0JQ2R4742c24RUEH-NYiJ7vuCSBt_jLWln84kCmZHbEj26xztwQuUu-HSdZlbcv/s1600/Fresco-2066334898.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhQZzbm7PGTQ6IVkbimlxf9H88DRQcI1GAj0jzuXhfdjIxUw22MpX9cMRoYphUYKdAV1pHFwZjO0JQ2R4742c24RUEH-NYiJ7vuCSBt_jLWln84kCmZHbEj26xztwQuUu-HSdZlbcv/s400/Fresco-2066334898.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Because octopuses (yes, that <i>is</i> the correct plural) are cool.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
</div>
Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-86829821098127139562012-10-02T20:00:00.000-06:002012-10-02T20:02:49.971-06:00Let's go Camping in the Scary Woods<div>
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVdEX0S3JHjIAbhwBv9SJbR-e033zUrW-qDpcCmvT5OB0pYvbCemP3m3xVY6oS2zj_fZ_q_AlXad3DzFU7KctG38o5zhSnDS6TfNqjuvbEXrQLiB1ZCq3M-ei5nds0JXymAm47mvN_/s1600/Sketch30421342.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVdEX0S3JHjIAbhwBv9SJbR-e033zUrW-qDpcCmvT5OB0pYvbCemP3m3xVY6oS2zj_fZ_q_AlXad3DzFU7KctG38o5zhSnDS6TfNqjuvbEXrQLiB1ZCq3M-ei5nds0JXymAm47mvN_/s400/Sketch30421342.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sounds fun, doesn't it?<br />
<br />
Commune with nature. <br />
<br />
Smell the flowers and... treesap and stuff like that...<br />
<br />
Just us and the great outdoors... no TV or internet, no phone... <strike>no escape..</strike> just some good companions and the Big Scary Woods.<br />
<br />
"Us," was my parents, Boyfriend, and me. Oh, and the dog, Bonnie. Who had never in her 12 years of life been camping before.<br />
<br />
What could possibly go wrong?<br />
<br />
We went to one of my favorite places to ski in the winter time. It's an old logging road turned wilderness area called Sawmill (because people around here are very creative with naming things).<br />
<br />
Since it isn't exactly a <em>trail</em> so much as an overgrown road with random turnoffs that lead nowhere, disappearing directions, and inconclusive maps, it's a fine for skiing... It's wide (so you run into fewer trees), doesn't have much of a slope, and you can follow your tracks home should you get turned around.<br />
<br />
In the summertime, Sawmill looks like a road in places, and sometimes looks like a field, and sometimes looks like you're just plain lost. On the plus side, there are rarely any people out there other than the random <strike>serial killer</strike> hunter, which is kind of the point. We would be miles and miles <strike>from help</strike> from the distractions of the modern world.<br />
<br />
We hiked in for an overnight trip, and only a mile or two, so the packs were relatively light. I had room to strap my second best ukulele to my pack so I could <strike>annoy the moose</strike> entertain myself during the long, and probably a little bit boring evening after we stopped (queue ominous music).<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC_5Wv3iEJFbsojCknIftG73MVFcVLFnp6SeeYq8A9847lG7FFngsh1BLFYJ6oWwSRv4F4ceQqq9odYoXqK9bi2jOUHiAMSZtM52qqsEKGWZ3RtcVUkHzC1kzAYG2Keqdt6oyLWdPy/s1600/Sketch2046522.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC_5Wv3iEJFbsojCknIftG73MVFcVLFnp6SeeYq8A9847lG7FFngsh1BLFYJ6oWwSRv4F4ceQqq9odYoXqK9bi2jOUHiAMSZtM52qqsEKGWZ3RtcVUkHzC1kzAYG2Keqdt6oyLWdPy/s400/Sketch2046522.png" width="230" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, we're skeletons. What of it?<br />
<br />
And we put a bright pink flag on Bonnie Dog so that no hunters would mistake her for a bear.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span>It was a beautiful late summer day.<br />
<br />
Bonnie romped around the underbrush on either side of the road, chasing squirrels and pretending to be a great hunter. She seems to enjoy chasing squirrels, and the squirrels seem to enjoy teasing her back. <br />
<br />
After walking for about an hour, we came to a beautiful meadow.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTF97aOzceKWkQTqJcVenkjUgVELW3ZF2392L5Q50qNPuI5I4mbXGoh0t9yMBouGIpzJt4tS6wB7uCYicx450H_Gq8TKzvqZAWxT_SIn76DH_bEAN0ofpPTwdjKA31X1zIPkOTbnTR/s1600/Sketch5312131.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTF97aOzceKWkQTqJcVenkjUgVELW3ZF2392L5Q50qNPuI5I4mbXGoh0t9yMBouGIpzJt4tS6wB7uCYicx450H_Gq8TKzvqZAWxT_SIn76DH_bEAN0ofpPTwdjKA31X1zIPkOTbnTR/s400/Sketch5312131.png" width="230" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The air was crisp at 10,000 feet, but no where near cold. It was surprisingly lush and beautiful.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
(A word of warning... For those of you who do not like violence, you may want to look away, now. Shit's gonna get real.)<br />
<br />
(For <em>realsies</em>.)<br />
<br />
(Ahem.)<br />
<br />
I can't possibly know the whole story, but I can extrapolate a little bit of the story that happened before we arrived....<br />
<br />
<em><strike>Molly Meadowmouse was the</strike>... <strike>Verna Vole</strike>... Polly Packrat was the most beautiful rodent in the whole meadow. She had long, silky silver fur, perfectly shaped rat fingernails, and the most mesmerizing brown eyes you've ever seen on a packrat.</em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em></em></div>
<div>
<em>She regularly had visitors from all over the woods to look at her splendidness, and had a list of suitors from the Rawah Wilderness to the Roosevelt National Forest.</em><br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc7yxjvVFpmpraZcZmcJHNGBYEu0tV4HWyLscSktRJNRBhCArteat_RvjbXwc3b-SK0aZuCYVL7_NWuxecUq0FK3fh-Iv6Tf7hvoB_WByYccHyidW7R0D0eJo6mQS90aWdFBu_xWDI/s1600/Sketch8618123.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc7yxjvVFpmpraZcZmcJHNGBYEu0tV4HWyLscSktRJNRBhCArteat_RvjbXwc3b-SK0aZuCYVL7_NWuxecUq0FK3fh-Iv6Tf7hvoB_WByYccHyidW7R0D0eJo6mQS90aWdFBu_xWDI/s400/Sketch8618123.png" width="230" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>A picture of Polly outside of her little tree hollow home shortly before... the incident.</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<em>One bright September day, Polly was sunning herself on a branch near the tree hollow where she lived.<br /><br />"What shall I do today?" she said to herself.</em><br />
<br />
<em>The tree hollow house was stuffed to the brim with her winter stores, and there was little more that Polly could do to prepare.<br /><br />"I think," she said, "I shall go down to the meadow and smell the last of the summer flowers and have a picnic."<br /><br />So Polly packed her cheeks with some snacks for later, consisting of a few seeds, a late ripening strawberry, and some dandylion greens, and headed out.</em><br />
<br />
<em>She hopped down from her branch and skipped into the clearing. There was a flat area a few feet away that seemed like an ideal place to have her picnic lunch. It was near a tree stump.</em><br />
<br />
<em>As she climbed the stump, a giant black and tan creature emerged from the brush.</em><br />
<br />
<em>"Why, hello!" said Polly. She was not in the least bit afraid as she looked at the creature. She assumed that this animal, like so many others, was here to admire her amazing beauty.</em><br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrskGZ7ha5AhiHJXbdeLKl43VgGo9A_W2o_6OZNzp6cW_m1bOhI6Ca5PPD-S00jRUPrwQ3ncrQKPV7JCx_iYhKR8IPS7SZYvaGl_I374bsAJ8DKPeJNFJ7hAnZi7miaCUko2TLEbcl/s1600/Sketch1120305.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" mea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrskGZ7ha5AhiHJXbdeLKl43VgGo9A_W2o_6OZNzp6cW_m1bOhI6Ca5PPD-S00jRUPrwQ3ncrQKPV7JCx_iYhKR8IPS7SZYvaGl_I374bsAJ8DKPeJNFJ7hAnZi7miaCUko2TLEbcl/s400/Sketch1120305.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<em>She was, of course, wrong.</em><br />
<br />
<em>She had time to let out one small, surprised squeak before the black and tan creature snapped her pretty neck.</em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Bonnie! NO!" shouted my mom.<br />
<br />
"Drop it!" said Dad.<br />
<br />
Bonnie is a good dog, and did as she was told, dropping the soft little body on the grass.<br />
<br />
We all stood around, staring at the little dead thing, and reminding Bonnie to stay away seven or eight times. She really wanted to go back for more.<br />
<br />
"Maybe it's just stunned," said Boyfriend.<br />
<br />
"Um," I said.<br />
<br />
Probably not.<br />
<br />
I briefly considered taking a photo of the creature <strike>because I always take pictures of dead things</strike>, but decided it had been through enough. We followed my parents and the killer, Bonnie.<br />
<br />
Not long after the <em>incident</em>, we found a reasonable place to camp. There were protected areas in the trees, but open rocky areas where we could have a fire in relative safety with little danger of burning down the state.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm0TYoN6pGvrADlp6heH-0z0UbxK1MSBohkRPPN-MwHY3posuHdr-2jyodruOxsyY5gc4ckDi9TZyG7n36dQ4NYhy1ELmwLMHePULhMDr2HLz85YmTbNtnkORrP-NJ99ArijaKbIUC/s1600/Sketch21512575.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm0TYoN6pGvrADlp6heH-0z0UbxK1MSBohkRPPN-MwHY3posuHdr-2jyodruOxsyY5gc4ckDi9TZyG7n36dQ4NYhy1ELmwLMHePULhMDr2HLz85YmTbNtnkORrP-NJ99ArijaKbIUC/s400/Sketch21512575.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is a different meadow than the one where Polly died. It's like, at least 500 yards away.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: red;"><br /></span>We spent a little extra time setting up the tents because we kept changing our minds as to where they should be. By the time we had them put together, the light was beginning to dim.<br />
<br />
Bonnie looked at each one of us, and whined. It was as if she were trying to say, "Hey guys, this was a pretty good day, but isn't it time to go home now?"<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTGwLcCDnNB41nYW3wQacTArD33P2K8AMqsJE2B9Owvf6lC-S_ujDc0zAzUXx1bAJvyZxi-Eb6rWc3L-H3mPYXAT0ZvEWDLxIoo-PyNWOayEZSM062UqU7bm6bvwOio-E0A-eZX1se/s1600/Sketch24112374.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTGwLcCDnNB41nYW3wQacTArD33P2K8AMqsJE2B9Owvf6lC-S_ujDc0zAzUXx1bAJvyZxi-Eb6rWc3L-H3mPYXAT0ZvEWDLxIoo-PyNWOayEZSM062UqU7bm6bvwOio-E0A-eZX1se/s400/Sketch24112374.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our tents are much more state of the art than pictured. <i>Much</i> nicer.<br />
What? Maybe I <i>am </i>a gear snob.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Instead of going home, we gathered some branches and started a small camp fire while cooking dinner. Bonnie was slightly less than impressed, and kept trying to crawl under low lying tree branches and shrubs. She stared at us dubiously while we ate.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix0CTotUbuvPne_fuI9Egkfha02GxJ8_PoscM6m7kSmul1_6XH0Yo5AMly7qANtr8IGPfiNmI4-r2a7nbdOseHD1hh5Bd9IUAu-5moNHdlhyphenhyphenS0nkoKkWMVcRQuWHInIlj8RvyLOgtg/s1600/Sketch5320183.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix0CTotUbuvPne_fuI9Egkfha02GxJ8_PoscM6m7kSmul1_6XH0Yo5AMly7qANtr8IGPfiNmI4-r2a7nbdOseHD1hh5Bd9IUAu-5moNHdlhyphenhyphenS0nkoKkWMVcRQuWHInIlj8RvyLOgtg/s400/Sketch5320183.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We celebrated our CaveMan like ability to create fire out of wet branches. And a lighter. What, did you think we were rubbing sticks together or something? Are you insane?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I suppose that maybe Bonnie sensed what was coming.<br />
<br />
Because we were camping.<br />
<br />
<em>Outside.</em><br />
<br />
So <em>obviously</em> it had to rain for the first time all summer.<br />
<br />
And lightning.<br />
<br />
And thunder. <br />
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikuYyexXR_AhXFmkZzl-l_MZHF5V0wSHrLUMM86kulNneRLE3ViS4tda_YmhbgRgH-I0mF2N7N5lbgWn6Hc9XlwlDfXhGPr3KH1ufghahVIUl2O2KBaWwHnf5t33hL12qy4Qd_QetS/s1600/Sketch1232045.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikuYyexXR_AhXFmkZzl-l_MZHF5V0wSHrLUMM86kulNneRLE3ViS4tda_YmhbgRgH-I0mF2N7N5lbgWn6Hc9XlwlDfXhGPr3KH1ufghahVIUl2O2KBaWwHnf5t33hL12qy4Qd_QetS/s400/Sketch1232045.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No, there's still a coal over there. I don't want to burn the whole state down...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: red;"><br /></span>Bonnie wasn't the only one worried.<br />
<br />
We scrambled into our tents after stomping out the fire.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYk0YwikuvoRCzVJ9uPJFzU2hrqu6MFUm2Ku8jgRTwx0wC68_w1U4O65A2UeJQCY7yVE6qjgsQDGVkIDgZYOtsJvf0cUkx_hLKqLW31PZLqiUUqQvx6qfAJycPZxtNToqk3SDfmkqt/s1600/Sketch23018591.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYk0YwikuvoRCzVJ9uPJFzU2hrqu6MFUm2Ku8jgRTwx0wC68_w1U4O65A2UeJQCY7yVE6qjgsQDGVkIDgZYOtsJvf0cUkx_hLKqLW31PZLqiUUqQvx6qfAJycPZxtNToqk3SDfmkqt/s400/Sketch23018591.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I played the ukulele, softly in the tent. It was too early to bed, and I probably wouldn't attract bears.<br />
Probably.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The storm didn't last long, and we all bedded down to sleep.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9OvGHC_tN4SNOZN-XLHo9N9m4YUuZPmpBkJUIvG4sEpEOiPmcxa8ndHr81NaXVrhy0yozONkPrR1FycAyhmRj7IUnwJHYrQek-YkS9PhUoyozLmi41s81wfDl3Fdx1CYniXxTTAuE/s1600/Sketch25212262.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" kea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9OvGHC_tN4SNOZN-XLHo9N9m4YUuZPmpBkJUIvG4sEpEOiPmcxa8ndHr81NaXVrhy0yozONkPrR1FycAyhmRj7IUnwJHYrQek-YkS9PhUoyozLmi41s81wfDl3Fdx1CYniXxTTAuE/s400/Sketch25212262.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
Bonnie was in the large vestibule of my parents' tent, worn out and passed out. Fires and storms are stressful for pups.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKa8wb2SxNFHktb_B4Fez4Xn-_iYPEM0F29-Nv2gbdXFQ55bCLvb1ZDn0u-PW5FuVxQuytR6AFc5ddT1pSb-bzDg1L0_iH9-NoNpVleppKv9xwXO2r5eiLCD13BJeBvRiVcnxa0LCX/s1600/Copy_of_Sketch2631228.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" mea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKa8wb2SxNFHktb_B4Fez4Xn-_iYPEM0F29-Nv2gbdXFQ55bCLvb1ZDn0u-PW5FuVxQuytR6AFc5ddT1pSb-bzDg1L0_iH9-NoNpVleppKv9xwXO2r5eiLCD13BJeBvRiVcnxa0LCX/s400/Copy_of_Sketch2631228.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
The night grew calm.<br />
<br />
All was quiet as the moon peeked out from behind the clouds.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivqgCrgKrmYssQo_8FX5EAWysadIS8jpN8gHdUJya7Oz7d5H_MdLc4VWpUapOIern46ZblZSRSf_9TF1_kK6Y4Hhq_LfQi3dGOvlslvaKdOZ312AClJRnNw8ltZHGgiin3Lw5dK34m/s1600/Sketch5316571.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" mea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivqgCrgKrmYssQo_8FX5EAWysadIS8jpN8gHdUJya7Oz7d5H_MdLc4VWpUapOIern46ZblZSRSf_9TF1_kK6Y4Hhq_LfQi3dGOvlslvaKdOZ312AClJRnNw8ltZHGgiin3Lw5dK34m/s400/Sketch5316571.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<em>But wait... something disturbs the night...<br /><br />What is it?</em><br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitlKTyq-DQH06oPGg-210M4fq6xZc3g1yBLzENytEWWIKr6_FszsXviwQwDqri1LpZkmuA8seisb6af6g-O1xKvv1F18pcyWN-H2zlxdv3fWBxcEKBDYFFSyAfxyUygo2SEHpBHU1p/s1600/Copy_of_Sketch5316571.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitlKTyq-DQH06oPGg-210M4fq6xZc3g1yBLzENytEWWIKr6_FszsXviwQwDqri1LpZkmuA8seisb6af6g-O1xKvv1F18pcyWN-H2zlxdv3fWBxcEKBDYFFSyAfxyUygo2SEHpBHU1p/s400/Copy_of_Sketch5316571.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<em>Something searching... searching for the dog who killed her...</em></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXMGCbv3lB9RQfDM2o3_47HJShoc01RP1AMhX-L_M0OfmayUGo3uVTD11gW9QBeMr02-tR_WVyZOI7bX2YcecMXp6KFOJJxAF6oDjmXL4psAnB1i5P6Ls9bO-3W86Z5YVcCu78BoDI/s1600/Sketch25217502.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" kea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXMGCbv3lB9RQfDM2o3_47HJShoc01RP1AMhX-L_M0OfmayUGo3uVTD11gW9QBeMr02-tR_WVyZOI7bX2YcecMXp6KFOJJxAF6oDjmXL4psAnB1i5P6Ls9bO-3W86Z5YVcCu78BoDI/s400/Sketch25217502.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>It could only be... Polly the Packrat, come forth from the grave to exact revenge!</i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFQ7GnquTP2R_SbpQL24ObTbAGlxdaGK4LhljnhjJrk-Zei6Hl3kLFboZIhAI-6_n2ERwr-I31UOeZxz_gZmmtoucQIU7Kl2sw6ceZymc7n6g4qQrlGatRbVReYoMz-uuM-BLLSEda/s1600/Sketch24112513.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFQ7GnquTP2R_SbpQL24ObTbAGlxdaGK4LhljnhjJrk-Zei6Hl3kLFboZIhAI-6_n2ERwr-I31UOeZxz_gZmmtoucQIU7Kl2sw6ceZymc7n6g4qQrlGatRbVReYoMz-uuM-BLLSEda/s400/Sketch24112513.png" width="230" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<i>Four hours dead and the ravages of the storm were not kind to that vain and beautiful little packrat.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Someone would have to pay for this...</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCjZf-bGScZjI8QTPDOAfhYrVDqqosdj84DH1WRm3X4wk1uG8wBbBqY55BIV94ZFY-gDVHIQM3iua4GD28wfbY5CmSwQccTHlXh2mPxJpQMVcY7DUFZ5aI789UmX28JmiV91yfyUnw/s1600/Sketch2631228.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" kea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCjZf-bGScZjI8QTPDOAfhYrVDqqosdj84DH1WRm3X4wk1uG8wBbBqY55BIV94ZFY-gDVHIQM3iua4GD28wfbY5CmSwQccTHlXh2mPxJpQMVcY7DUFZ5aI789UmX28JmiV91yfyUnw/s400/Sketch2631228.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPI0iSHTckGi8gXmY_8-bbl1CgpTiOhhfwz2e0wxPW8MWWC7QRRgX4Tve2BHo6fyCeZGWzu-mGaHhYfLOIuYgP_nSxWfjR1EoE6AWT1FXwS0hU_ygG8NnWyEm7SFCxfe8odZi2j7Ex/s1600/Sketch28513144.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" mea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPI0iSHTckGi8gXmY_8-bbl1CgpTiOhhfwz2e0wxPW8MWWC7QRRgX4Tve2BHo6fyCeZGWzu-mGaHhYfLOIuYgP_nSxWfjR1EoE6AWT1FXwS0hU_ygG8NnWyEm7SFCxfe8odZi2j7Ex/s400/Sketch28513144.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-nyrX1oABJGsUFGXplRgzdatVQmnCOyYocD09qReRR7pYc9P7PB0lH9P3CufbeyEUR-fAKWCC7TvZKbYgEKyQjIdJseSwQ3XXVd6SreT95su_Hwm5VopY8CCfsIv_iPEE_anEmOt8/s1600/Sketch27419342.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" kea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-nyrX1oABJGsUFGXplRgzdatVQmnCOyYocD09qReRR7pYc9P7PB0lH9P3CufbeyEUR-fAKWCC7TvZKbYgEKyQjIdJseSwQ3XXVd6SreT95su_Hwm5VopY8CCfsIv_iPEE_anEmOt8/s400/Sketch27419342.png" width="230" /></a></div>
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<em>...Or not.</em></div>
<em></em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>Polly had time to let out a surprised, ghostly squeak before she was eaten by Bonnie for the second time that day.</em><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR3Gxu0ZKubg85zabmp6SUj3YpUuhhKpvAN-XqAeajNQcCC0pp3quzUz9zn3nzokDFD1IRVXZ1KQ6KTecE9eJ85wXsskAphoyfKVbKE6DLmd6AtmaauHaw7L8AXjk9VToHTA3qfUrF/s1600/Sketch30011354.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" mea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR3Gxu0ZKubg85zabmp6SUj3YpUuhhKpvAN-XqAeajNQcCC0pp3quzUz9zn3nzokDFD1IRVXZ1KQ6KTecE9eJ85wXsskAphoyfKVbKE6DLmd6AtmaauHaw7L8AXjk9VToHTA3qfUrF/s400/Sketch30011354.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<em><br /></em>
<em>And Bonnie went back to sleep with only a slightly upset stomach.</em></div>
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<em><br /> </em></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKa8wb2SxNFHktb_B4Fez4Xn-_iYPEM0F29-Nv2gbdXFQ55bCLvb1ZDn0u-PW5FuVxQuytR6AFc5ddT1pSb-bzDg1L0_iH9-NoNpVleppKv9xwXO2r5eiLCD13BJeBvRiVcnxa0LCX/s1600/Copy_of_Sketch2631228.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" mea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKa8wb2SxNFHktb_B4Fez4Xn-_iYPEM0F29-Nv2gbdXFQ55bCLvb1ZDn0u-PW5FuVxQuytR6AFc5ddT1pSb-bzDg1L0_iH9-NoNpVleppKv9xwXO2r5eiLCD13BJeBvRiVcnxa0LCX/s400/Copy_of_Sketch2631228.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
As we hiked out the next day, we passed through the meadow. There was no sign of Polly's body. Probably some other animal came by in the night and ate her.<br />
<br />
Probably.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<em>Polly Packrat is survived by her 40 children, 637 grandchildren, and 1,198 great grand children. She was 2 years old.</em><br />
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<br />Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-41341730305290551012012-08-29T04:00:00.000-06:002012-08-31T13:55:56.240-06:00Notes From Katrina: Evacuation - August, 2005-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
I woke this morning thinking about Hurricane Katrina. I don’t think about it too much anymore. Seven years has muted the intensity of that storm a little bit.<br />
<br />
I didn’t think about how maybe we should have been better prepared, and how dumb we were to not own a car of any kind, and how stupid it was to not leave when we had the chance because I didn’t want to lose my $5 an hour job at Tower Records. <br />
<br />
I didn’t think about how goddamned lucky we were to have a neighbor who happened to have a cousin who left their car behind and given us permission to use it. <br />
<br />
I didn’t think about the mad dash around the house, or the realization that in order to bring my three cats, the neighbor’s dog, cat, and the neighbor, my roommate, my sister, and me, we would have to leave behind almost everything we owned.<br />
<br />
Nope.<br />
<br />
None of that.<br />
<br />
What I was thinking about this morning when I woke up was a single moment on the side of the road at the beginning of our 14 hour, 100 mile trip out of the path.<br />
<br />
The Toyota two-door Ark was almost out of gas, and all of the stations were out. Of gas. Empty. It felt very end-of-the-world.<br />
<br />
Neighbor, Roommate, Sister and I were in a parking lot about three hours and less than 20 miles from where we’d started. There simply wasn’t enough road to empty out a quarter of a state in less than 24 hours.<br />
<br />
Neighbor was talking to his mom on the phone, trying to come up with a solution for the gas issue, and my sister and I sat on a curb, smoking. We watched the traffic.<br />
<br />
We couldn’t stay out here.<br />
<br />
My mind leaped to the only alternative I could think of: Heading back into town and hoping for the best.<br />
<br />
I felt tears welling in my eyes as I took another drag, and tried to will myself not to cry.<br />
<br />
It was a very real possibility that we would die if we went back to town, but I felt sure we would die out here with no shelter and miles of bridges ahead of us.<br />
<br />
I stared at my phone. Should I call my parents now? There wasn’t a whole lot they could do from Colorado, would it just be cruel? Maybe I should wait until we were back in town… Maybe… we could go back, siphon gas from someone, and come back… Maybe…<br />
<br />
I glanced at my sister, her outside blankness a mirror of my own.<br />
<br />
Roommate sat down with a sigh. He knocked a cigarette out of his pack, put it in his mouth, and lit up with a big, dramatic drag.<br />
<br />
“Well,” he said, pulling his cigarette out of his mouth and looking at it. “Guess I beat cancer.”<br />
<br />
My sister snickered. I covered my mouth and chuckled. Within moments, we were all gasping as we struggled to breathe through the laughter. It was that ridiculous laughter, that doesn’t make sense. The kind that keeps starting up again for no reason, the kind makes you look away because every time you look at anyone, you start up again.<br />
<br />
Just as suddenly, we stopped, like a switch was flipped.<br />
<br />
“So,” I said to Neighbor, “Anything?”<br />
<br />
We did eventually find gas, and get food, and at about 4AM, we landed safely in north central Louisiana.<br />
<br />
That moment was only a moment in a long, long traumatic day.<br />
<br />
But that’s what I was thinking about this morning:<br />
<br />
Sitting on the side of the road, laughing death with my neighbor, my roommate, and my sister.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-55737225883847011352012-07-23T04:00:00.000-06:002012-07-23T04:00:03.302-06:00Giant Centepedes and Other MonstersWhen we were in Hawaii, we decided to go for a hike (my previous Hawaii post is <a href="http://doesthismakemybloglookfat.blogspot.com/2012/07/no-sharks-no-sharks-no-sharks.html">HERE</a>.)<br />
<br />
After a confusing bus ride, a short walk up a twisty road with no shoulder that had directions that made us walk <em>WITH</em> traffic (and thus made my mind say in no uncertain terms that <em>I WAS DOING IT WRONG</em>), we finally made it to the trailhead, and this sign:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfgDjAmbBvrgqUDjlo0hPVuaK-E2gAij_d0NWgJ7WMgNDy5jvQRRosfu__Xh3yUPCu27T00-HLCQMxo2BLsb7xw86WuIzNCSYSvhxw7JCHxpgcwyXRE9h4OZ-NS6NuHOUoNGrcsnyL/s1600/IMG_0567.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfgDjAmbBvrgqUDjlo0hPVuaK-E2gAij_d0NWgJ7WMgNDy5jvQRRosfu__Xh3yUPCu27T00-HLCQMxo2BLsb7xw86WuIzNCSYSvhxw7JCHxpgcwyXRE9h4OZ-NS6NuHOUoNGrcsnyL/s400/IMG_0567.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In case you can't read this, it says, "PIG CONTROL IN PROGRESS"... <em>some other stuff blah blah blah and then</em> "Full Moon Hunts Will Be Scheduled". Well, <i>that</i>... sounds... interesting.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Sounds good. Wait, what day is it? It is awfully had to keep track of this stuff when hanging out in paradise for a week.<br />
<br />
I had checked out the hike on the internet, and learned the following things:<br />
<br />
1) Bring bug spray, the mosquitos will eat you <i>ALIVE</i>!<br />
<br />
2) There is a such thing as 8 inch centepedes, and they exist in Hawaii.<br />
<br />
3) There are no large predators in Hawaii, and no poisonous snakes.<br />
<br />
4) Where we stayed in Waikiki averages about 20 inches of rain a year. Where we were hiking, a few miles away, averages about 280 inches of rain per year. We WILL get rained on.<br />
<br />
5) There is a fantastic view at the top.<br />
<br />
What could possibly go wrong?<br />
<br />
Yeah...<br />
<br />
Maybe I should make a list.<br />
<br />
Or better, allow me to give you a small snippet from my brain...<br />
<br />
Do you like steam of consciousness? <br />
<br />
Ahem.<br />
<br />
<i>Well, here's the turnoff... away from the tourists and kids, shit it's hot. Is that mud? I hope the trail gets better, this shit's slicker'n snot. Why does it smell like pooh? Great. It's probably pig pooh from the pig hunts. Damn it's hot. And humid. Why did I wear a shirt again? I should totally be hiking in my bikini top.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Wow, look at that, there's no one behind us. I wonder if this is a real trail, or if someone's just leading us astray. Shit, I wonder if "pig hunt" is a euphemism for hunting humans. I don't think Hawaiians were traditionally cannibals. No, I'm pretty sure I would have read something about that on the internet. </i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Don't touch anything. There are probably big bugs here. Oh yeah, eight inch centipedes. Great. Big. Giant. Fuckers. Why did we watch that Animal Planet show last night in the condo? The one with the Grasshopper Mouse that howls like a werewolf and hunts giant poisonous dessert centipedes. The centipedes here probably aren't poisonous. It would have said on the internet, right? The internet is never wrong.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Those grasshopper mice were pretty freaking cool. I wonder if they are like, descendants of were-mice or some shit.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Holy crap, FULL MOON HUNT. They're totally hunting were-pigs, aren't they? THAT'S what they're doing. I wonder if it's close to the full moon. Great, I almost twisted my ankle, is that how they get you? Leave all these roots lying all over the trail so you can't outrun them? Pigs would totally eat people. I saw </i>Hannibal<i>. I saw </i>Snatch<i>. Fuck, I'm gonna die. I should totally stop watching so many scary movies.</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk5xOtVQRGd0QkJQqifFF0lzico_EOorlFBfaAWZb-RsvCjsdUP9nYzFHltn-DVCRQobAK5qoSB1vrzYG7RBC8Llp-_Lt14mFDSkXsJctT6UqcQ8i8fYu1umD07wE8BXYPTlomECtJ/s1600/DSC01572.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk5xOtVQRGd0QkJQqifFF0lzico_EOorlFBfaAWZb-RsvCjsdUP9nYzFHltn-DVCRQobAK5qoSB1vrzYG7RBC8Llp-_Lt14mFDSkXsJctT6UqcQ8i8fYu1umD07wE8BXYPTlomECtJ/s400/DSC01572.JPG" width="330" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And who the fuck decided that were-animals were sexy? I mean, <i>come on</i>, people. What's next? Sexy Ents?<br />
(I'm looking at you, Laurell K. Hamilton and Charlaine Harris!)</td></tr>
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<i>Boyfriend is totally right. It IS quiet out here. I can't hear anyone. The bamboo sure makes weird noises. Like Ents or some shit, talking to each other, rattling and shit. Or maybe that's the were-pigs signaling that they have some victims walking into their trap.</i></div>
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<i>Fuck, I'm hot. Oh, wow, this is beautiful. I've never been in a bamboo forest before. Why is this so hard? The elevation is what, 500 feet? I should be flying up this trail.</i></div>
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<i><b>OH MY FUCKING GOD WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?</b></i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-hnydxPNtyplIwKH62R57Bja-83hqYJaPeYJG3I3uSp_dQ4qXr2or6Yd9_XmoApJ4pqMhAYB14IfLvxzOEJjUkZAO0J0ixtitOjoduycXLjEa0Dzo7E6htCuQQoOFOuQayavxi6Cm/s1600/DSC01570.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-hnydxPNtyplIwKH62R57Bja-83hqYJaPeYJG3I3uSp_dQ4qXr2or6Yd9_XmoApJ4pqMhAYB14IfLvxzOEJjUkZAO0J0ixtitOjoduycXLjEa0Dzo7E6htCuQQoOFOuQayavxi6Cm/s400/DSC01570.jpg" width="397" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eight INCH centipedes. <i>INCH</i>. <i>INCH INCH <b>INCH INCH</b></i>. Stupid brain.</td></tr>
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<i>It's a tree. They said eight INCH centipedes, not eight foot. What the hell is wrong with me? </i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>I thought this trail was only a mile and a half. It feels much longer than that. It's because the were-pigs moved the trail, they're totally going to kill us and eat us.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Why won't it fucking rain already? Don't touch that, there could be a centipede. It's a trap! Wow, my shoes are MUDDY.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Wait... really? We're there? Just in time for the rain. Fuck, yeah, we made it. This is absofuckinglutely beautiful!</i><br />
<br />
<br />
So yeah, all in all, a good hike. I even learned some things:<br />
<br />
1) Anyone who complains about the mosquitoes in Hawaii has not been to Colorado. That or we were <em>EXTREMELY LUCKY</em>, because mosquitoes <em>LOOOOOOVE</em> gnoshing on some Leauxra (I think it's because I have Kool-Aid for blood), and I never got bit in Hawaii. <br />
<br />
2) <em>DO NOT CONFUSE</em> the word "inch" and "foot" in your head, or you will spend the entire hike worried about eight foot centepedes.<br />
<br />
3) There are no large dangerous animals in Hawaii, <em>except probaby were-pigs, and that they hunt on Wednesdays, Sundays, and <strong>during the full moon</strong>.</em><br />
<br />
4) There are places in the world where the rain is warm, and it isn't terrible to walk in it.<br />
<br />
5) There really is a fantastic view from the top.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjvmVAWfCRyWCAD6stsIu2GxcOwThPcj7fHj3d9KZ8urjph_bF-_cpXIljzYqAFSkKsApiQfGhcGFVes2HDr89KfsZP1Xu0Fud1nvPWFt1qHxWnLuRmiKR143zlV4stCN7td0UnQsY/s1600/IMG_0659.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjvmVAWfCRyWCAD6stsIu2GxcOwThPcj7fHj3d9KZ8urjph_bF-_cpXIljzYqAFSkKsApiQfGhcGFVes2HDr89KfsZP1Xu0Fud1nvPWFt1qHxWnLuRmiKR143zlV4stCN7td0UnQsY/s400/IMG_0659.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See? Paradise. Told you.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-79291050150602799452012-07-16T04:00:00.001-06:002012-07-16T04:00:11.138-06:00Celebrity DietI braved the Wal-Mart (and yes, there is a "the" in front of "the Wal-Mart"... it doesn't sound right if you don't say it that way) last weekend.<br />
<br />
Originally we were going to go camping, but the sky was doing this:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOdmX41phqW9NITia-QwgfkPkIrMDiPdrD0roLjy9BfrOA4Q4egKtcVfLeaoRN5oej_kvtlEGk5wHiHrkKEWhPXnhgl9rCPpcXtGILMhGbO4HGtFEnBUeuiMgGj5Z6Zm9FVVdVPQyg/s1600/DSC01456.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOdmX41phqW9NITia-QwgfkPkIrMDiPdrD0roLjy9BfrOA4Q4egKtcVfLeaoRN5oej_kvtlEGk5wHiHrkKEWhPXnhgl9rCPpcXtGILMhGbO4HGtFEnBUeuiMgGj5Z6Zm9FVVdVPQyg/s400/DSC01456.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Actual photo of the sky above my house.</td></tr>
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So we decided to get the car out of the garage, and use the space to brew beer instead.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRkslK-GyDpOAikg5NFa84TXiE_MUH-ct71YWYCG4Wl0vMcmrQ05097z_ZFHWKLqv4PfHZCFqPGa1byWnePMnMCAT7BMGJPvm9KqvUpJxXNtIxBxhLieCMNGifvZKoPc6E3zOpjBeU/s1600/DSC01487.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRkslK-GyDpOAikg5NFa84TXiE_MUH-ct71YWYCG4Wl0vMcmrQ05097z_ZFHWKLqv4PfHZCFqPGa1byWnePMnMCAT7BMGJPvm9KqvUpJxXNtIxBxhLieCMNGifvZKoPc6E3zOpjBeU/s400/DSC01487.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sitting around the turkey frier while the wort boils is pretty much more awesome than camping. Especially when it's in the garage with the door up and you collect 9 gallons of rain water in about three minutes from the one of the gutters for later use on the garden. Especially when it is the first real rain in a few months, and the mountains are all flooding, and the lightning is making your teeth rattle it's so close.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We had such a good time, and another three empty kegs to be filled that we decided we were going to do it again the next day.<br />
<br />
I decided, though, that we are also desperately low on cider. The alcoholic kind, I mean.<br />
<br />
So we went to the Wal-Mart for the main ingredient.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwirdwccohVAtCiXb0Slr0xq62Zd-xpWwZ7U_zLWxX80vmacYNMeS9BEngnLdzvj-63nQxe_HeV1NfZOg1OaPXecrYz7g53W7LUuiz9bJEgpldiOGRBQILyD_JCD2Reqcazh4w1BZD/s1600/DSC01506.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwirdwccohVAtCiXb0Slr0xq62Zd-xpWwZ7U_zLWxX80vmacYNMeS9BEngnLdzvj-63nQxe_HeV1NfZOg1OaPXecrYz7g53W7LUuiz9bJEgpldiOGRBQILyD_JCD2Reqcazh4w1BZD/s320/DSC01506.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You really don't have to use organic, single-squeezed apple juice from happy trees in Eden. Any old thing will do provided it doesn't contain any preservatives stronger than ascorbic acid.</td></tr>
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<br />
Things are never as fast as you would imagine them to be at the Wal-Mart. If you go to the express lane, you are guaranteed to be behind at least one person who is an extreme couponer, someone else using who wants to split the $12 total between cash, a card, and a check (I really was tempted to just pay for his purchase, but he was a little bit scary), and a checker who is so happy to be there that they are in a coma.<br />
<br />
So...<br />
<br />
I was in line for a Very Long Time.<br />
<br />
"Is that your favorite drink?"<br />
<br />
It took me a moment to realize that the guy behind me in line was talking to me. <br />
<br />
I eyed him cautiously. He didn't look crazy, or even weird in any way, which was strange in and of itself. Just a normal young guy.<br />
<br />
"Oh," I said, looking down at my cart. "Yeah, well, I'm trying that new celebrity diet. All apple juice, all the time."<br />
<br />
He stared at me for a moment, confused, and then laughed. "Good one!" he said.<br />
<br />
I smiled.<br />
<br />
I turned away as it was my turn in line. "There's 8 of these," I said.<br />
<br />
The cashier sighed, and swiped the bottle 8 times. She was not interested.<br />
<br />
<h3>
<b><i>How to Make Hard Cider:</i></b></h3>
<br />
1) Clean the shit out of all your stuff. Uninvited Microbes = Bad Juju.<br />
<br />2) Pour your FuckLoad of apple juice into your fermenter. In this case, a plastic carboy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcy_EMOCoYOfuAI5y21BBGIB93vVvku4BvpLJRbk67NlN8AC7IPRIgkszA340b3Q4nmvsdKwo0Hwv5dCRs59ruky6cD1qYG5vgMo04NqF0RGTIIg4SLTMBcM9NBoWDJXublsCXlt8L/s1600/DSC01510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcy_EMOCoYOfuAI5y21BBGIB93vVvku4BvpLJRbk67NlN8AC7IPRIgkszA340b3Q4nmvsdKwo0Hwv5dCRs59ruky6cD1qYG5vgMo04NqF0RGTIIg4SLTMBcM9NBoWDJXublsCXlt8L/s400/DSC01510.jpg" width="316" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This takes concentration. And a funnel. Unless you really like sticky cement.</td></tr>
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3) Admire your nearly 6 gallons of apple juice. This is approximately 398,476% of your daily recommended value of vitamin C.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmTb754E41zSY6nC1MuRM26pMyMFlVqjDJubIIBgNbzh8J06959ZMaYY6EnW9TA7rF1zH_wYTbz34P-w6DN6VIdadhQIR_xB5pMt2RzxvA0bJhaZFrOjdNox6pruuDJPDNK1HlcebE/s1600/DSC01515.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmTb754E41zSY6nC1MuRM26pMyMFlVqjDJubIIBgNbzh8J06959ZMaYY6EnW9TA7rF1zH_wYTbz34P-w6DN6VIdadhQIR_xB5pMt2RzxvA0bJhaZFrOjdNox6pruuDJPDNK1HlcebE/s400/DSC01515.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The foam is the cleaner/sanitizer, specially formulated to make the ale yeast happy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
4) Aerate the juice. That means getting some bubbles. Shaking 6 gallons of liquid is hard.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHKXuKBzoVzPeHMYkGRSzXVzZKayvyhb4qVVTZ3aPBVAXI7TFZ4bL9SmmU7mXTSuDJz4FPwf749keS_KAtQEoMkLA7mYhAGCu3T-KaTm9wXjFXy68zawKXgt4uyqcHvcnvXarWpKfs/s1600/DSC01524.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHKXuKBzoVzPeHMYkGRSzXVzZKayvyhb4qVVTZ3aPBVAXI7TFZ4bL9SmmU7mXTSuDJz4FPwf749keS_KAtQEoMkLA7mYhAGCu3T-KaTm9wXjFXy68zawKXgt4uyqcHvcnvXarWpKfs/s400/DSC01524.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My head is HUGE in this picture.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
5) Add the yeast. Any old yeast will do, but we actually want this to taste good and not be too alcoholic, so we went with an ale yeast.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6eErBhJYE3NAJmOj0_HKHZ9yUIqWF66bgIkONrFgIpZYOc6jDlhgWZFVBpohBHxClQWtKMw6d1HvbKadyVGHQwlnM9jXnBRMewfn_7im6Cbhmh5TxaVGr_vPfN2wEGm3QCqffbDDZ/s1600/DSC01526.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6eErBhJYE3NAJmOj0_HKHZ9yUIqWF66bgIkONrFgIpZYOc6jDlhgWZFVBpohBHxClQWtKMw6d1HvbKadyVGHQwlnM9jXnBRMewfn_7im6Cbhmh5TxaVGr_vPfN2wEGm3QCqffbDDZ/s400/DSC01526.jpg" width="282" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stop staring at my wrinkly thumb. They're double jointed so I have alien hands.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL4KHHt0_gClgDbXuqjDLgke3ABO4F2CukWfVsGIAPh65Suk2A7a5BpxJ-eVXJfWDs_sFW8g7eT7wHXX4lGhBXJp_tdVhrxCJvTMXHN4lI1rLn5L5We3BabrQ6023RNmmz9wi9HSAG/s1600/DSC01534.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL4KHHt0_gClgDbXuqjDLgke3ABO4F2CukWfVsGIAPh65Suk2A7a5BpxJ-eVXJfWDs_sFW8g7eT7wHXX4lGhBXJp_tdVhrxCJvTMXHN4lI1rLn5L5We3BabrQ6023RNmmz9wi9HSAG/s400/DSC01534.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just pour it in. Millions of little yeasties will eat sugar and shit alcohol and carbon dioxide. Appetizing, yes?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
6) After mixing again, put a bung in the top (that's what's the lid is called, I promise), and add some way to let air out. If you don't do this, your bottle will explode and you will have a juice fountain in the basement.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbSnJT8MyporJKnOEcGOtnardC_pQEoZB5CzwRCvhkmteBLv1ttR1mu1bxxzOYJb8CxHo-nFaCOdccA5cupO5ons2Vn5Mg3qwxy-zXkdB9Pdl7R92zB2bfSPctXH8ZASDUnyDNCuE9/s1600/DSC01545.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbSnJT8MyporJKnOEcGOtnardC_pQEoZB5CzwRCvhkmteBLv1ttR1mu1bxxzOYJb8CxHo-nFaCOdccA5cupO5ons2Vn5Mg3qwxy-zXkdB9Pdl7R92zB2bfSPctXH8ZASDUnyDNCuE9/s400/DSC01545.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In this case, we used a food grade plastic hose, and a small bucket of water. This will allow carbon dioxide to leave, but no nasty little bacterias or wild yeasts to get in.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />7) Store in a cool, dry place until it stops bubbling in about 2 weeks, or you're sick of waiting.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvqjKXfHu1f5RNMET7FBNYhk8RWUQY84_KGAdcEtPPB5lcJ8TS8cSsqx_62JFh-oE-JhR4S48YlXN2PkVNzGDSpIuCaGcpq_tvSPkoWpiyARvQcAm8lCPr6-sRgIf79508mN_TRrDX/s1600/DSC01559.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvqjKXfHu1f5RNMET7FBNYhk8RWUQY84_KGAdcEtPPB5lcJ8TS8cSsqx_62JFh-oE-JhR4S48YlXN2PkVNzGDSpIuCaGcpq_tvSPkoWpiyARvQcAm8lCPr6-sRgIf79508mN_TRrDX/s400/DSC01559.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two beers and a cider hanging out in the basement.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
8) Later, we will put these guys into kegs and pressurize with CO2 to give it bubbles. There are other ways to get the bubbles, but that is the easiest.<br />
<br />
Apparently in Colorado, you can homebrew something like 200 gallons of beer per year for "personal use". This is about 15 gallons, or 13 twelve-packs of beer (and cider) brewing in the basement. <br />
<br />
Whoever it is that needs 200 gallons is some kind of impressive, really.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-39591854387922928982012-07-12T04:00:00.000-06:002012-07-12T04:00:02.992-06:00No Sharks No Sharks No SharksI tried to force my breathing to slow down. <em>Calm down calm down calm down</em>. There is no such thing as sharks.<br />
<br />
Just float. Just float.<br />
<br />
That Australian tourist said there was a turtle over here, but the water was so close to the coral that I kept worrying I was going to slam into it. I couldn’t seem to get use to the tunnel vision of having the mask on. I can’t see! I can’t breathe!<br />
<br />
The world was silent except for little splashy noises and my Darth Vader breath.<br />
<br />
<em>Just float. Stop splashing, you’ll attract sharks</em>. No I won’t. There are no sharks in Hawaii.<br />
<br />
<em>Fact.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9NM3I3be0o8GTZ_wOGV222HOjAVt3hWAZ9eMbGcJK1bvfJEc4K2FQNI8pd2jjtiGXlFCFFWe9g2oE3UlD6M5hn8qZVK74B9JIn9BMnaGJAHtQyvnxmWUdJhhMnCmB69L_QZTG7JUd/s1600/DSC01442.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9NM3I3be0o8GTZ_wOGV222HOjAVt3hWAZ9eMbGcJK1bvfJEc4K2FQNI8pd2jjtiGXlFCFFWe9g2oE3UlD6M5hn8qZVK74B9JIn9BMnaGJAHtQyvnxmWUdJhhMnCmB69L_QZTG7JUd/s400/DSC01442.JPG" width="398" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Is this what drowning feels like? Note to self: don't drown.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<em><br /></em><br />
<br />
The snorkeling almost didn’t happen for me. The first mask the tour company gave me was a piece of shit that had a mask that was really good at filling up with water, and a snorkel that I couldn't breathe through. Crying, panicking, nearly screaming, I was making my way back to shore when Boyfriend stopped me.<br />
<br />
He traded masks because apparently he doesn’t mind the feeling of drowning as much as I do, and he really wanted me to have a good time snorkeling. I stood there for a minute or two, trying not to feel like a failure or embarassed by my freak out, pulled myself together, mostly, and tried again.<br />
<br />
Yes, I can swim.<br />
<br />
I took lessons as a child because I was so afraid of water my parents could barely bathe me. One of my earliest memories is my mom dipping me in a kiddie pool and me getting water up my nose. Another early memory involves banging my elbow in the bath tub and passing out, and waking up with my brother holding my head out of the water and screaming for Mom. She left for a minute so my older brother could pee, and I nearly drown.<br />
<br />
<i>Go me.</i><br />
<br />
So. Swim lessons when I was 7. I was older than the other kids in the beginning class. I remember those lessons with a combination of fear and embarrassment. I think the next oldest kid was about 4.<br />
<br />
I was so afraid of the water, chest tightening fear would hit me at random while we did our lessons, that I would wake up in cold sweats the night before swimming lessons.<br />
<br />
And then they forgot about me and I almost drown.<br />
<br />
They wanted the kids to swim from one end of the pool and back. And I didn't make it back.<br />
<br />
At first, I couldn’t believe it. Why couldn’t I touch the bottom? Where is the edge of the pool? It should be right there… Then my body wouldn’t respond, and I got even more scared. I couldn’t lift my arms. I was going under. Where was the teacher? I was drowning. No, this isn’t right! Why can’t I move my arms?<br />
<br />
Through the water I heard a whistle and shouts, and splashes, and suddenly the instructor yanking me up by one arm. “What are you doing?” she shouted. She was angry with me because she forgot to watch me.<br />
<br />
I couldn’t speak as I gasped for breath. I'd almost died! If I'd had the strength, I would have punched her in the face. Once she righted me, I found out that actually, I <i>could</i> touch the bottom. I huddled on the side of the pool for the rest of the day, and went back the next week.<br />
<br />
But I learned to swim.<br />
<br />
I won’t drown, probably.<br />
<br />
A slightly larger wave pulled me away from the coral, then back down. I bobbed along the top in my life jacket and rented snorkel gear. Remembering the time I almost drowned was a bad idea, but there was a similarity here. I felt helpless. I felt scared. But I wanted to like it. I wanted this to be fun.<br />
<br />
I tried to relax. This is fun, goddamnit.<br />
<br />
This wasn’t the chlorinated pool water at the civic center. This is the huge wild ocean. I was thousands of miles away and almost thirty years from my childhood drowning experience. I haven’t had a problem swimming in years and years. And since I got my eyes Lasiked, I actually <i>like</i> swimming. <br />
<br />
But the panic was there, just underneath.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrUMUfQv0y-5GtQ1csBm6hr_0FT1vDRS8Z7LpckFfvThHHNwlHgq5YPHJl5CWJ6_h_CTIwxxZigijTIGrPar-jmLDr9xUMoHBKA3Qnb-MmuwmERGD0QxeKGyJUKqHBGCM0u19sqFtk/s1600/DSC01449.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrUMUfQv0y-5GtQ1csBm6hr_0FT1vDRS8Z7LpckFfvThHHNwlHgq5YPHJl5CWJ6_h_CTIwxxZigijTIGrPar-jmLDr9xUMoHBKA3Qnb-MmuwmERGD0QxeKGyJUKqHBGCM0u19sqFtk/s400/DSC01449.jpg" width="365" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No such thing as sharks, if I don't look they aren't there, I CAN'T SEE YOU.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I tried not to imagine braining myself on the sharp edge of the reef. Or getting sucked out to sea. Or sharks. Or giant squids. Leviathans. I made little movements, and tried to propel myself with little mermaid kicks with my feet. Look! A clown fish! And what was that! That fish was yellow! Neat! I want to see an octopus. Where the fuck are the damned octopusses?<br />
<br />
Calm, calm. Breath in, breath out.<br />
<br />
Shit, why did I think of mermaids? Those bitches are going to fuck you up.<br />
<br />
Deep breath, but not really through the snorkel mask. Darth Vader.<br />
<br />
And then the coral dropped away from me to the sandy floor, and there it was.<br />
<br />
It’s a motherfucking sea turtle, y’all.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJibeFKk_dwRdoQqCj9k8Nf1NMcW4F8xz5_d-nNjVVHbxqHacg-1Qlb0mnVqPtcv1W_RQqvVtvUpu8YD4131JyGBULifeNJ6hC-rFTDAHhPpV-sOysfIEGKX1Tc6t51Bpk4uf0tFv4/s1600/DSC01500.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="385" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJibeFKk_dwRdoQqCj9k8Nf1NMcW4F8xz5_d-nNjVVHbxqHacg-1Qlb0mnVqPtcv1W_RQqvVtvUpu8YD4131JyGBULifeNJ6hC-rFTDAHhPpV-sOysfIEGKX1Tc6t51Bpk4uf0tFv4/s400/DSC01500.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"'Sup, bitches?"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
My eyes saw it, but it took a moment for my brain to sort it out, to understand what I was seeing.<br />
<br />
I let myself float over it, and past. Holy fucking shit. That thing was huge. And it was watching me! It's real!<br />
<br />
I pulled my head out of the water.<br />
<br />
I called out to my boyfriend, who was maybe 20 yards away. I waved at him, and then stopped. I didn’t want to look like I was drowning, even if I did just inhale a mouthful of seawater and turtle pee.<br />
<br />
He looked over.<br />
<br />
I pointed down. “Turtle!” I shouted.<br />
<br />
And then I put my mask back in and my face down because I was choking on the water and I didn’t want to touch the reef but it’s too shallow to just swim with my head out of the water like that.<br />
<br />
Saw it.<br />
<br />
Hellz yeah.<br />
<br />
Time to go in.<br />
<br />
Relief washed over me as I took off the mask and flippers. I tried not to feel guilty for barely being able to tolerate snorkeling. My fear had been unexpected.<br />
<br />
As I waded up on the sandy shore, I glanced back out to sea.<br />
<br />
Holy shit, look where I am!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU9R5mERa8sc4ABqkNIRaVXps8E7NgBytzVCjnBIg97uA-5RCBkzpcEy-u-edMd4bZZBKnLZfN0FSEzR8iOT38OApVFgcEqE522sg7bRQW9nzfJWqCnEePV44_MulaZ2haS54UWzlA/s1600/DSC01501.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU9R5mERa8sc4ABqkNIRaVXps8E7NgBytzVCjnBIg97uA-5RCBkzpcEy-u-edMd4bZZBKnLZfN0FSEzR8iOT38OApVFgcEqE522sg7bRQW9nzfJWqCnEePV44_MulaZ2haS54UWzlA/s400/DSC01501.jpg" width="348" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not to scale*</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
*<i>Holy crap, I should illustrate more, it's so slimming!</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i><br />
<br /></div>Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-44166571528628179252012-07-09T04:00:00.001-06:002012-07-09T04:00:11.505-06:00A Quick Note to CrayolaDear Crayola,<br />
<br />
I have always been a huge fan of Crayola colors.<br />
<br />
I have more crayons than any adult has right to.<br />
<br />
And colored pencils.<br />
<br />
And markers.<br />
<br />
If I ever have a daughter, I will name her Crayola Pavlov*.<br />
<br />
Recently, I decided I was going to start illustrating my posts on this here blog with markers and colors. It was going to be completely damned awesome.**<br />
<br />
I stopped at the grocery store on the way home. I had an excuse to go down the school supply aisle! The yellow and green Crayola packaging glowed out at me, the logo smiling its rainbow smile.<br />
<br />
Not only are these the best and most brilliant colors, but unlike the fancy shmancy Prismacolors that "professionals" seem to like so much, these were cheap, easy to find, and <i>washable</i>.<br />
<br />
After some back and forth, I went with the largest package I could find of Crayola SuperTips.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhatmbz-V1le1XukYSO138mxW-RoeiPfVDk1BfuRgvLBZqTSvvNeBbR-y5QET7AGaZylRcABGR4oU9kEK89gDrpRJfbF6fkMf6flgmXIQs8hSO8Y5lItkD4CyTDvbThyphenhyphenPjRXuuZcytK/s1600/DSC01443.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhatmbz-V1le1XukYSO138mxW-RoeiPfVDk1BfuRgvLBZqTSvvNeBbR-y5QET7AGaZylRcABGR4oU9kEK89gDrpRJfbF6fkMf6flgmXIQs8hSO8Y5lItkD4CyTDvbThyphenhyphenPjRXuuZcytK/s400/DSC01443.JPG" width="261" /></a></div>
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Sure, I noticed that there were some "fun scented" markers in the package... it did not escape my notice that there were absolutely no large packages of markers from you that <i>didn't</i> have "fun scented" markers included.</div>
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I'll be honest, though... I thought when you said "fun scented", you meant something more along the lines of, oh, I don't know, <i>fun for children </i>in some way.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg70CGlgdoSY_R5SrQJM7_ezrFrbCkqINNheLO2kjw4bhfwJixJeyHqhawuaUs-UdM5LvbQ_3iUCOyLOsNRrEgK2YP9NlFbhqmOs-ZC85Yvy6XlZgvpvcMVqqUowp2lHuXKSnUzTsaI/s1600/DSC01444.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg70CGlgdoSY_R5SrQJM7_ezrFrbCkqINNheLO2kjw4bhfwJixJeyHqhawuaUs-UdM5LvbQ_3iUCOyLOsNRrEgK2YP9NlFbhqmOs-ZC85Yvy6XlZgvpvcMVqqUowp2lHuXKSnUzTsaI/s400/DSC01444.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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But honestly, I didn't think much of it. I assumed that the scented markers would be mostly fruity smells and it would be akin to coloring with my old Strawberry Shortcake dolls' heads.</div>
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Mostly, I was just excited. So many colors! So. Many. I couldn't wait to get started.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXR1VbVwor0WPbXckVWnkp7WmDu1o_YO8X2DD-hyEImIVoqXC_Bd4OhXxj3yilZlcg0QDz22ntev9b04vsLONy9px2mq7ETnbCZPElH1Dodq9JPdeNDpW4k07xTf5apqy9_hy0llyn/s1600/DSC01445.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="127" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXR1VbVwor0WPbXckVWnkp7WmDu1o_YO8X2DD-hyEImIVoqXC_Bd4OhXxj3yilZlcg0QDz22ntev9b04vsLONy9px2mq7ETnbCZPElH1Dodq9JPdeNDpW4k07xTf5apqy9_hy0llyn/s400/DSC01445.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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I was a <i>little </i>disturbed that these so-called fun-scented colors were dressed all in black, like some kind of biker gang coming to crash the local debutant ball, but I still wasn't <i>too </i>worried.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWi3uK20WJLN2IbePo6xg9XwkLUt8QIOURB3TQQOnLjQWVJC_x2aciVI8ZLP9g_tEgMR7M4_IVBRVGsTlyZ2YG_uIxP_5sstkvj2IzK5W8vcLxEmI0aEcuHjZ88Yo2giwlnwlEuAli/s1600/DSC01446.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWi3uK20WJLN2IbePo6xg9XwkLUt8QIOURB3TQQOnLjQWVJC_x2aciVI8ZLP9g_tEgMR7M4_IVBRVGsTlyZ2YG_uIxP_5sstkvj2IzK5W8vcLxEmI0aEcuHjZ88Yo2giwlnwlEuAli/s400/DSC01446.JPG" width="308" /></a></div>
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In fact, I looked at them with growing excitement. They might be fun. I started opening them up and sniffing them without even coloring with them.</div>
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Yes, Crayola. You did this.</div>
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You got me sniffing ink (and they didn't get me high (not that I was trying)).</div>
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And despite the little marks of red and brown around my nose, I was still mostly OK with it. Cherry! Oh! That one is burnt marshmallow! How fun! </div>
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And then we got to the blues and greens.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhadyqc2bNm9tzhITJDIH3NzQzaRnez374oqdGCVm7uOMSOyRCr-lV8ipaZh9OZUzeBN53Xlt230p4cPNnWp_9inj1rBSNh2pbcXCY8JGhoX2FYsaovnREiQRoA4VRHHfj9hq-i1BfZ/s1600/DSC01447.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhadyqc2bNm9tzhITJDIH3NzQzaRnez374oqdGCVm7uOMSOyRCr-lV8ipaZh9OZUzeBN53Xlt230p4cPNnWp_9inj1rBSNh2pbcXCY8JGhoX2FYsaovnREiQRoA4VRHHfj9hq-i1BfZ/s400/DSC01447.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I don't know about you, Crayola, but when I think "Forest Pine" or "Fresh Air" or "Bay Breeze", the first thing that <i>doesn't</i> come to mind is an opium den.<br />
<br />
What ever happened to Raspberry, Lime, and Blueberry? Why did you do this to me? Why?<br />
<br />
If you are going to perfume your markers with THAT kind of fun, you should just be honest:<br />
<br />
<br />
Fresh Air: A Teenager's Bedroom<br />
<br />
Bay Breeze: French Whore<br />
<br />
Forest Pine: Lysol<br />
<br />
I would appreciate it if you would please update your labels.<br />
<br />
Thanks so much for listening,<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
XOXO LOVE AND KISSES XOXO,</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Leauxra</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>*I will also train her to respond to bells and whistles.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>** Why YES, Virginia, Leauxra IS working on some new posts, and she's ILLUSTRATING them. With Crayolas. And ***SPOILER ALERT*** They're about Hawaii. First one comes out on Thursday***</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>*** I am trying to get back into a twice a week schedule... Mondays and Thursdays.</i></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-15300960134567215472012-05-19T21:00:00.000-06:002012-05-19T21:00:04.452-06:005 Shades of Gray<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I'm talking about pens, here, guys. Pens.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD-7QEUDYDoYjvXe35dC7uuK4ZcGT3QgUkiFj79VstD2oSOhyphenhyphenMDAjIeOcLTLHXyl-QSPACOGxeXhRhSi7nnamxr-SJwqR14HDu6kWU6_zK1BhDkUH4OEkchVrvmUupykcdTgSPYtr_/s1600/DSC00543.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD-7QEUDYDoYjvXe35dC7uuK4ZcGT3QgUkiFj79VstD2oSOhyphenhyphenMDAjIeOcLTLHXyl-QSPACOGxeXhRhSi7nnamxr-SJwqR14HDu6kWU6_zK1BhDkUH4OEkchVrvmUupykcdTgSPYtr_/s400/DSC00543.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I managed to find my favorite Faber Castell pens in Hobby Lobby recently.<br />
<br />
Please stop staring at my strangely shaped thumb</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
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I can tell you aren't nearly excited enough about this.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Maybe you don't know what can be done with gray pens. Your ignorance pains me.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
For example, you can make a lot of dots and draw a picture of the scary thing in the woods using thousands upon thousands of dots.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Want to know why I haven't been blogging lately? </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Well.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I was making dots.</div>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYvYLPU8oVA8ZM87SEaca7Aca7sOMVw5CUSRfi56BTYaj70hoXG4dlxVnhyPfLH98smr_xMsdi3JOp17RgnYOZVjr7ohJJxJFysO0ptmdoRUsgL4AcmUPGqCNikvbRxDWZMQCyDfjs/s1600/DSC00462.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYvYLPU8oVA8ZM87SEaca7Aca7sOMVw5CUSRfi56BTYaj70hoXG4dlxVnhyPfLH98smr_xMsdi3JOp17RgnYOZVjr7ohJJxJFysO0ptmdoRUsgL4AcmUPGqCNikvbRxDWZMQCyDfjs/s400/DSC00462.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Move over, Pisarro. I have gray pens and I am not afraid to use them.<br />
<br />
The title of this piece is, "I Know, Let's Go for a Hike in the Scary Woods".</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I was also traveling for work last week in sunny California. I had to pretend to be a Responsible Adult for four days <i>in a row</i>, while my brain kept trying to get me arrested (<i>It puts the wallet in the basket, or it gets the security pat down from TSA again</i>). It was pretty stressful, and I spent most of my free time there playing my ukulele.<br />
<br />
Why yes, I do play the ukulele. And I bring it with me when I travel. And take it with me through airport security.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwHgf2ZKcKanFUFkzcE3Nr228GH5OEOCM3nuMRwZ2Yrq62u68hr9knDoqUJ_4EYkpRHDIf9qCAi21MaXY9whYa4dmtvCLDw7hkSuuiBKeGBLtwvhIynJfHF6B-DELiVYtT4K8Pllxv/s1600/DSC09038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwHgf2ZKcKanFUFkzcE3Nr228GH5OEOCM3nuMRwZ2Yrq62u68hr9knDoqUJ_4EYkpRHDIf9qCAi21MaXY9whYa4dmtvCLDw7hkSuuiBKeGBLtwvhIynJfHF6B-DELiVYtT4K8Pllxv/s400/DSC09038.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ukuleles are cool.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
I was so busy making dots and <i>keeping my damned mouth shut</i>, that I failed to keep up with my imaginary friends here in the blogoverse. <br />
<br />
It turns out that while I was away, I won some awards.<br />
<br />
What the hell, y'all? It's like you want to hear what I have to say or some shit.<br />
<br />
The first award is from <a href="http://www.touchofembellishment.com/p/about-me.html">Erica</a> over at <a href="http://www.touchofembellishment.com/2012/05/meet-my-blogger-friends.html">Touch of Embellishment</a>. Erica is one of those overachievers that actually illustrates her blog (just like almost everyone <i>wishes</i> they could), and is ridiculously funny on a regular basis. She consistently makes me laugh, and also makes me think I should be doing more with my blog:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7O0K0edX5VmMEl3Tpm5jSgWeQ371X5Dr5UOJOBaNNylUVkcFbdVafBuZLKTsQKZ1BaeuG9Pwzsug3nGzhUpvUFvgO4n-TZjJtmwHbMKKhBaKuAmkmURCwgFKL8cluJl-6VA81uG2R/s1600/sepiabeautifulbloggeraward.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7O0K0edX5VmMEl3Tpm5jSgWeQ371X5Dr5UOJOBaNNylUVkcFbdVafBuZLKTsQKZ1BaeuG9Pwzsug3nGzhUpvUFvgO4n-TZjJtmwHbMKKhBaKuAmkmURCwgFKL8cluJl-6VA81uG2R/s1600/sepiabeautifulbloggeraward.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
She has nominated me for the "Beautiful Blogger Award", which makes me incredibly happy in so many ways. Thank you so very much.<br />
<br />
The second award that I received while I was out gallivanting around the countryside is from <a href="http://theartofbeebeeing.blogspot.co.uk/p/about.html">BeeBee</a> at <a href="http://theartofbeebeeing.blogspot.co.uk/2011/07/this-ones-little-mushy.html">Beebee's Blog</a>. She is the only blogger I have ever seen who has illustrated a picture of <a href="http://theartofbeebeeing.blogspot.co.uk/2011/07/this-ones-little-mushy.html">her unicorn impaling Chuck Norris in a single blow</a>. Seriously. Thank you, BeeBee.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Nv0hIt5Oxd5WTgUWH1JXuX1iPo9GHgrAOOwShwNJK6kvDMt3ct0b-jhXhjyQDplrMLpgZmW057OLo_D46tor5H1HkTadNThDgV3MpmaT2GcUbw7SlblrSsx1FB64tWj5KTmStfS4/s1600/leibster.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Nv0hIt5Oxd5WTgUWH1JXuX1iPo9GHgrAOOwShwNJK6kvDMt3ct0b-jhXhjyQDplrMLpgZmW057OLo_D46tor5H1HkTadNThDgV3MpmaT2GcUbw7SlblrSsx1FB64tWj5KTmStfS4/s1600/leibster.png" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
So both of these awards have all these rules and things, but I thought it might be fun to just combine these into <i>the single most awesome blog award of all time.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
I call it the:<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<b>I Want to Wear Your Head for a Hat Award:</b></h3>
<b><br /></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyRzxkFz6s9422N1uf3vJghf8GZBuLDAvO5juDXeaeMNCooyB8Wzv_bAVeltZzjBUPoQVSewC3-ryWtwx4ClIHGnDDGMw2lcaSkc8UKcX6TRavEUJkgZh39TbCEXRtVsvPFQ32uGy4/s1600/Head4HatAward.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyRzxkFz6s9422N1uf3vJghf8GZBuLDAvO5juDXeaeMNCooyB8Wzv_bAVeltZzjBUPoQVSewC3-ryWtwx4ClIHGnDDGMw2lcaSkc8UKcX6TRavEUJkgZh39TbCEXRtVsvPFQ32uGy4/s320/Head4HatAward.tiff" width="267" /></a></div>
<b><br /></b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
It might not be quite as prestigious as the "<i>Your Skin Would Make a Nice Rain Coat</i>" award, but this one is still full of awesome.<br />
<br />
The rules:<br />
<ol>
<li>Link back to the person who tagged you. Say what you will. It doesn't have to be nice. Just know that I will find you.<br /></li>
<li>Run like hell and hope that that crazy bitch who is following you doesn't saute your tongue in a butter and garlic sauce.<br /><br />Wait wait. That isn't right. That should read, "that crazy bitch that 'joined' you in Google Friend Connect." <br /><br />Or circled you... or whatever the hell these crazy kids do these days.<br /><br />Aw, fuck it.<br /><br /><i>Run</i>.<br /></li>
<li>Nominate some OTHER bloggers and ensure that they will never sleep again. </li>
</ol>
<br />
<br />
Were you nominated? Hrm. Let's see. Is your blog over on the right there, under "Stuff I Read"? <br />
<br />
<i>You're it.</i><br />
<br />
Congratulations.<br />
<br />
Is anyone else hungry for some fava beans and a nice chianti? Is it wrong that I'd rather have beer?<br />
<br />
<br />Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-68582107506650750572012-05-06T16:18:00.001-06:002012-05-06T16:19:07.804-06:00Thar Be Trolls in Them Thar Woods...I haven't been talking about the trolls as much as I should.<br />
<br />
No, I am not talking about people who make inappropriate comments on the internet.<br />
<br />
I am talking about the large angry beings that live in caves, or deep in the woods, and generally hate us and maybe want to eat us.<br />
<br />
They do too exist.<br />
<br />
Let me start at the beginning...<br />
<br />
Boyfriend and I decided to go for a little walk in the woods. Being in Colorado, this means that we were going for a 2,500 vertical foot, 6 mile one way climb up.<br />
<br />
...just a relaxing walk in the woods...<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
"Where should we hike?" I asked boyfriend, "The Park, maybe?"<br />
<br />
"Hmm," he replied, "It says here that there is a lot of ice on the road up to Bear Lake because of the storm last night."<br />
<br />
"Yuck," I said, "Maybe not." I hate driving on good days, going up a narrow, curvy, slick road with big drop-offs was not my idea of fun.<br />
<br />
We were quiet for a minute.<br />
<br />
"What about..." I said, "Signal Mountain? I haven't been up there in years."<br />
<br />
Signal Mountain is at the end of a dirt road that turns off a county road on the highway that heads into the mountains. It is only about 45 minutes from my house, and rarely has anyone on it. In the summer, the switchbacks up the west-facing hill are brutal, and it climbs something like 1000 feet in the first mile. This time of year, it should be pretty nice.<br />
<br />
Once you get to the top of the ridge, it's a much gentler "up", and has nice views of the Divide to the west.<br />
<br />
We packed up our backpacks and headed out.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVbLAC70SxgFaSaH-HL2IXYGLN1dG12M5nzCROM3aWFIU5TMd0yKVbF5iKVu348mkPTjVi0J89vFiAez1Jogc6crBAgZWKs7bu4v_tWcMLjFaeOoYVGV9HpeUGaxBnC-6R4dc0toM6/s1600/DSC00020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVbLAC70SxgFaSaH-HL2IXYGLN1dG12M5nzCROM3aWFIU5TMd0yKVbF5iKVu348mkPTjVi0J89vFiAez1Jogc6crBAgZWKs7bu4v_tWcMLjFaeOoYVGV9HpeUGaxBnC-6R4dc0toM6/s400/DSC00020.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It was a fantastically beautiful day out. The chill in the air was just enough to keep us from overheating.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I was feeling pretty strong, and we made it up the steep part in a relatively short amount of time. The breezes kept it from being too hot. It still got cold enough at night that the trees hadn't budded out and the grass was still dead from winter, but it had a stark beauty anyway.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMzhrw4qtXmrfcfYGc6ROFO6PkMKJ5QPg-2Qk6IAbHuefSzzf9Yj2I1JH43DceWXYvU9LDJZsANS40ihu98u9yGv9Miu6Oii02lwCxEnQojbDNMPR2Qt-TjcsxzVtgeWVuRfLjjnJ8/s1600/DSC00021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMzhrw4qtXmrfcfYGc6ROFO6PkMKJ5QPg-2Qk6IAbHuefSzzf9Yj2I1JH43DceWXYvU9LDJZsANS40ihu98u9yGv9Miu6Oii02lwCxEnQojbDNMPR2Qt-TjcsxzVtgeWVuRfLjjnJ8/s400/DSC00021.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I believe this is a misprint. It should be "Bullwark's Ridge" because the troll's name is Bullwark, and this is his ridge. <i>Obviously</i>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The open meadows gave way to lodgepole forest, and we came to a fork in the trail. Signal Mountain, that-a-way.<br />
<br />
"I always think this part of the trial is weird," I said.<br />
<br />
Boyfriend, "Huh?"<br />
<br />
Me: "It's so quiet. When M. and I climbed up here we got totally creeped out."<br />
<br />
He didn't answer.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEithTHHjJfo0XS2r7vk4yRp-aE6I5zV4bREwqHOWHTIGNCcmjQ3I46WaBo5GTEVERwr9czA1aKeQUh8IiXORw7ELUWqQbwt1V2geB18H-6XuJv8ZhzkGDerHrR8d17Ao_gp0cmInsAF/s1600/DSC00023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEithTHHjJfo0XS2r7vk4yRp-aE6I5zV4bREwqHOWHTIGNCcmjQ3I46WaBo5GTEVERwr9czA1aKeQUh8IiXORw7ELUWqQbwt1V2geB18H-6XuJv8ZhzkGDerHrR8d17Ao_gp0cmInsAF/s400/DSC00023.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I know, let's go for a walk in the scary woods.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We were quiet for a while, and walked a bit farther.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Our footsteps were muffled in the deep pine needles as we went, when I heard a strange noise.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was the sound of something... big.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I froze, and looked back at Boyfriend. "Did you hear...?" he started to say, when something made a deep groaning noise.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"What the fuck was that?" I said.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I don't know," he replied.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Was it a bear?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We both fell silent.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"MAYBE WE SHOULDN'T BE QUIET!" I said in a loud voice, "SO WHATEVER IT IS WILL GO AWAY."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"PROBABLY NOT A BAD IDEA," said Boyfriend.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"What should we do?" I asked.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We looked at eachother helplessly.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"If it can smell fear, I totally reek right now, I just started sweating like a pig."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Boyfriend snickered.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We stood quiet for another moment, and then started up the trail.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Immediately, there was another thick noise from the woods.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
"Shit," I said. "What <i>is</i> that?"</div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimk08vPrSa45_ORjrtXg-GcCd7AjMjaPhIb2RhqdpTqtM_5JYyi4fiEUaD513VECsDuKA_EKIEBrRyzjl86kG1NQBnhe0qdeqXL3yyCgN8t9x-sUAeLeYDElfIts3TeBqkAdED79cI/s1600/DSC00025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimk08vPrSa45_ORjrtXg-GcCd7AjMjaPhIb2RhqdpTqtM_5JYyi4fiEUaD513VECsDuKA_EKIEBrRyzjl86kG1NQBnhe0qdeqXL3yyCgN8t9x-sUAeLeYDElfIts3TeBqkAdED79cI/s400/DSC00025.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It feels like there are eyes everywhere, watching you. Maybe the forest was awake. Or maybe there are trolls.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div>
I scanned the trees, my heart racing. They were too dense to see more than a few hundred feet. There could be anything out there.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We looked at each other and turned around and headed home.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There are other places to hike.</div>
<br />
<br />
"Do you think it was trolls?" I asked.***<br />
<br />
"YOU ARE NOT HELPING, LEAUXRA," he replied.<br />
<br />
I fell silent. For about a minute.<br />
<br />
"It's really quiet," I said, "I'll bet the other animals are afraid of the trolls."<br />
<br />
"Is there a such a thing as wood trolls?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"I don't know," he said, "I am not up on my troll lore."<br />
<br />
"That probably pisses off the trolls, don't you think?"<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrW8LKpcT5fi7DAmaLN_podJqfggosaoc1QYaZ0K-ikd10DWvq26a4C222IemcL0z9e6Usc4zOaQEcP8icE97-e0iA7mNvGLi4hqB1gDbGdrCkPwBEhKN5P1aClCTEhSTYu_SXG6Dc/s1600/DSC00027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrW8LKpcT5fi7DAmaLN_podJqfggosaoc1QYaZ0K-ikd10DWvq26a4C222IemcL0z9e6Usc4zOaQEcP8icE97-e0iA7mNvGLi4hqB1gDbGdrCkPwBEhKN5P1aClCTEhSTYu_SXG6Dc/s400/DSC00027.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
I glanced behind me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"STOP DOING THAT!" he said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"I feel like something is looking at me, you know? Like eyes on me."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
Boyfriend gave me an exasperated sigh.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAYBBzA-ASSxVD5Rng-mUb2yXT0EI3p6e4ZMW1r5_aytXGzgtiSoBU7_RXdlpOktx-JIq2KUsIUGwGVa9YuUWmKBlz7uURtocEqAoWkHuhYOLqhu0feP7b_9xEK0WmrQT3YiuaKDbE/s1600/DSC00031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAYBBzA-ASSxVD5Rng-mUb2yXT0EI3p6e4ZMW1r5_aytXGzgtiSoBU7_RXdlpOktx-JIq2KUsIUGwGVa9YuUWmKBlz7uURtocEqAoWkHuhYOLqhu0feP7b_9xEK0WmrQT3YiuaKDbE/s400/DSC00031.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Obvious evidence of troll activity. Trees knocked down and strewn about. No, it wasn't the wind. It was trolls.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"Check it out," I said, "Evidence."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Boyfriend looked at me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"OBVIOUSLY, the troll got pissed and knocked down some trees."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Boyfriend didn't respond.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVGeTUN2NuZMA6M2Ge05v0nmrFiObEq_KuUzUM838KkjB2N4j9HkLKkGmYhLVfLRj0-JrQBfawNOnrr14YnbNn82B6kRkixjnFoQr0xJm4hTr8bpLFreK8Uxgt1-vOhBWJvvgsmwiE/s1600/DSC00043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVGeTUN2NuZMA6M2Ge05v0nmrFiObEq_KuUzUM838KkjB2N4j9HkLKkGmYhLVfLRj0-JrQBfawNOnrr14YnbNn82B6kRkixjnFoQr0xJm4hTr8bpLFreK8Uxgt1-vOhBWJvvgsmwiE/s400/DSC00043.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A spectacular view through burnt trees.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"Maybe we should get some bear spray," I said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"Do you think that would help?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"You're right, a troll would probably think it was seasoning, but it would make me feel braver if it was a bear."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"You know," he said, "It was probably just an elk or something. Remember when we climbed Ypsilon?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"Huh," I said.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCrwEk5kTEPBA0cjC7cQtyUcyCfP_NMvRl1CeR5SMyzQmksUj6CoE99YJL0cdkOAJwpJdkPt4uCks8KAte_GGdBTcu4e-67m-8tMKChvLmA3PDYWJmlXNdr3FhYoZPqTdiVjwo44BH/s1600/DSC00038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCrwEk5kTEPBA0cjC7cQtyUcyCfP_NMvRl1CeR5SMyzQmksUj6CoE99YJL0cdkOAJwpJdkPt4uCks8KAte_GGdBTcu4e-67m-8tMKChvLmA3PDYWJmlXNdr3FhYoZPqTdiVjwo44BH/s400/DSC00038.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We saw a grouse. No, it totally wasn't a mountain chicken that scared us.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"I wonder if it was a chicken of the woods," I said later.<br />
<br />
"What?"<br />
<br />
"Check it out. A grouse!"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBldeDEc3BNiMLUyX3QHiICB1gNutP51N6cEhzuZ-GKpF5ATlZVT68WiC0jhBZ58uc-B-XVPT0RJHpZRq50HXNDEz1_YIaiSWxHjL80bM3kF749mWq0-fwZbQI-YBkI5P7vAM4qJuH/s1600/DSC00051.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBldeDEc3BNiMLUyX3QHiICB1gNutP51N6cEhzuZ-GKpF5ATlZVT68WiC0jhBZ58uc-B-XVPT0RJHpZRq50HXNDEz1_YIaiSWxHjL80bM3kF749mWq0-fwZbQI-YBkI5P7vAM4qJuH/s400/DSC00051.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Boyfriend said, "Never speak of this."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"Don't worry," I said, "I'll tell everyone that I hurt my knee or something."</div>
<br />
<br />
"You're planning on blogging about this, aren't you," he said. It wasn't a question.<br />
<br />
"It's why we hike," I replied, "So I have something to blog about."<br />
<br />
So in the spirit of truthiness, I have to say... ahem...<br />
<br />
"I hurt my knee while hiking, so we cut it short."<br />
<br />
The End.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i>***Reason #45 why dating me is hard: I have an over active imagination and I share it. Sorry.</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-3178554363826683882012-04-18T06:00:00.000-06:002012-04-18T06:51:40.920-06:00I'm Gonna Melt Old Age Right out of my SkinI’ve been hiding at my desk this week, hoping nobody notices me. <br />
<br />
This is <i>not</i> because I accidentally melted my face off earlier in the week, although I will admit that that was a bit disconcerting.<br />
<br />
It was an honest mistake.<br />
<br />
I use to have this awesome lotion/exfoliating soap from St. Ives that smelled like apricots and felt like loving sandpaper. It would scratch the top layer of dead skin off my face and make me feel young and beautiful again.<br />
<br />
Of course, I had that stuff back in about 1998, and apparently things have changed since then (I still think of the late 90’s as “recent," so I may be a wee bit out of touch).<br />
<br />
My skin has been unusually dry and itchy lately, and it was getting to the point that I was scratching my face constantly throughout the day and I was a little worried that I might wear through my cheeks. I had to do something. <br />
<br />
So... I borrowed my mom’s St. Ives Apricot Exfoliating Face Wash to use before I moisturized the shit out of my face.<br />
<br />
I just <i>assumed</i> that it was the same apricot shit that I used back in my 20’s, and that the only thing that had changed was the packaging. <br />
<br />
Let me repeat that. <br />
<br />
<i>I put some chemical shit on my face and just assumed I knew what it was without reading the label.</i><br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<br />
The next morning, I noticed that my "treatment" didn't seem to work very well because my skin was still way too dry, so I washed my face with it <i>again.</i><br />
<br />
I woke up the next morning, and I looked like I had a five o’clock shadow, only instead of stubble, it was my SKIN molting off. Or sloughing off? Is that a word? Sloughing?<br />
<br />
My whole lower face, just flaking, and painful, and <i>burny</i>.<br />
<br />
The part of my faces that I used the Apricot shit on.<br />
<br />
Maybe I should look at the motherfucking label, you know?<br />
<br />
Yeah. That Apricot Scrub shit was was completely different from what I thought it was, and the active ingredient was <i>Salicylic acid</i> and I had just washed my face with freaking alien blood. <br />
<br />
Twice.<br />
<br />
Because chemical burns are really good for removing dead skin and acne.<br />
<br />
And live skin. And my flesh.<br />
<br />
But no, I am not hiding because of that.<br />
<br />
And no, I am not hiding from the office zombies that want to eat my brains. I mean, seriously, those things have an awesome sense of smell, and would totally find me at my desk, especially since I keep putting this Oatmeal and Shea Butter lotion on my burny face… holy fuck, y’all. I just noticed this lotion is totally from St. Ives, too. Those Swiss bastards are probably going to give me boils or some shit and call it “invigorating” for the skin.<br />
<br />
Anyhoo. What was I talking about?<br />
<br />
Right.<br />
<br />
Hiding at desk.<br />
<br />
And failing.<br />
<br />
It turns out, you can’t actually hide from your email, especially when you are sitting at a computer all day, even if you are getting up every five minutes to add moisturizer.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-35447569868745361652012-03-08T04:00:00.000-07:002012-03-08T04:00:06.732-07:00How to Draw a Comic<i>I am a little overwhelmed by the response to my <a href="http://doesthismakemybloglookfat.blogspot.com/2012/03/do-these-make-my-bones-look-fat.html">comic</a>. Y'all are awesome. <br /><br />Being me, any kind of positive feedback makes me doubt myself.<br /><br />Can I still do this? Can I even draw? Holy crap, I am a total failure, I can't even draw at all, can I? Otherwise, I would totally have been drawing this whole time. That's why I stopped, isn't it? Because I suck? Why do I even try? I should just hide in the cabinet under the sink and never come out.<br /><br />Somehow, thoughts like these don't make me not try.<br /><br />But I'm pretty sure I'm doing everything wrong.<br /><br />Still, I've made you a photo tutorial, in case you would like to fail at this as badly as I do.</i><div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">How to Write and Draw a Comic, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">a Photographic Instructional Blog Thingy </span>Written by Leauxra</u></b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
1) Design.<br />
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBntE3l6RlyAG4tjzS52FmqopFbXGx-RitoifbBYw3atV6ysuRJKo2r6gdn62jchUukBPpQYFyfWICmQtPvjuJ5tFbRxnaJ6gGHiotw6tL5EvIkK57khmQGj_a1DvWWPPna12t0siS/s1600/DSC09018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBntE3l6RlyAG4tjzS52FmqopFbXGx-RitoifbBYw3atV6ysuRJKo2r6gdn62jchUukBPpQYFyfWICmQtPvjuJ5tFbRxnaJ6gGHiotw6tL5EvIkK57khmQGj_a1DvWWPPna12t0siS/s400/DSC09018.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I usually start with a rectangle, and then start writing words. I rarely have any idea what the page will look like before I start. I try not to. If I have any expectations, I will fail, and then I will never finish. So I start with a rectangle, maybe a sentence or two and a vague idea. This is the design phase, and requires a good eraser.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
2) Pencil.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK82bSECBAEPvxZ7R022wM6txHzl_AtDqOQyqsnWMT5BLYpTkQ7qrlTZHeVX_jXDi5RoTzMthO6BX8k1jiWw34pUkXq3j1wEEGNXiAdvpn3VcdtmfQkkY9WDrh3LEgym8YLaugGxdX/s1600/DSC09019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK82bSECBAEPvxZ7R022wM6txHzl_AtDqOQyqsnWMT5BLYpTkQ7qrlTZHeVX_jXDi5RoTzMthO6BX8k1jiWw34pUkXq3j1wEEGNXiAdvpn3VcdtmfQkkY9WDrh3LEgym8YLaugGxdX/s400/DSC09019.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pencil in more of the details because there is no way you can really trust yourself with a pen if there is any kind of detail to be done. Pencils are safer. <br />
<br />
It is also good to note that if you are at a loss as to what to do in a small panel, a close-up of the eyes usually works. It makes the character seem more emotive, even if you don't care about your character <i>or</i> your character's feelings.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
3) Trace.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUfzEuF6QRjK-19hKSli_YKgN_ID5R2F9AFE0ghtSL6vxndyu2ggMslSfccwTy9tU8GYRYLQle59kIBbcwQZRH3_cPLVL1QgGgMGfPmDICDMg6g7rLRIrGDAOku1QHGBvOxQEjDhCg/s1600/DSC09022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUfzEuF6QRjK-19hKSli_YKgN_ID5R2F9AFE0ghtSL6vxndyu2ggMslSfccwTy9tU8GYRYLQle59kIBbcwQZRH3_cPLVL1QgGgMGfPmDICDMg6g7rLRIrGDAOku1QHGBvOxQEjDhCg/s400/DSC09022.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trace your lines with a pen. There are talented comic book people out there that use a quill or a brush and inks, but having a big box of pens of various widths is much more useful if you want to sit in front of the TV and draw. Do what you feel comfortable with (but pens are better. Totally). Also: don't mess up. If you mess up now, you will regret it for the rest of the page.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
4) Erase.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizZofMtqgwN-N8i-fW7LVLNaeHXr_CwldGp2XNVruBH0UCxqwYPfiFVG4CSzRPH8snYIxrpYm0mMXd95G_NKffn1cBI5_W-_RfVImrk3bzbsIWbQw7NLCbJhCdDwRKZqPWSbl3FJfc/s1600/DSC09024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizZofMtqgwN-N8i-fW7LVLNaeHXr_CwldGp2XNVruBH0UCxqwYPfiFVG4CSzRPH8snYIxrpYm0mMXd95G_NKffn1cBI5_W-_RfVImrk3bzbsIWbQw7NLCbJhCdDwRKZqPWSbl3FJfc/s400/DSC09024.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Let it sit for a few minutes after you finish tracing your page. Otherwise, when you start erasing the pencil, you will smear the fuck out of everything. And for the love of all that is holy use a good, clean, eraser. I like the white Magic Rub types. No, this isn't sexual, that's the name of the eraser. Shut up.<br />
<br />
I also use a soft make-up brush that has never been used for make-up to get rid of the eraser bits. Your hands are probably covered in graphite, so you need something that won't smear anything. Blowing on it doesn't work, either, at least not for me, because I always end up spitting on it by mistake in my effort to get every last bit of eraser off, and then I get pissed off and throw things.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
5) Fill it in.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxcRqsXqhyphenhyphenqmsST5NlfnRvznv3xzQOtzo_1yQ-QkGqZRDhBE_g13Kp9CAESjbiOTJAKOs1SU2lw30HaDkm6C28ARKN5N5nmQLEim09ufhyphenhyphen_E8aKNhiDJE1t0oR-kJKDd5vrWH5RycC/s1600/DSC09025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxcRqsXqhyphenhyphenqmsST5NlfnRvznv3xzQOtzo_1yQ-QkGqZRDhBE_g13Kp9CAESjbiOTJAKOs1SU2lw30HaDkm6C28ARKN5N5nmQLEim09ufhyphenhyphen_E8aKNhiDJE1t0oR-kJKDd5vrWH5RycC/s400/DSC09025.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Once there are no eraser bits left, black the big spaces. You could use a Sharpie here if you are a glutton for punishment... those fuckers will bleed through to the center of the earth and destroy your paper, your sanity, and maybe even your soul. But any <i>OTHER</i> kind of felt tip will work. And if you're really patient, you can use a fine tip, but you will totally destroy it in the process. Blacking in the dark areas makes the thing start to look done-ish.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
6) Letter and Detail.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyX-CBbC1tWs8BjEyRMLnFV4hLt08ioD4KenK4iAbtmBIXlNX_8wLxEyIqZrYFZmrymFrRDGgSql2_zwHb5iaGVz7H_kC0JES4Z2ApaWRRWMob34rGvWoKdZ_-vx6zB0qn8J-139Qh/s1600/DSC09026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyX-CBbC1tWs8BjEyRMLnFV4hLt08ioD4KenK4iAbtmBIXlNX_8wLxEyIqZrYFZmrymFrRDGgSql2_zwHb5iaGVz7H_kC0JES4Z2ApaWRRWMob34rGvWoKdZ_-vx6zB0qn8J-139Qh/s640/DSC09026.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Time to write the letters and fill in details! This is my favorite part. <br />
<br />
After you ink in letters, you will think of about a million better ways to say what you just wrote, and it will be too late. You will also realize that if you haven't drawn anything in months, you will completely <i>SUCK</i> at this. Seriously, what the fuck? I use to be GOOD at drawing hands. This girl looks like she has flippers.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
7) Keep going.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYSyJSdU9X5V2zsf5-lbq9VuNlP1xCk8fc6Ow_HadD0yoBmdK8nNeGtuZdU1r0nWFnFQ3ICiFYLP4MuK2fmGAwnnFQav9FMdlw863ii2B_z6HwyJKng18Fry7d87glbcu6tVzwGgur/s1600/DSC09028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYSyJSdU9X5V2zsf5-lbq9VuNlP1xCk8fc6Ow_HadD0yoBmdK8nNeGtuZdU1r0nWFnFQ3ICiFYLP4MuK2fmGAwnnFQav9FMdlw863ii2B_z6HwyJKng18Fry7d87glbcu6tVzwGgur/s400/DSC09028.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Keep embelishing until you can't stand it anymore.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
8) Done. Finally.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiq0c2vAp6ihRaC1MALSf9dzBpZlfIEB3TTIMpZiS1lLTRSYkCL1zC9vN0spWHBPjdMA6OsdxfXqvE9SNPotqwXV6u1Vhqhw3fIRRVOzYfGNmhbsHmZtAJHu1j0eBIvFyGv9xQapt-/s1600/DSC09032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiq0c2vAp6ihRaC1MALSf9dzBpZlfIEB3TTIMpZiS1lLTRSYkCL1zC9vN0spWHBPjdMA6OsdxfXqvE9SNPotqwXV6u1Vhqhw3fIRRVOzYfGNmhbsHmZtAJHu1j0eBIvFyGv9xQapt-/s640/DSC09032.jpg" width="444" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Take a photo of the finished product, because you'll be fucked to try to figure out the scanner. You're feeling kind of lazy and you had a bad day at work, so to hell with extra efforts. You'll scan it in <i>LATER</i>. For now, you'll take a slightly blurry picture under the tungsten lights and then boost the contrast and put it in "black and white" mode. Done. <i>Finally</i>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXHiW6Oa5k0VPbZcFjd8TFMkst5msOspqTHp73cncEMjb128j4Tn4_fuBwPtDZLupIOPBYs1i39XTPgPoeXXFRgfR1kogSLVLk0epcL75DQabTc0OCDrN6owXbFgZBEplhwXVbYwY6/s1600/DSC09034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXHiW6Oa5k0VPbZcFjd8TFMkst5msOspqTHp73cncEMjb128j4Tn4_fuBwPtDZLupIOPBYs1i39XTPgPoeXXFRgfR1kogSLVLk0epcL75DQabTc0OCDrN6owXbFgZBEplhwXVbYwY6/s400/DSC09034.JPG" width="296" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Try to pretend you are proud of your work even though you mostly feel like a failure and that you should have done better. You'll look at it and see everything that is wrong with it. They will never be good enough. Accept it, and try to do better next time.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br />
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
<br />
A page like this will take me around four hours from start to finish although I usually have to take a break because my hands hurt and I can't see after a while. These things use to take about three times as long, but apparently I haven't forgotten everything I ever learned.<br />
<br />
And there you have it, kids. Have fun.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-66570010386082645152012-03-06T04:00:00.000-07:002012-03-06T04:00:12.396-07:00Do These Make My Bones Look Fat?Have you ever wondered where I got the name for this blog? I mean, I am not a health blog. Have you ever wondered, "What the hell, Leauxra?"<br />
<br />
Well.<br />
<br />
Today is your lucky day.<br />
<br />
<i>Ahem.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
A long, long time ago, at a job far far away...<br />
<br />
I was bored at work.<br />
<br />
I could only dust the picture frames and vacuum the carpet so many times. I also did not own a computer. If there was no one in the store for a stretch of time, what was I supposed to do?<br />
<br />
One day I thought about writing a story, and ended up sketching this cute picture of a skeleton girl checking out her ass in a mirror, and a little light came on in my head. Ten minutes here, an hour there... and eventually, I had 23 pages and a complete story. I made a comic book.<br />
<br />
And I haven't done anything like it since.<br />
<br />
That was five years ago.<br />
<br />
Five.<br />
<br />
So. Today, I am sharing this with you, in order to hopefully inspire myself to <i>MAKE SOMETHING AWESOME</i> again.<br />
<br />
XOXO,<br />
Leauxra<br />
<br />
P.S. I am a little nervous putting a bunch of full sized images out on the interwebz. Please, play nice. If you want to use any of these images for... well, anything, please talk to me. I will probably say yes. KTHANKS!<br />
<br />
P.P.S. These were all drawn on paper that was about 6" by 8", using pens I got at Walgreens up the road. I didn't have a ruler, so I used the edge of a business card for straight edges and kind of eyeballed the width, which explains much of the crookedness of the images. Just FYI in case that sort of thing bothers you.<br />
<br />
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<br />Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-41867468084121999552012-03-01T04:00:00.000-07:002012-03-01T07:29:53.479-07:00BoobsBeing all disdainful of meta-posts and talking about my blog, and things that are cliché, and being a big follower of my <a href="http://doesthismakemybloglookfat.blogspot.com/2012/02/writer-writes.html">RULES</a>, I thought if anyone tagged me in one of those little taggy blog posty thingys, I would politely thank them and then tell them that I don't "do" these things.<br />
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And then something awesome happened to me.<br />
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I got this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2iwxzv38-wXZahdn3BZW995DeC4ab9jAq7VgI34085HByZu2UFRsjK-LVB8OR6j1i2YaHwiIuGEM0KyxTFokY6r76vQNy-d186z9loPGD_nGte2tht38V2-aTcXUjLCdYHSB1AhhQ/s1600/day-3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2iwxzv38-wXZahdn3BZW995DeC4ab9jAq7VgI34085HByZu2UFRsjK-LVB8OR6j1i2YaHwiIuGEM0KyxTFokY6r76vQNy-d186z9loPGD_nGte2tht38V2-aTcXUjLCdYHSB1AhhQ/s1600/day-3.png" uda="true" /></a></div>
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And it made me feel awesome.<br />
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Fuck the rules.<br />
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I would like to thank all the little people... and give a huge shout out to <a href="http://mistyslaws.wordpress.com/">Misty</a> of <a href="http://mistyslaws.wordpress.com/">Misty's Laws</a> who tagged me. She is some kind of funny, too, so if you don't read her blog, you should. Go now. The read the whole thing. I'll wait...<br />
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<i>Done? OK.</i><br />
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How this works is that I tell y'all three things you may not know about me, and I tag three other bloggers that I would like to know more about. Seems simple enough.<br />
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<u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Three blogs you should be reading and that I want to know more about:</span></u><br />
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<li><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Stephanie C of <a href="http://seriouslyreallyseriously.blogspot.com/">Seriously??...Reeeally?... Seriously?</a>: </span></b> If you don't read this blog, I don't even know what to say. This is the only bloggy friend I have who can also hurt herself several times a day on stupid things JUST LIKE I DO, plus she has a Great Dane, and I freaking LOVE those dogs.</li>
<li><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Stephanie of <a href="http://www.claybaboons.com/">Clay Baboons</a>.</span></b> She seriously hit the nail on the head with this new blog, and her illustrations via clay are phenomenal. She is going to be big. You should totally be friends with her before she's too famous to notice you.</li>
<li><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Hoodyhoo of... <a href="http://hoodyhoo.wordpress.com/">hoodyhoo</a>. </span></b> Of <i>course</i> you read Ms. Hoo. Who <i>doesn't</i> read her? I heard a rumor that she's back around after kicking the shit out of some of her internal organs. Yay!</li>
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<u><span style="font-size: x-large;">Three Things You May Not Know About Me:</span></u></div>
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<li><strong><span style="font-size: large;">I have a sinking suspision that my brain doesn't work right because I never learned how to crawl on my own.</span> </strong>For real, this is a true story. I did not learn how to crawl like a normal baby. Instead, I developed what my mom calls a "schootch", where I would sort of slither/army crawl like a strange lizard hybrid changeling baby. <br /><br />Thinking this wasn't right, Mom asked the baby doctor what to do, and he suggested having my older brother get down on the floor and teach me to crawl. The advice was followed, but I decided not to crawl anyway and got up and started walking almost immediately.<br /><br />Basically, I walked before I crawled, and this is why it's hard for me to learn new things. <br /><br />That, and my first word was, "No!" ...for about 6 months.<br /><br />I was born contrary.<br /><br />I don't think it should come as any surprise that I don't have any children because I fear they would be like me.</li>
<li><strong><span style="font-size: large;">I am not actually a nerd, or even a geek. I am just a huge dork.</span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>These things are defined, people.<br /><br />A <em>nerd</em> is a person who is really smart, and knows a lot about stuff, usually about a lot of stuff. They are like a geek, but with an additional skill that allows them to learn about real things like science and history.<br /><br />A <em>geek</em> is like a nerd, but they keep their knowledge base to the realm of fiction. They can tell you every single piece of trivia about <i>Star Wars</i>, <i>Star Trek</i>, <i>The Lord of the Rings</i>, the <i>Dune</i> series, etc, etc, etc. A geek can also get into a fist fight about the finer interpretation of rules in <i>Dungeons and Dragons,</i> second edition.<br /><br />I am neither of these things.<br /><br />I am a <em>dork</em>.<br /><br />I am a person who hangs out with people who are smarter than me because I <em>want</em> to be a geek or a nerd, but I have no patience whatsoever for learning new things. So I know a little bit about a lot of nerdy and geeky things, but not enough to actually gain geek cred.<br /><br />Basically, I am a failed nerd.</li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><strong>I am afraid of strapless dresses. </strong></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><em><span style="font-size: small;">(This is the boobs part of the post).</span></em></span><i><br /></i>Over NewYear's, I went to a fancy dress party. This is unusual for me because my normal New Year's Eve party consists of sitting around drinking beer and watching TV with the parents, and maybe pulling a cracker or two at midnight.<br /><br />But this year was different. This year, my sister got me and my boyfriend a package deal to head down to the big city (Denver) to a fancy dancy hotel for a Roaring 20's Flappers and Gangsters party.<br /><br />It fucking rocked.<br /><br />Anyhoo, before the party, I had time to scour the internet to find the most fabulous but not too expensive and certainly not a Halloween costume dress that would make 5'8" curvy me look like a flapper.<br /><br />And I found it.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1566599295"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUHaOvetRGrCpGERfg4l0cVrE9rky3so6jRFDR7WYkAggJiEU8T-Jlj99t5w5Et1W3RIKzrv_4o07iknqTIpEL3OGdVt3d74ZqZgArP3isvoFqhvV-NESXWzo6VkLRBF0kmF841fw3/s320/7057larger.jpg" width="213" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.unique-vintage.com/">This is NOT me. My hair is much cuter than that. IMAGE SOURCE: UNIQUE VINTAGE. If you haven't been there, you should go. They are awesome.</a></td></tr>
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<br />It was, however, a little bit low cut, and even though it had cute little beaded spaghetti straps on it, I was constantly and hopefully nonchalantly checking out my chest to make sure nothing had slipped out.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWzjtOowDPfrcEcE62vvJIH4dmVsUwmp-SkjXVdlQuNTLroCtx4YVSgiMHofYbNmLPi1AiyLp6O4bm0fIc4N_tIrS72ppbPdOqggk_Gh7IeJmJ7BZI9lyjWI5SwsTPoRfzDdj0emK6/s1600/T-Rex.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWzjtOowDPfrcEcE62vvJIH4dmVsUwmp-SkjXVdlQuNTLroCtx4YVSgiMHofYbNmLPi1AiyLp6O4bm0fIc4N_tIrS72ppbPdOqggk_Gh7IeJmJ7BZI9lyjWI5SwsTPoRfzDdj0emK6/s400/T-Rex.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Although I DID manage to make a T-Rex face at the camera, of which I am proud.</td></tr>
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<br />This is because I have a strapless dress phobia.<br /><br />I am not what one would call "well endowed". In fact, me gaining 40lbs over the last two years has given me something I have never in my life had before, which is boobs. Don't get me wrong, I am shaped like a girl... I have just never been someone who actually needs a sports bra or an underwire.<br /><br />For most of my life, I avoided strapless dresses. Having never worn one, I just assumed they hung off a girl's boobs, and since I didn't have big hangers out front, I figured the strapless dress was not for me.<br /><br />This makes the root cause of my fear somewhat baffling.<br /><br />I was going out with friends to New Orleans on night, wearing this cute little green and white <i>strapless</i> <i>dress</i>. It had a vintage pattern, and was a bit shorter than I was use to, but with my platform heeled boots, I felt like a million bucks. Or at least $200 an hour. Really, I have no idea what look I was going for, other than "hawt".<br /><br />We were headed to a place called the Hookah Cafe.<br /><br />Being a not-terribly-girly-girl most of the time, I didn't have a clutch purse or anything like that, but a big canvas army-surplus map case that I used as a purse slung diagonal over my head and shoulder, and pushed behind me.<br /><br />I concentrated on not falling down in my awesome if slightly ridiculous boots, but still ended up in the front of the group as we walked into the resturaunt.<br /><br />It was warm and soft outside, so the air conditioning inside gave me goose-bumps.<br /><br />The host walked up, "Can I... ah... can I help you?"<br /><br />I smiled (remember, I looked like at least $200 an hour), and said in a flirty voice, "Chilly in here!"<br /><br />He didn't respond, his smile wilting a little.<br /><br />"Ah," I said, wondering if my lipstick was on my teeth or something and unsmiled my face, "Table for seven."<br /><br />The host scooped up some menus and walked us through the smoky room, not glancing back at me once. I tried to walk confident, but I was starting to get nervous. Were all those people looking at me because we were walking? Because I looked good? Because my boots made me look like a six foot-three drag queen? What? What was it?<br /><br />I sat down at the table, making sure my skirt wasn't hiked up or stuck in my panties or anything, and moved to take off my bag.<br /><br />And that's when I noticed.<br /><br />That my boob was completely free of the strapless dress, which had rolled on one side halfway down my rib cage.<br /><br />It must have caught on my purse when I put it on. Back at my house. Six blocks away.<br /><br /><br /><br /><i>Bit chilly in here, don't you think?</i></li>
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</div>Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-27127441911204404322012-02-26T11:11:00.000-07:002012-02-26T11:14:58.365-07:00A Writer Writes...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Today is an important event.</div>
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Today is my 100th post. Which is like an anniversary, but better. It is a milestone based on content rather than age. <em>Which is awesome because if I added up my content rather than my time on this here planet, I am much more youthful.</em></div>
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I don't usually write about my blog because it breaks the first rule of blogging ("<strong>Do NOT talk about your blog</strong>"), but I thought I would take a moment to actually talk about the blog. <em>I am breaking the rules!</em></div>
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The second rule of blogging is...<strong> DO NOT TALK ABOUT YOUR BLOG.</strong> I know it's the same as the first rule, but in all capital letters, but seriously. It's important. <em>And I am still breaking the rules.</em></div>
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The third rule of blogging is, "<strong>Do not apologize for not writing enough</strong>." I assume you know I am wracked with guilt for not keeping in touch, for posting every week or two, for not keeping up as much with my usual bloggy friends, for basically being an asshole. <i>Sorry</i>.</div>
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The fourth rule of blogging is, "<strong>Do not make excuses for not blogging, or keeping up with your blogging friends.</strong>" Why? Because no one wants to hear that you went on a new diet and its taking all your time, that you're working on your book, that you're depressed, happy, anxious, that you lost your toe in a cheese shredding incident, that you were locked in a safe for three weeks, that you're a jerk, that your cat is keeping you from sleeping, that it's "that time of the month", that your hair is annoying you, that you have decided to run away and become a mountain man, that you have decided you <em>can't</em> be a real mountain man because you can't grow a beard, that you're thinking about being a bank robber, but never will because you're horrible at lying and would tell the first person who asked you if you robbed a bank that yes, you <em>did</em> rob that bank, or that you're so embarassed about not blogging that you keep putting off blogging and then it gets worse and worse until your head is going to explode and maybe you should just never blog again because it will only lead to dissapointment and failure. No one wants to hear all that. They want you to tell them a story and/or make them laugh.</div>
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For example, about two weeks ago, I went on this awesome hike the day after it snowed. It was muddy and messy and beautiful, and the sky was so clear it looked fake, and I kept wishing they would leave the sky it's natural color instead of photoshopping everything, and I didn't hurt myself.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhag8PkK23zKGqE8B9YjFxJIkZkv9Kds59O0r4U9QSCMBce93ntBdYFV30LLRsPN4FdH227DC6wcbrGi0piSjo0oBt9Do8NRnW6HSp2LHnOc05KUY64vLvdwctokbxE-u9YDuDWEIcP/s1600/DSC08691.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhag8PkK23zKGqE8B9YjFxJIkZkv9Kds59O0r4U9QSCMBce93ntBdYFV30LLRsPN4FdH227DC6wcbrGi0piSjo0oBt9Do8NRnW6HSp2LHnOc05KUY64vLvdwctokbxE-u9YDuDWEIcP/s400/DSC08691.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Out near Lyons, CO.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I got home, and went to the bathroom (yeah, we know where this is going, don't we?). There was this puddle of water on the floor and I was wearing only socks, so I took a big step over it and my foot slid a little and I pulled a muscle in my butt.</div>
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Let me reiterate: <i>I pulled a muscle in my ass in the bathroom. </i>Yeah. Just let that sink in a little.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
At first I thought it was no big deal, until I realized I couldn't go up stairs, or get from a sitting position on the floor to a standing position without pulling myself up the walls with my arms (much to the amusement of the cats who dig watching their humans act like idiots). This was serious.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I looked up on the internet how to treat a pulled muscle, and it said to use RICE (that's Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation), and all I could think was that I am NOT icing my ass, and if I elevate it at work, I am going to look like a harassment suit waiting to happen, so I ended up doing nothing and it healed anyway.</div>
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I would have written about this sooner, but I started editing my book (!), and have been watching <em>Supernatural</em> on Netflix like it's going out of style.</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixA_sNzgUk_JHjg5uJKm_UWuz_7dE4_F4UXjHJYe3DvpA80IgktmmQU5AOU8aD2Kzz7ow-iNUIZaof0W7Guy9fZrLDmPSmcUKoUmVEDsVmjhjhW6P8gU-zmqMbM-zyaFIVe85_UZ1N/s1600/DSC08714.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixA_sNzgUk_JHjg5uJKm_UWuz_7dE4_F4UXjHJYe3DvpA80IgktmmQU5AOU8aD2Kzz7ow-iNUIZaof0W7Guy9fZrLDmPSmcUKoUmVEDsVmjhjhW6P8gU-zmqMbM-zyaFIVe85_UZ1N/s320/DSC08714.jpg" width="301" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, that pile of paper in a binding. That's. My book. Right. There. 150 pages of... crap, I need to cross out that page. And that one. And rework that bit... HOLY CRAP. THAT'S! MY BOOK! Right. There.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The fifth rule of blogging is "N<strong>o shirts, no shoes</strong>".<br />
<br />
Wait, what?<br />
<br />
The sixth rule of blogging is, "<strong>If this is your first time at my blog, you <em>have</em> to comment"</strong><em> unless you are one of those Russian casino sites or a penis enlargement blog comment SPAMmer,because if you are you need to stop comment on my motherfucking blog! </em>I am not interested in making my penis bigger, thankyouverymuch.<br />
<br />
OK. So. 100th post. Yay.<br />
<br />
P.S. If you're wondering, I haven't been bitten in two weeks. I did NOT burn down the house, but the mysterious creatures that were eating me seem to have moved out, so yay. I am convinced that it was, in fact, snow spiders.<br />
<br />
P.P.S. You can thank <a href="http://mistyslaws.wordpress.com/2012/02/20/three-is-a-magic-number/">Misty</a> for guilting me into finally finishing this piece so I can write the piece that she's prompted me to write with her awesomeness.<br />
<br />Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-5695499833555402962012-02-02T04:00:00.000-07:002012-02-02T04:00:15.086-07:00I'm a JuicerI have an explanation why I smell like DEET in the middle of winter.<br />
<br />
A long, long time ago... um. Blah blah blah. Doo do doooo...<br />
<br />
What was I saying? Oh. Right. DEET. Smells like.<br />
<br />
So I woke up one morning. I didn't look in the mirror. I did what I usually do, which is get on the internet for 45 minutes and then run around like a maniac and get ready for work in 15 minutes.<br />
<br />
On <i>THAT</i> day, though, something else happened.<br />
<br />
I turned on the shower, took off my shirt, and then caught my reflection in the mirror.<br />
<br />
Ho. Ly. <i>Shit</i>.<br />
<br />
I had some... some kind of <i>RASH</i> or something. I was covered in nickel and quarter sized welts. They were thick, raised, and bright red.<br />
<br />
I ran screaming into the bedroom.<br />
<br />
"LOOK!" I said to my boyfriend. He blearily stared at me, smiled. "Huh?" Right. No shirt.<br />
<br />
"I'm... covered in... THINGS," I said, waving my hands around in the dark.<br />
<br />
"Wha-?" he said.<br />
<br />
"I better go to the doctor or something."<br />
<br />
He nodded. "Good idea," he said.<br />
<br />
I headed back to the bathroom and climbed into the shower.<br />
<br />
I was going to die. This was some biblical thing, wasn't it? <i>THIS</i> is what boils looks like, right? Shit. I'm becoming a zombie. The world is <i>ENDING</i>.<br />
<br />
I went to work and ignored the things I was supposed to do, but made an appointment at the little Take Care Clinic at Walgreens. It's easier than going to a real doctor, especially since I don't have a regular one.<br />
<br />
The appointment was for 11AM. I fidgeted. I opened Excel spreadsheets. I gnawed on my fingernails.<br />
<br />
I wasn't itchy or anything, but it felt like I was slightly burned or something. But I wasn't sure. I tried not to look at WebMD, and spent the morning Googling rare skin conditions.<br />
<br />
Finally, at 10:45, I left the building and drove to the clinic.<br />
<br />
I walked right in to my appointment, being the only person who wasn't an old man picking up a prescription present.<br />
<br />
"So," said the nurse practitioner, "You have some kind of skin... thing?" <br />
<br />
There is no way to describe her other than that she was very "Boulder." Anyone who lives in the Pacific Northwest probably knows what I'm talking about here. She was... I don't know... new-agy. Nothing she said, in particular, but I got the yoga-Whole-Foods-vegan-align-your-chakras vibe almost immediately (and yes, I realize the irony of that statement).<br />
<br />
I nodded, and said, "I'll have to take off my shirt."<br />
<br />
She nodded, so I undressed. I pulled aside my bra a little so she could see the bigger welts.<br />
<br />
"Huh," she said, "Something's been biting on you."<br />
<br />
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. "But... but... " I said, "But it's winter! It's cold outside, there's no such thing as snow spiders!"<br />
<br />
She nodded. "It has been pretty warm out."<br />
<br />
"But..."<br />
<br />
She said, "Have you been anywhere that there are spiders?"<br />
<br />
"Spi... sp... " I closed my mouth and swallowed a scream. "But there are so many!" I said.<br />
<br />
"It could be something else," she said. "Fleas, maybe."<br />
<br />
"There are fleas in Colorado?" I said.<br />
<br />
She nodded. "Or maybe... huh. It could be bedbugs."<br />
<br />
At this point I think I may have seen a flash of light, heard a thousand damned souls screaming, roar of flames, something. I blanked out for a second, and she was still talking, "...been traveling?"<br />
<br />
I swallowed. My mouth was very, very dry. "What?"<br />
<br />
"Have you been traveling?"<br />
<br />
"No," I said. "I stayed home for the holidays. Are you saying I have bedbugs?"<br />
<br />
"It's just a possibility," she said. "You should check your blankets and matresses. Look for..." she kept talking, as if I were going to listen. I stared down at my bare chest, at the huge welts.<br />
<br />
"Are you sure they're bites?" I said, "I can't even see bite marks."<br />
<br />
She stopped talking, oh, yeah, she was talking, snapped on some gloves and came over for a closer look. <br />
<br />
She peered at a particularly large welt. "Hmm," she said, "I have seen something like this before when..." <i>Blah blah blah really weird fatal bacterial infection</i>, "... or when... "<b> </b><i>mumble mumble something about YOU'RE GOING TO DIE!!!!!</i> "...but it's probably bites of some kind. It <i>could</i> be a spider. Or," chuckle, "<i>Spiders.</i>"<br />
<br />
<i>I am going to kill you.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
She prescribed me some steroids to help my body deal with the swelling. After that, it was up to me to <strike>burn down the house</strike> clean the house and kill the fucking <b><i>CRITTERS THAT WERE EATING ME</i></b>.<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
<br />
On a completely unrelated note, I started dieting and exercising as a New Year resolution. Taking steroids has <b>NOTHING</b> to do with my current success.<br />
<br />
<br />Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-5415561170762890032012-01-10T04:00:00.000-07:002012-01-10T04:00:00.459-07:00Better than a Sock in the Jaw...I am not the most coordinated of people.<br />
<br />
I know, I know. You're probably thinking, "No WAY. Leauxra is the epitome of grace and dexterity! She must be! She climbs mountains and shit!"<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPQCIUBGp-FaoMtZ4vtj0kNf818usdqXgnuBla19asPhjRLnQ0FXGWJAX45mZn_IQIl38kAvdaXdh9ZCMTNiXOTkFYXl1LX37cGIODUKaHFmfNv6H0S0JY-NBVN8xqcnXcicgkB_uA/s1600/DSC08252.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPQCIUBGp-FaoMtZ4vtj0kNf818usdqXgnuBla19asPhjRLnQ0FXGWJAX45mZn_IQIl38kAvdaXdh9ZCMTNiXOTkFYXl1LX37cGIODUKaHFmfNv6H0S0JY-NBVN8xqcnXcicgkB_uA/s400/DSC08252.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I mean seriously. Look how frigging graceful I look on skis (even if I <i>am </i>posing for a picture here and not actually skiing).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Either that or your are remembering the time that <i><a href="http://doesthismakemybloglookfat.blogspot.com/2011/09/i-cant-talk-and-chew-gum.html">I BIT MY TONGUE SO HARD THAT I BLED FOR THREE DAYS</a></i>. Wait, was that <i><a href="http://doesthismakemybloglookfat.blogspot.com/2011/07/how-did-i-get-to-be-so-ridiculous.html">TWICE</a> </i>that I did that? Or that time that I punched myself in the nose <i><a href="http://doesthismakemybloglookfat.blogspot.com/2011/03/combat-crochet.html">CROCHETING A BALACLAVA</a></i>. Or that other time that I burnt my taste buds out of my head with an <i><a href="http://doesthismakemybloglookfat.blogspot.com/2011/08/eating-lava-and-other-examples-of-my.html">OVER COOKED HOT POCKET</a></i>. Or that time I pulled a muscle in my back trying a <i><a href="http://doesthismakemybloglookfat.blogspot.com/2011/10/zumba-tried-to-kill-me.html">ZUMBA CLASS</a></i>? Oh, or that time I almost fell off the stationary bike during a <i><a href="http://doesthismakemybloglookfat.blogspot.com/2011/10/reason-i-called-in-sick-on-wednesday.html">SPIN CLASS</a></i> and got a blister in a rather... ah... delicate spot, and I complained so much that my mother suggested I wear a helmet next time?<br />
<br />
Yeah. Ah. I guess I can sort of see how you might think I may lack a little in the dexterity department.<br />
<br />
I guess.<br />
<br />
I remember this one time back when I worked at the Evil Tech Startup company and I was on the overnight shift. I discovered the awesomeness of a wireless headset, and was all excited to be untethered from my phone. <br />
<br />
I was spinning around and around in my chair (it was super spinny) like some kind of demented top. I would pull my feet in to go faster, and stretch out my legs to slow down. It was awesome. I kept myself entertained on the long cold lonely nightshift for a good hour when I heard someone walk into the office. I immediately stretched out my feet so I could stop when WHACK! My head slammed into the cubicle door and sent me sprawling into the hallway.<br />
<br />
Graceful!<br />
<br />
OK. Maybe it isn't really a surprise that I lack coordination.<br />
<br />
Still.<br />
<br />
I like to think that I can learn. That I can grow. That I can pay fucking attention to things.<br />
<br />
I like to think that, anyway.<br />
<br />
I would be wrong to think it though.<br />
<br />
Today, I had to use the bathroom at work. Isn't it funny how so many of my stories occur in the bathroom at work? Huh. Something to ponder...<br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<br />
I had just gotten off a conference call that I forgot about until it was about to start, so I didn't have time to pee before I dialed in. I sat squirming in my chair for a half an hour while I tried to listen to some VERY IMPORTANT INFORMATION, and all I could think about was how badly I needed to go pee and how very stupid it was to down a bottle of Diet Mountain Dew first thing in the morning (yes, I am a morning soda drinker. I like coffee in the afternoon, but in the morning it's gotta be soda).<br />
<br />
Some people will run to the restroom while on the call, either leaving their headsets at their desks, or putting them on mute and making a dash for it, as if they could listen and urinate at the same time. <br />
<br />
I am FAR too anxious a person for that kind of thing. If I leave my phone behind, I might miss something, and if I mute my phone and just go, what happens if someone calls on me to say something at an inconvenient time? I would forever be known as "The Flusher" or something, and everyone would associate me with toilets. <br />
<br />
I would die from embarrassment.<br />
<br />
I managed to hold it through the call, and as soon as it was over I threw my headset on my desk and took off for the bathroom. I walked in, noted that I was alone in the four stall restroom, and picked the first stall. I sat down and let loose, an unintentional "AHHHHHHHHHH" coming out of my mouth.<br />
<br />
Damn that felt good.<br />
<br />
I stat there, basking in the wonderful feeling of finally getting to pee after holding it for too long, and reached for the toilet paper.<br />
<br />
Wait a minute.<br />
<br />
Toilet paper?<br />
<br />
What the?<br />
<br />
Normally, there are two rolls of industrial sized wiping tissue right at eye level if you are sitting. It is an ingenious design set up so that if one is empty, you can slide this little lever over, and expose the other full roll. This is checked daily, and I had never even seen one side that was entirely empty.<br />
<br />
Today, they were not only BOTH empty, but there was no evidence that there had ever even BEEN any toilet paper. It was just an empty dispenser.<br />
<br />
"Shit," I whispered.<br />
<br />
I sat there for a moment, thinking.<br />
<br />
No one had entered the bathroom since I had, and the next stall was RIGHT THERE. <br />
<br />
My mind reeled. Could I make it to the next stall without anyone seeing me? What if a manager walks in and my pants are around my ankles? I'll look like some kind of pervert or something. Would I have to register as a sex offender if I exposed myself at work like that? I don't see why, I mean, up in the locker room, those old ladies are constantly running around in their birthday suits, and they have a lot more exposed that just a bottom... aw, screw it.<br />
<br />
I decided to go for it.<br />
<br />
I pulled up my pants most of the way and stood up, peeking out the door. No one.<br />
<br />
I hastily opened the stall door while the automatic toilet flushed behind me, and staggered quickly (if a bit awkwardly) into the next stall and shut the door. <br />
<br />
Whew. Safe!<br />
<br />
There were two full rolls of toilet paper in this stall, just as God and maintenance intented, and I dried myself and zipped up.<br />
<br />
There. That's better. I smiled, finally relaxing.<br />
<br />
I opened the stall door to leave, and noticed that the toilet didn't flush behind me. <br />
<br />
Right. It didn't see me because I hadn't been sitting. I waved my hand at it, but it still didn't flush because I was too far from the sensor, so I stepped back to the toilet, leaned down and pushed the little button.<br />
<br />
As I turned to leave, I slammed my face into the open stall door hard enough to see stars.<br />
<br />
"MotherFUCKER!" I shouted, and I punched the stainless steel door hard enough that it bounced back and almost hit me again. <br />
<br />
I put my hand out with forced calm to stop the reverberating door and I leaned my head against it with my eyes shut.<br />
<br />
"Ow," I whispered. "Ow ow ow ow ow." The pain kept growing, like a stubbed toe, only on my cheekbone.<br />
<br />
After a minute or two, I opened my eyes. My sunglasses had fallen off my head. I touched my cheek. "Ow," I whispered again, in case I hadn't heard myself the first fifty times, and I picked up my sunglasses.<br />
<br />
I walked to the sink to wash my hands, looking at myself in the mirror.<br />
<br />
"Ow," I said to my reflection. "Fuck."<br />
<br />
There was no noticeable mark, but it still hurt like a mother, and may have looked slightly swollen. I had to take several deep breaths to keep from crying. <br />
<br />
"Ow," I said one final time and turned abruptly and left. I walked back to my desk, hand on my poor battered head, still fighting tears.<br />
<br />
Yeah. Pretty much... I ah. Stubbed my face.<br />
<br />
If I get a black eye, I am going to file a restraining order to make sure work stays at least 500 feet from me at all times, that abusive bastard.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-17792514738387613472011-12-19T06:30:00.000-07:002011-12-19T07:05:05.689-07:00Ghostbusters! (or, The Ghost of Xmas Past)<em>When I started writing this, I thought I had a clear, sharp memory of the events that morning. As I went along, though, I realized something: By the time my brother was in the basement room, my sister and I no longer shared a bedroom. That was why he moved to the basement, so we would no longer have to share. However, I clearly remember being in the bottom bunk of a bunk bed set my sister and I shared during the events of that Christmas morning.<br /><br />I am ignoring this inconsistency and writing the story anyway. I will assume that the reason for the odd memory versus logic problem is that at some point, I ended up in a parallel universe that is ALMOST the same as the one I grew up in, and I have memories from both realities. My perfect memory cannot be questioned, and the events that morning are not a combination of more than one Christmas morning.</em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
“Leuxra… Leauxra! Wake up!” my brother’s voice hissed at me as he shook me<br />
<br />
“What is it-“ I started to say, but he clapped his hand over my mouth. “SHHHH!” he said, louder than anything I was saying. He leaned close. “It’s Christmas!” he whispered.<br />
<br />
I felt my eyes widen, and I looked around, shoving his hand off my face. It was still dark.<br />
<br />
“What time is it?” I whispered.<br />
<br />
“It’s early.”<br />
<br />
I thought about laying back down. We were going to get in trouble, and I was tired.<br />
<br />
“Come ON, Leauxra,” he said, “It’s time to bust some ghosts!” He stood in a superhero pose, and I could see by the nightlight that he was wearing his <em>Ghostbusters</em> T-shirt. It was white with a red collar and red sleeves that went almost to the elbows. It had the ghost symbol with the red line through it, like the movie.<br />
<br />
I smiled.<br />
<br />
Older-Brother hardly ever wanted to do anything with me anymore. He was a teenager, and younger sisters are remarkably uncool. I kicked off my blankets and swung my feet over the side.<br />
<br />
“Come on!” he whispered, “You’ll miss it.”<br />
<br />
“Miss what?”<br />
<br />
“Just come on!”<br />
<br />
I followed him out of the room, tip-toeing through the hallway past my parent's room.<br />
<br />
“Miss what?” I whispered again as we went down the stairs. <br />
<br />
I was concentrating on navigating the stairs quietly, which was difficult. The stairs were steep, with old carpet on them and we had all fallen down them on multiple occasions so I almost missed what he said. <br />
<br />
“The ghost.”<br />
<br />
I took another step before I stopped dead.<br />
<br />
“Come on!” he whispered, louder now that we were farther away from the parents’ room, “She walks right up the stairs. Come hide in my room!”<br />
<br />
"Who?" I said in disbelief.<br />
<br />
"Shh!" he said. I had spoken in a normal voice.<br />
<br />
"Who goes up the stairs?" I whispered, starting to panic.<br />
<br />
"I told you. The old lady ghost."<br />
<br />
Older-Brother reached the bottom of the stairs and jogged back towards his room.<br />
<br />
The basement was partially finished, but Dad had recently finished putting in walls and a ceiling and a carpet in the living room. I caught the glitter or the tree and wrapping paper out of the corner of my eye as I went towards Older-Brother's room, but I didn't stop to look. I was sure that a ghost was about jump out and grab me from the unfinished laundry room and what would eventually be a bathroom to my right.<br />
<br />
The hallway to his room was still open cement, with a piece of carpeting at the bottom of the stairs that had a little metal edge on it to keep it from curling. Anyone who walked over it made a little clinking noise.<br />
<br />
Older-Brother shut the door as soon as I entered, and then rushed across the floor to his alarm clock. He picked it up and showed it to me. "It's almost time." It was even earlier than I thought, 4:15.<br />
<br />
I couldn't speak by now. I didn't want to see a ghost.<br />
<br />
"She comes up by my door," I jumped away when he said this, "and then goes up the stairs. Sometimes, I can hear her walk all the way down the hall to your room, but she usually goes in Mom and Dad's room, in the closet."<br />
<br />
I held my hand over my mouth to keep from wimpering. <br />
<br />
"You're lying!" I whispered, "There's no such-"<br />
<br />
"Shh!" he said, "I can hear her!"<br />
<br />
I held my breath. I couldn't hear anything. I was about to say so when I heard the sound of the floorboards above our head creaking. The steps went from above our heads and away towards the kitchen, and then there were little creaks on the stairs. A moment later, I heard a little <em>click</em>, as if someone were walking on the carpet at the bottom.<br />
<br />
Older-Brother and I stared at each other with wide eyes. The ghost!<br />
<br />
"She came in my room one time," he whispered, "She was all pale, and see through, and her hair went up in every direction. Her eyes were like empty eye sockets, glowing blue..."<br />
<br />
I tried to ignore him. Older-Brother had made up stories for years trying to scare me, and would usually end up scaring himself as well. To this day I am surprised he is not a horror novelist.<br />
<br />
He moved towards the door, and shut off the light.<br />
<br />
"What are you doing?" I whispered. My voice caught in my throat and the end of the sentence came out as a little squeak.<br />
<br />
I could see him opening the door in the light of the alarm clock, as he stepped into the basement.<br />
<br />
"Wait!" I whispered.<br />
<br />
"Come ON!" he replied, "I want to see her!"<br />
<br />
I kept close to him, wondering exactly how he was going to fight the ghost. He didn't have one of those power packs like in the movie. It wasn't like you could hit a ghost, or outrun a ghost. What was he thinking?<br />
<br />
Just as we reached the bottom of the stairs, the light flicked on.<br />
<br />
I dove into the laundry room as my father pounded down the stairs. Older-Brother seemed to simply vanish. I moved blindly to the back of the room, and eventually crouched underneath the stairs.<br />
<br />
"What are you doing down here?" My father said. I looked around frantically, wondering how he could see me. He was using his Someone's-going-to-get-in-trouble voice.<br />
<br />
"I was just looking!" I heard Younger-Sister say. She was in the living room, looking at the Christmas tree.<br />
<br />
I covered my mouth to keep from breathing loudly. There was only a piece of cloth between the rooms.<br />
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I heard them make their way up the stairs, my sister whining while Dad walked her back to our room. Relief washed over me. He hadn't seen me! I felt almost giddy with relief. Something soft brushed my hand, and I realized I was crouched under the stairs with the spiders and ghosts, and I jumped out into the laundry room shaking my hands frantically and looked around.</div>
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It was dark and I was alone.</div>
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I made my way to the bottom of the stairs, and looked back towards Older-Brother's room. His pale face was peeking out from his door, and he shut it immediately when he saw me.</div>
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It took forever to make my way back to my room. I stepped slowly, trying to keep anything from creaking, and tried to avoid letting my clothes rub together.</div>
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I must have made some noise, though, or maybe he was just waiting.</div>
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"What do you think you are doing?" Dad said in a loud voice.</div>
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I screamed and fell to the ground, twisting my ankle a little bit.</div>
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He flicked on the light. He looked huge from where I sat on the ground.</div>
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"How did you find me?" I squeaked.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">"Your bed was empty. Your sister was wandering around and I saw you were missing," he said. I was surprised he answered, and filed away his answer for future reference. </span><i>Next time</i>, I thought, <i>make it look like I'm still in bed.</i></div>
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"I was just... Older-Brother said there were ghosts!" I stammered. "We heard it! We heard it at the stairs!"</div>
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Dad was sleep rumpled and did not look amused. "There is no such thing as ghosts," he said, "The house makes noises as it settles. I've told you that. You were looking at the presents," he said.</div>
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"NO!" I said, "The carpet made the noise! We were busting ghosts..."</div>
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"Get. In. Bed."</div>
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I scrambled into my bed, pulling up the covers.</div>
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"And stay there until morning, or there won't <i>be</i> a Christmas."</div>
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I nodded. "I'm sorry," I said.</div>
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He shook his head and flicked off the light, muttering to himself as he walked away.</div>
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I huddled under the blankets, only my face exposed, listening to the creaks in the hallway. It was probably the ghost. I pulled the blankets closer, hoping they would protect me, and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.</div>Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-12639597788955653212011-12-15T04:00:00.000-07:002011-12-15T04:00:13.957-07:00I've Been SO FREAKING GOODDear Santa,<br />
<br />
It's that time of year again... You know, when I write you a letter and you pretend you never got it and act all pretend-contrite on Christmas morning? Yeah. Well.<br />
<br />
Here goes.<br />
<br />
I have been so freaking good this year, I don't even know where to begin.<br />
<br />
First of all, I quit smoking on May 20th of this year. I know that it took a bit longer than I expected when I started at age 17, but you have to give me some props for actually going through with it this year. Sure, I may have put on a few pounds, but you know, I really doubt that <em>you</em> of all people are going to judge me, eh, Santa old buddy? Eh? Eh?<br />
<br />
Oh come on, I wasn't trying to be mean.<br />
<br />
Stop being a teenaged girl. Really! Oh, stop sniveling. That red suit does NOT make you look fat, OK?<br />
<br />
Anyway, can we get back to what's important here? Me? OK.<br />
<br />
Ahem.<br />
<br />
I didn't quit my job, because I am all responsible like that, and I have even temporarily made peace with my lowly place in the world. <br />
<br />
I also didn't kill anyone, so that's also cool, mostly because I would obviously be such a bad criminal that I would be in jail by now if I had. Not being in jail is pretty good, I think.<br />
<br />
So you see, Santa, I feel like I really earned some awesome shit this year from you. <br />
<br />
The presents have been a bit... sparse... from you the last few years. I'm not judging, just stating the facts here. Maybe that's my fault as much as yours. I mean, I'll bet there are tons of people that ask for winning lottery tickets every year, and you can't give them to EVERYONE. I mean, you COULD, but that 25 million dollar jackpot would start getting a bit smaller split between the 300 million US residents (something like a little bit over eight cents each, woo hoo, shopping spree! Um, no thanks).<br />
<br />
And I am sure that getting me my pet octopus is a lot harder than I give credit. They don't live that long, and now that I think of it, I'll bet you DID get me my little cephalopod friend, but she just couldn't survive the ride from the North friggin Pole. Not a lot of arctic octopuses, I would think. I appreciate you not leaving a dead animal under the tree, I really do, especially not a shriveled up dead octopus (although the cats would have probably loved it).<br />
<br />
So I thought long and hard about what I want this year, reevaluated some things... prioritized. <br />
<br />
I think I have it now.<br />
<br />
Just one thing.<br />
<br />
It should be easy for someone with your resources, too, so there are no excuses.<br />
<br />
I want my very own robot slave/pet/bestest friend.<br />
<br />
He even exists. Like in the real world, not just in science fiction or CGI.<br />
<br />
I present, the NAO from <a href="http://www.aldebaran-robotics.com/">Aldebaran Robotics</a>:<br />
<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/nNbj2G3GmAo?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">How can you NOT have a nerdgasm looking at this little guy?</span></div>
<br />
<br />Like for real, Santa. I. Want.<br />
<br />
I promise to treat NAO right. I promise!<br />
<br />
Having my own robot minion would make up for a LOT of missed Christmases, just so you know.<br />
<br />
XOXO Love, <br />Leauxra<br />
<br />
P.S. If you want, you can still get me that winning lottery ticket. I know it wouldn't be the key to happiness, money doesn't bring happiness etc etc, but the thing is, poverty doesn't bring happiness, either. It doesn't need to be a big lottery... just enough to get started on my bid to take over the world. I'm not GREEDY or anything.<br />
<br />
P.P.S. I'm sorry I implied you were fat. I understand that you are just big boned.Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-91124885286426186492011-12-12T04:00:00.000-07:002011-12-12T04:00:09.957-07:00The Scent of Pine Reminds me of CapitalismWhen I leave work at night, and it’s dark and cold and the roads are icy, I think of Christmas. <br />
<br />
The headlights twinkle like stars against the frozen ground, and when I stop at a light and look in my rear view mirror, I see the crystallized exhaust glowing in the headlights of the people behind me. It’s beautiful. It’s almost Christmas.<br />
<br />
When I have to shout to be heard over the blaring Christmas music in a coffee shop, and I get this strange urge to strangle something fuzzy, and I want to throw things and make a scene, I also feel myself filling with the holiday spirit. Christmas!<br />
<br />
I love tinsel embedded in my clothing, and the sparkly poops I get to pull out of the cat box because the cats just WON’T LEAVE IT ALONE. Even the cat shit is festive in December.<br />
<br />
But most of all, it is walking into the local grocery store, past the rows of fresh cut (dead) trees. Their sap (tree blood) is the epitome of Christmas cheer and love to me. The smell of pine is different here than it is in the mountains. Here, it mingles with fried chicken and bakery treats, and wet asphalt, and exhaust, and those over-scented cinnamon pine cones. Even the incessant bell ringing changes the smell, I swear. It gives it a metallic flavor. <br />
<br />
I find myself smiling.<br />
<br />
When I was in high school, I got a job making Christmas wreaths.<br />
<br />
It was a temporary job in a warehouse, but I thought it would be perfect because I could set my own hours. We weren’t paid by the hour, but by the clip.<br />
<br />
OK, picture this… it is a wreath base. It is made out of painted green metal wires. Every four inches or so, is a crossbeam of more metal running perpendicular. They are four, maybe five inches long and slightly curved. <br />
<br />
To make a wreath, you strip branches off of a tree that has been trucked down from the mountains. It is covered in snow and sap, and everything you wear here is going to have sap stains before the month is out, but you have to wear your good coat because the warehouse is unheated and icy cold. The floor is cement, and after about an hour, your feet will start to get numb even though you wore your thickest boots.<br />
<br />
You strip out a handful of branches between eight and ten inches long, and you hold them in a little bundle. You will have scratches on your hands and arms, even through your coat, and you will develop a fear of getting your eyeball poked out after getting scratches and jabs in your face on a regular basis. This fear will haunt you for the rest of your life, and require you to wear safety glasses when hiking in anything other than perfect brightness.<br />
<br />
Next, you place your little pile of pine boughs inside the crosspiece, or “clip” as they call it in the industry, and hammer it closed. <br />
<br />
Congratulations! You have just earned twelve cents (minus the cost of the wreath base of course)! Only fifteen more and you will have a wreath, and you can have it added to your pay sheet (there is no payment for partial wreaths)!<br />
<br />
I worked at the Christmas wreath place every weekend, and one or two week days a week after school. We were paid weekly, and I faithfully deposited my checks into my savings account. Only one of those checks was greater than $50. <br />
<br />
When I calculated it out, I made about three dollars and fifty cents an hour. This was a bit less than minimum wage (which was $4.25 at the time), but I found it impossible to work an hour in a row without stopping for a few minutes to get my hands thawed. In the evenings, I would run my hands under warm water when I got home to loosen the muscles. My jeans would be wet and stiff, and the skin on my thighs numb and pale. Over the course of the evening after work, my legs would slowly thaw, first tingling like they had fallen asleep and then turning hot and red and angry. After a while, they were chapped all the time.<br />
<br />
I was one of the only teenagers working there. Almost everyone else was in their thirties or older. I felt sad for the ones that were obviously trying to make a temporary living making wreaths. There were a couple of family groups there, too that would make dozens of wreaths every hour with their team work, earning extra cash for the holidays, I guess. I would be annoyed with them because they would strip the trees so fast I would get stuck waiting around for a new one to be brought over. Time is money, people!<br />
<br />
After a while, the sap felt almost embedded in my skin, and I would smell it in my sweat during PE class.<br />
<br />
I worked there for about a month, and made a total of $192. I spent maybe a third of that on gloves, boots, and gas to get there.<br />
<br />
I learned that rubbing alcohol will take sap off your skin in a pinch, and that you can be far colder than you think before you are in danger of freezing to death, and that fat gets cold way faster than muscle on your body.<br />
<br />
I also learned that no matter what you think minimum wage is, your boss will find ways to pay you less, but sometimes there is nothing you can do about it.<br />
<br />
Contrary to what you might think, this is not a bad memory. I made holiday cheer that year.<br />
<br />
I will admit, however, that I have a hard time paying over twenty dollars for a fresh wreath when I know how little it cost to make.<br />
<br />
Seeing those wreaths in front of the store reminds me every year that it’s time. Get out the booze and hot cocoa, break out the cheesy movies, and unpack the tree. It’s Christmas time!Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-32659085219653076302011-12-09T04:00:00.001-07:002011-12-09T04:00:09.572-07:00A Christmas Miracle (For Realsies)<em>Not too long ago, one of the big boss guys came into town. Completely at random. I didn't know he was coming.</em><br />
<br />
<em>I was not dressed like a hobo like usual, but it was close. The jeans I was wearing were only on their third day, and my fleece jacket covered up the wrinkles on my button down. I was even wearing jewelry.</em><br />
<br />
<em>I ran into the guy in the cafetorium (yes, I just said "cafetorium" with a straight face. Shoot me now).</em><br />
<br />
<em>Why does this remind me of the holidays?</em><br />
<br />
<em>It started out as a nagging half-memory. What was it? I searched through some of my old writing. Something... I know there was something... </em><br />
<br />
<em>After about an hour, I finally found this little unfinished piece, written at the end of 2001. I call it, "A Christmas Miracle".</em><em>Let me take you back a few years. Back when I worked the night shift at the illustrious Copy Whores (the name of the business has been changed to protect... the, ah... I'll be honest. I'm not protecting anyone here. I just like saying the word "whore"). </em><br />
<br />
-----------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
I drooled on myself at work the other night. How embarrassing. I wasn't even tired.<br />
<br />
I was just standing there, happily and mindlessly bookletizing a manual for a client. I turned to stack some of the books in the finishing tray and felt the surprising numbness of another paper cut.<br />
<br />
"Son of a-" I started to say when <em>dri-i-i-p</em>.<br />
<br />
I was so shocked by the saliva stretching out of my mouth and the soft splattery noise that it made on the books that I didn't close my mouth or wipe my lip for a second.<br />
<br />
I searched in my line of sight for a tissue or paper towel, and found none. I decided that my sleave would have to do.<br />
<br />
Wait a minute..<br />
<br />
Wait.<br />
<br />
I couldn't see my drool splashes anywhere. Maybe I had imagined it... maybe, I hoped...<br />
<br />
I saw a spot of darkness on the front of my shurt and looked down. How long had I been drooling? Was I just standing there pouring spit out of my mouth the whole time? What's next? Peeing my pants because I forgot to hold my bladder? Passing out because I forgot to breathe?<br />
<br />
I blotted at the dark spot on my shirt with my sleave, hoping that it hadn't soaked in yet, and managed to make the dark spot look darker and twice as large.<br />
<br />
"Great," I said, "I look like... I look like a drooling idiot."<br />
<br />
It's OK, I thought, It'll dry before anyone sees me. I mean, who comes into copy-whores at 3AM?<br />
<br />
I glanced at the counter, and jumped.<br />
<br />
There <em>was</em> someone there.<br />
<br />
Swallowing to make sure I didn't drool again, I put on my best customer service smile and threaded my way through thecopiers to the front counter.<br />
<br />
"Hi!" I said brightly, "Is there something I can help you with?"<br />
<br />
He stared at the front of my shirt with old man eyes as I approached, saying nothing.<br />
<br />
"Sir?"<br />
<br />
His eyes traveled slowly from my chest to my face, looking vague and lost. I wondered if he was senile, maybe an escapee from the retirement home down the block. It had happened before.<br />
<br />
I was about to speak again when he said, "I heard the same Christmas music when I was in here yesterday." His voice was soft and gravelly, and virtually expresisonless.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," I said, wondering who I should call. The police, maybe? "They have it on a two hour loop starting on October 1st. I think they are trying to drive me crazy."<br />
<br />
His eyes sparkled for a moment, as if to say, "<em>Driving</em> you crazy?" <br />
<br />
I continued rapidly, "I have a 10 hour shift so I hear the same stuff five times a night."<br />
<br />
He nodded, looking forlorn. "Nobody writes new Christmas music anymore."<br />
<br />
His eyes wandered back down to the drool spot on my shirt as he spoke, and I self-conciously reached my hand up to fidget with my necklace and block his view.<br />
<br />
"So," I said, trying to change the subject. "You were here last night?"<br />
<br />
He nodded. "You were talking to yourself."<br />
<br />
"I-" I said, "I don't really remember. It's possible, I suppose."<br />
<br />
He smiled, "I figured you were daydreaming." He glanced out the window as if realizing it was actually night time and maybe "daydreaming" was the wrong word.<br />
<br />
I gave a strained chuckle "I suppose I do that, now and then," I said, "So I don't get too bored. You say you were here yesterday?" I could feel my eyebrows knitting together.<br />
<br />
His eyes were amused, "Well, I am kind of hard to notice if you aren't looking for me."<br />
<br />
I frowned. It was actually strange that I hadn't seen him come in. He was barrel chested, taller than me and had the whitest hair and beard I had ever seen. How exactly was this man hard to notice?<br />
<br />
We stood in silence for a moment, studying one another.<br />
<br />
"Well," I said, "Was there something I could help you with?"<br />
<br />
"Nice of you to ask," he said. His voice seemed stronger with use, "But I'm fine. You can go about your business."<br />
<br />
"OK," I said, feeling awkward. "Let me know if you need anything."<br />
<br />
"Sure," he said, smiling.<br />
<br />
"So," I said, not wanting to leave him just yet, "So... you come here often?"<br />
<br />
"Every day," he said.<br />
<br />
"And what..." I stopped. I was going to say, "And what do you do here?" because I could see he wasn't carrying anything, but maybe it was rude to ask.<br />
<br />
We stared at eachother again, and then he pointed at my hand. "You're bleeding," he said.<br />
<br />
"What?"<br />
<br />
"Your hand."<br />
<br />
I looked down. Oh yeah. The paper cut.<br />
<br />
"Excuse me," I said, "I had better take care of this."<br />
<br />
I backed up a few steps. He didn't move, just stood there smiling.<br />
<br />
Finally, I said, "Bye," and turned to walk to the back room to clean up.<br />
<br />
"Be seeing you," he called after me.<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
<em>So that's it. There wasn't anything else written down. I remembered there being more to the story, but I was tired of looking. Maybe I just imagined finishing it. I know what happened though.</em><br />
<br />
<em>Dude at the counter was Santa Claus. </em><br />
<br />
<em>And he gave me what I wanted for Christmas that year.</em><br />
<br />
<em>I got RIFed (that's a the initials of "reduction in force" turned into a verb for those of you who don't speak corporateze. We don't say "laid off" in corporate land. Such negative connotations! Just like we say "nonconforming" instead of "broken" when referring to warranty parts... focus groups say it's better!).</em><br />
<br />
<em>All the joys of an unexpected extended vacation, none of the guilt of quitting!</em><br />
<br />
<em>Sure, Santa and I have had words since then (dude will NOT give me that winning lottery ticket I keep asking for, or the pet octopus), but at least I know he's real.</em><br />
<br />
<em>So anyway. Bringing this story full circle: Big Boss Man was in town. The dude actually referrs to himself as "the big dog" or "the big kahuna". For real.</em><br />
<br />
<em>He came to town and no one would tell me why.</em><br />
<br />
<em>I pinged my ex-boss in chat a few cubes away:</em><br />
<br />
<em><strong>Me:</strong> Did you know the Big Boss was here?</em><br />
<em><strong>Her</strong>: Oh, yeah, I was in a meeting with him.</em><br />
<em><strong>Me:</strong> How did I not know this? No one told me I wasn't supposed to dress like a hobo this week!</em><br />
<em><strong>Her:</strong> Sorry, I forgot.</em><br />
<em><strong>Me:</strong> Now I keep thinking I'm getting RIFed. </em><br />
<em><strong>Me:</strong> And then I thought,</em> <strong>That would be awesome!</strong><em> So I probably won't be.</em><br />
<em><strong>Her:</strong> LOL.</em><br />
<br />
<em>So cross your fingers, everyone, and maybe that Santa won't be a dick again this year. Let's all hope for a Christmas Miracle!</em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6436529532164956333.post-66332219471522899712011-12-07T04:00:00.000-07:002011-12-07T04:00:12.377-07:00I Write! Words! Words in Sentences!So yeah. Wrote a book and all. <br />
<div>
</div>
<div>
Not to toot my own horn or anything, but TOOT FUCKING TOOT.</div>
<br />
<div>
Ahem.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
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Seriously though guys, I have to say that I learned a lot in writing a novel in a month.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">First of all, I really really really want to be a writer when I grow up. Almost as bad as I want to be an <a href="http://doesthismakemybloglookfat.blogspot.com/2011/08/leauxras-small-house.html">evil wizard</a>.</span><br />
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</font><span style="font-size: large;"><strong><span style="font-size: small;">Second, writing can be a group activity. The more awkward it is, the more you will get done in order to block out your real life situation. I wrote almost five thousand words in three hours one day because I was so uncomfortable.*</span></strong></span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><br />
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</font></font><span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>*I was sitting at a table with a couple of students. I was completely weirded out by hanging out with high schoolers who were half my age in a setting where they were my peers. I tried to relate to them in some way, and instead ended up rambling on like a huge dweeb. At on</em><em>e point, the girl asked me if I had kids or was planning to have kids. I said, "Yeah, probably not. For some reason I can imagine having teenagers, but not children." </em><em>"Ew," said the boy, "That's a disgusting image." </em><em>I didn't mean give birth to teenagers, but there was no going back. If I refuse to look at them, maybe my embarrassment would go away. <span style="font-size: xx-small;">Type type type</span>. </em></span><br />
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</em> <span style="font-size: large;">I always thought I liked silence for writing. It turns out I like to listen to music.** <strong><span style="font-size: small;">And I have bad taste in music</span></strong>.<span style="font-size: small;">***</span> <span style="font-size: small;">I will never be hipster now.****</span></span><br />
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</font><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">**It started out that I just wanted to block out the surrounding sounds. The sound of a computer game, the sound of that couple over there arguing about leaving hair on the soap, that guy taking that order, that girl who just spilled her coffee... I know, great material, and blah blah blah, but mostly it was just annoying. So I put on my iPod and set it to shuffle, much as I do for work.</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>**For some reason I was listening to Coldplay a lot (please don't ask me why I have not one but two Coldplay albums. Please, just leave it), even though my Rob Zombie was a bit more appropriate to what I was writing. I took out my ear buds and the teenagers at my table were talking music. The cool girl (with the perfectly shaped head, I could tell because it was shaved) was arguing with the boy. They were obviously friends, and possibly trying to act cool in front of me. Or maybe they were really just that in to music. Anyway, the girl was arguing that Nickelback was the best band in the world because they were so diverse and played so many genres. All I know about Nickelback is that Detroit tried to get them banned from playing at some game for the NFL, and lots of people seem to really hate them. Lots of people also hate Coldplay, though, so maybe that means I would like them. </em></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>When Boyfriend and I were in Flagstaff after our <a href="http://doesthismakemybloglookfat.blogspot.com/2011/10/part-1-into-abyss-travelogue-edition.html">Grand Canyon adventure</a>, we went into a convenience store so we could get some beer. I was paying and I handed the guy my money. "And you get a nickel back," he said, "Ha ha ha, that's what's playing right now! Nickelback!" I smiled politely. He could get away with sounding like a huge dork because he looked a bit like a biker, all big and tattooed up. Come to think of it, he also had a shaved head. On second thought, I could never be a Nickelback fan. My head is oddly shaped, and I would just end up looking like Lonnie the banjo boy in</em> Deliverance <em>if I shaved my head according to this apparent Nickelback convention. Best to stick with my current plan of not even knowing what they sound like.</em></span><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">****Not that I would want to be. Being hipster is so yesterday. I didn't want to be hipster before any of you ever even heard of hating hipsters. </span></em><br />
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</em><strong> </strong><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>I killed a lot of characters in my book, but the only one I feel bad about is the kitten.</strong></span><br />
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</font><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">No one can ever see this book. At least until I do a massive revision. I still haven't read it. I am a little bit afraid to.*****</span></span><br />
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</font><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">***** No really. I tried to read it, and I couldn't stand it. I couldn't stand reading it. It made my head hurt. I don't know if it was that bad or if I am just sick of it. I've started writing a children's book instead of editing my current book. I think I'll wait until January when I'm depressed anyway, before I look at it again.</span></em><br />
<em><br /></em><span style="font-size: large;">It is easy to mix up rural Nebraska and rural Kansas in your head.****** <span style="font-size: small;"><strong>I might need to change the seasons or something, as I think I used the layout for the Nebraska house in a scene that happened in Kansas. Damnit.</strong></span></span><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">****** Especially when you have never spent any time in either place, only driven through, as God intended.</span></em><br />
<em><br /></em><span style="font-size: large;">All stories that take place in Kansas should have tornadoes. Its better than a <em>deus ex machina</em> when your plot is getting stale, only better because the situation is not resolved, but made worse.*******</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span> </span><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">*******Seriously, I seem to enjoy torturing my characters a LOT. What does this say about me as a person? I am thinking it is a good thing that I will not procreate. </span></em></font><em></em><br />
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</em><span style="font-size: large;"><strong><span style="font-size: small;">I seem to like writing about things burning down. There are multiple fires.</span></strong></span><br />
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</font><span style="font-size: large;"><em>It is possible to write a novel in a month while working full time and commuting </em></span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(but it might make you crazy then you'll and over italicize the fuck out of your next blog post)</span><span style="font-size: large;">.</span></em> </em>Leauxrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16056708620380337471noreply@blogger.com20