Date: 2009-09-07 12:02 Subject: An all-too-brief visit to DragonCon Security: Public

On Saturday morning, Margaret and I went downtown to watch the DragonCon parade. In case you’re not a raving sci-fi geek, DragonCon is the world's largest science-fiction/fantasy convention, and it's held each year in Atlanta. It’s enormous. Over 30,000 people attend each year, and the attendees fill every hotel in the six block convention district in downtown Atlanta. And two days ago, a thousand or so of those people dressed up in their best Star Trek/Star Wars/ Pirate/ Fairie/ Furry/Goth/What-The-Hell-Is-That-Supposed-To-Be finery and marched down Peachtree Street.

 

Here’s the part where I admit I’ve actually been to DragonCon before. But it’s been 15 years, and I was there to perform with my band, so I was what you’d call working, and I didn’t really get the chance to soak it all in. And now, I'm happy to say, I’m completely drenched.

 

I wore a pair of baggy cargo pants and a well-loved t-shirt with a punk rock vampire graphic (the t-shirt is so well-loved that I wore it the last time I was at DragonCon). I hadn’t chosen my clothes to fit in, but I clearly did. Margaret, meanwhile, was wearing khaki shorts, a sporty v-neck tank top, and a teal bandana to tie back her hair (which I swear I can see growing longer by the minute…the hair, that is, not the bandana). She joked, “people are going to think your friends dared you to pick up a soccer mom!” But we soon learned there were a LOT more interesting things to look at than a middle-aged mismatched couple.

 

We missed the start of the parade. The crowd was a lot bigger than I thought it would be; the sidewalks were five and six deep with people. By the time we found a good viewing spot, the Goths and the Furries had gone by, and the Trekkies were parading through. We saw Enterprise crews in old and new uniforms, and a Vulcan contingent making the V salute. And there was a surprisingly large Klingon contingent, all wearing spiny foreheads made of rubber or plastic. I even saw this year’s winner of the Miss Klingon Empire Beauty Pageant, who looked quite impressive in her sash and tiara. Who knew this contest had been going on for over a decade…and in my own back yard!

 

Margaret had a pretty strong case of culture shock when we first arrived. She was pointing wildly in every direction, at people in the parade and those on the sidelines. When the Klingons passed, she told me with incredulous eyes, “the people next to me are debating the authenticity of the costumes!”

 

There was a group of fairies, and a fleet of pirates, which included a rather impressive pirate ship float with smoking cannons and a pirate who was a dead ringer for Jack Sparrow. About 20 feet behind the pirate ship, a lone saxophonist walked the parade. The group behind him kept a 15 ft distance, and my hunch is that he was a street performer who wandered into the parade, and everyone just let him have his place in the limelight, because, well, that’s just the kind of event it is. He wasn’t playing when he walked by us, but I like to think that he had been belting out the theme to Star Wars moments before.

 

And speaking of Star Wars, Holy Death Star, padawan! There were squads of rebel fighters, an order or two of Jedis, two 8 ft tall Chewbaccas, a dozen Tuscan Raiders, three Darth Vaders, an Ewok and legions of stormtroopers, and I do mean legions. There were squads of storm troopers in their typical white gear, a squad of TIE pilot stormtroopers in black helmets with hoses, sand troopers, biker scout stormtroopers with their funky visors and snowtroopers with their eerie hooded KKK appearance. (And NO! I did not already know the names of all the different categories of storm troopers and I still don’t have all the right names, and don’t care to learn more!) The Death Star officers were there as well, with their black cloth Gestapo-inspired uniforms. It was clear that great care and effort had gone into each group’s uniforms, and that it was important to get the details just right. It became even more apparent that each uniform had to have been custom made and tailored when a 300 pound Death Star officer proudly marched past us in a uniform that fit him like a glove.

 

But not every group was by the book. There was a squad of Scottish Stormtroopers- they wore the white stormtrooper breast plates and helmets with bare legs and tartan kilts. There was also a squad of stormtroopers with armor and helmets made entirely of cardboard boxes and plastic cups. They careened spastically off of each other while the audience laughed and cheered.

 

Each group carried its own banner, and it warmed my heart to imagine all of these groups having monthly or weekly meetings at homes all over the US, with spirited debates about Jedi fighting techniques over pizza and wings. It’s been almost 30 years since I first went to the Rocky Horror Picture Show, but I still get a warm glow when I remember what it was like to first discover the misfits like me, and how I no longer felt like a misfit when I was with them. I don’t really get the sci-fi focus on fairy wings or spiny foreheads, but I recognized the sense of belonging, and the culture they have created so that they can celebrate who they are.

 

The people-watching didn’t end after the parade. We made our way to one of the host hotels and sat on the steps, watching thousands of costumed attendees stream past. Some of the highlights:

 

The black/white woman. Her left side was all black, and her right side was entirely white, including hair, clothes, skin, and most striking of all, pupils. Why oh why did I forget my camera??

 

 Jesus and Cher. A Jedi in earth-toned robes looked decidedly biblical with his long hair and beard. He was closely followed by a not-so-young goth woman with straight black hair down to her ass. “Why is Jesus hanging out with Cher?” I asked Margaret, and the man next to me pointed out that they probably weren’t together, they just happened to be walking close to each other. Uh, thanks, but I like my version of reality better.

 

The Road Warrior vehicle. Hands down, the most expensive “costume” I saw was a working replica of a hulking monster vehicle from the Road Warrior. Here’s a picture of the real one. And yes, the replica we saw driving slowly past the hotel (on a street that was no longer parade access, but public access) included the two bodies tied to the spikes that pointed forward at a 45 degree angle. At this point, Margaret had gotten into the whole bizarrely geeky swing of things, and knew there was NOTHING these people wouldn’t do to get that coveted stamp of authenticity. “Oh my god, there are real people tied to those spikes!” she exclaimed. Fortunately, they hadn’t gone THAT far.

 

The penguin woman. After we got desensitized to the over-the-top or authentic costumes, we began to pick up the more subtle flavors around us. And in this category, nothing could top the Penguin Woman. She was a plain looking 20 year old in jeans and a tee shirt walking alone carrying a…large plastic penguin. By the time we noticed her, Margaret and I were both a bit punchy and giddy and immediately began to debate what item each of us should carry around with us next year.

 

The Jesus Screamers. No, it wasn’t a sci-fi subset. It was a van full of angry fundamentalists, the same losers who go to gay pride and yell at the queers. Only these people weren’t brave enough to leave the protection of their van. As they drove by slowly, the guy in the front yelled through a bullhorn, “You better find Jesus now, or ELSE!” while the people in the back of the van hung out their windows shaking Jesus bumper stickers in clenched fists. “I just saw Jesus! He was with Cher!” I called back, but I don’t think they heard.

 

The Jane Austin Gun and Book Club. After seeing at least two dozen people wearing orange knit caps with ear flaps, I asked a group of four women and one man wearing the caps to explain the reference (it’s from the tv show Firefly, never heard of it). Only then did I notice they were all in colonial dress, and each one held a handgun. “We’re the Jane Austin Gun and Book Club!” one of the women chirped. “This month’s selection is Pride and Prejudice!” The man dressed like Mr. Darcy held up his own gun and added, “Extreme prejudice.”

 

The Furry and the Pug. It’s a hard call, but I think my favorite moment was the exchange between the human Furry and the canine pug. Furries are the people who like to dress in animal suits and take on animal mannerisms. They’re not always dogs, but that’s a common choice for a Furry, and this particular Furry had an amazingly realistic canine snout, with a movable jaw. The Furry’s movements were unnervingly dog-like as well, and while it engaged on all fours with the pug, the pug barked non-stop and ran frantically back and forth, perhaps to get another view and make a determination of what kind of creature the Furry was. As the barking got more insistent, the dog’s owner picked up the pug to calm it down, and the Furry took another approach to make friends as well: it stood up and reached out to hold the pug. As the owner started to hand off the pug to the Furry, the pug went into total freak-out/melt-down mode, kicking and writhing and looking even more bug-eyed at the six foot tall dog on two legs reaching for it. The pug wasn’t showing aggressive response. It looked as if all of its synapses were exploding. If that pug could have spoken, I’m quite sure it would have screamed, “No no no!! So wrong, so wrong! Dogs do NOT hold dogs!”

 

Margaret and I have already decided we’re buying at least a day pass next year so we can see some of the panels or bands or seminars, and soak up more of the DragonCon glow. In just the hour that we were at the hotel, the seminars included “Ghost hunting methods”, “So You Think You’re a Death Eater”, and Margaret’s favorite, “Orc Ears and Noses.” It warms my heart all over again to know that there are seminars that focus entirely on two facial features of a completely fictitious race, and that there are people who eagerly attend them. I wish the world had more of those people.

 

                                                        

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Date: 2009-08-26 08:28 Subject: My day so far Security: Public

• Woke up at 5:30, couldn't get back to sleep.
• Got up at 6:15.
• Loaded ancient cds onto iTunes so I can crank Gang of Four and Talking Heads and Joe Jackson at work.
• Played Mafia Wars on Facebook.
• Filled out a complicated claim to get my couch cleaned (dog in heat + beige couch = time to use that protection plan I over-paid for).
• Played with dog (the one that isn't in heat).
• Ran a load of laundry.
• Ironed 3 shirts.
• Drank 2 cups of English Breakfast and took my Adderall.
• Made a list of the things I need to do at work today, which begins in, oh, an hour.

And NOW I'm ready to go back to sleep?????

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Date: 2009-02-04 17:18 Subject: One Day at a Time Security: Public

Remember that 70's show One Day at a Time, with the catchy yet irritating theme song that says "this is it" about a hundred times? That song has been in my head all day. I have found myself humming it while handling cultures, and playing ridiculous memory games in meetings, like Name The Entire Cast and Recall All the Lyrics. I did fairly well at both games, but realized there was at least one verse that HAD to be wrong. This song has been buried in my unconscious for more than 30 years (now THAT is a scary thought) with no challenge to the following lyric: So wop on the beat. After replaying the song in my head a dozen times, I began to wonder, "what the hell does 'wop on the beat' mean???" Granted, it sounds very 70's, which is probably why I thought it fit.

The correct lyric (bless you, internet) is: So up on your feet. I think I like my misheard lyric better, and this isnt' the first time that's happened. Other examples:

In "Galileo" by the Indigo Girls, Emily sings "How long till my soul gets it right?" but I hear "How long can my soul hitch a ride?" Considering the song is about reincarnation, my lyric works just as well, if not better.

"You Were Only Joking" (also by the Indigo Girls) has the lyric "We were dancing up to the bright side", but I thought Amy was singing "We were dancing up to the Christ child", which is kind of the same thing, when you think about it. And definitely something she'd sing.

"Better Man" by Pearl Jam: Can't find a better man? No, I hear Eddie Vedder wailing that he "can't find amphetamine." Though somehow I doubt it's true.

Back before Cher was married to Greg Allman, I was sure that the Allman Brothers lyric "I was born a rambling man" was really "I was born with Ed McMahon." Hey, at 10 years old, it seemed plausable.

Anyone else heard any wrong lyrics lately?

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Date: 2009-01-27 16:49 Subject: Toasty knuckles Security: Public

I've always been suspicious of those who say they love cold weather. My Southern sensibility tells me this is impossible, so a person who makes this claim is most likely making preposterous statements just for the reaction, like "I just LOVE vomiting! It's so invigorating!" Of course, it's possible that someone really might like cold weather, but I imagine that they're motivated by a need to prove things that don't need proving, like those guys who drag half-ton logs for a hundred yards using nothing but a heavy chain, their teeth, and a shocking lack of common sense.

To be fair, I confess that I prefer the Winter Olympics to the Summer Olympics. From bobsledding to skiing to shooting things while wearing skis to, well, curling, the events just look so much more fun than running around a track in tiny panties. In Atlanta, the only winter sport I've ever known is the occasional 50 foot dash to the mailbox while wearing a tee-shirt, shorts, and house slippers. And it seems I've missed out.

When I was preparing for the trip to Iceland, I read up on ways to stay warm. I learned about layering, wicking, ventilation and silk vs cotton. I made a dozen trips to Eddie Bauer, because all their models look so comfortable and happy surrounded by snow and mountains. And surprise of all surprises, I was honest-to-god WARM. Sure, I had more bulges than the Michelin Tire Man, but I was warm, something I didn't know could be possible with a wind chill temperature of 10°. When I made this observation to mirrormargaret</lj> , she said, "yeah, most people don't  know how to dress for the cold."

With that in mind, I went to the motorcycle show last weekend to buy heated gloves. The biggest drawback to riding in the winter is that my hands get cold, sometimes numb. I've tried several gloves that promised to keep my hands warm, but none work. I had even resigned myself to it, but then Margaret's comment rang in my ears: Most people don't know how to dress for the cold. So I invested in a pair of electric gloves that keep my hands toasty warm. It's like when I like get a manicure and put my hands in the heated mittens, except without the gooey stuff all over my fingers. And I'm doing it while going 50 mph.

The gloves plug into a wire that I connected to the battery, which is a little weird, and I have more wires running off me than an FBI informant, but the payoff is worth it. I even splurged and bought a black spandex balaclava, a truly versatile item. Not only will it keep my face warm on rides, but it's suitable for speed skating and home invasions. With the right tools, I have discovered that it's fun to travel at high speeds in cold temperatures. Dare I say it? It's even invigorating.

Maybe I'll even take up luge. I already have the headgear.
 

edited 1/29/09 to add the bit about the balaclava

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Date: 2009-01-15 00:32 Subject: American Idle Security: Public

I confess, I have a weakness for American Idol. It took me a few seasons of my parents referencing it in every conversation before I finally decided to see it for myself, but I was hooked immediately. Of the last 50 hours, I've spent 4 of them watching the brand new season of Idol.

I had heard they were going to trim footage of the really bad contestants, but I can't say I noticed. This is good news for me, considering I enjoy the bad ones as much as the good. And apparently, if you're a bad contestant and wear a bikini, you get to go to Hollywood. At least that's the case for Bikini Girl, the contestant who wouldn't have a prayer if she hadn't shown up in an outfit one step up from dental floss and pasties.

But while Randy and Simon were checking out her body, I was rather fixated on her hair. It made this sort of bubble thing at the top of her forehead, then straight down on the sides. Is this the new style? The only other place I've noticed this kind of hair is on the character Rhonda Volmer of the polygamist Mormon show Big Love.

Here, check it out for yourself: Rhonda Volmer of Big Love vs. American Idol's Bikini Girl

Without even realizing I was doing so, I watched Bikini Girl's audition wondering if she was so tacky and over the top because she had escaped from a polygamist compound and had lost all sense of discretion and control. Come to think of it, Rhonda Volmer started making singing appearances and staging shameless publicity stunts after her own escape from the Juniper Creek compound.

Now I eagerly await Hollywood Week to see if Bikini Girl still has Polygamist Mormon Compound Hair. I pray to Joseph Smith she does.

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Date: 2008-09-10 22:42 Subject: The Further Adventures of the Hard of Hearing Security: Public

Three or four years ago, there was a rash of car break-ins in my neighborhood, which prompted me to buy and install a $30 car alarm. Once connected to my battery and activated, the alarm lay hidden under the hood, ready to sound any time it registered a drain on the battery. Even turning on the overhead light by opening the door was enough to trigger the alarm and hopefully, to scare off the would-be thief.

I was disappointed to find  the alarm wasn't loud, at least not to my ears. I had hoped my new alarm would carry the authoritative urgency of an emergency vehicle, but instead, it was tiny and shrill, like a pissed-off House Wren. With the hood open, I could hear the alarm clearly, and decided that someone with no high-end frequency hearing loss may describe it as "piercing" or perhaps "painful", or even "oh my god, my ears are bleeding". When I closed the hood of the car, I could still hear it, but it became more of an insistent clicking sound, as if I was listening to a tiny mallet strike a tiny bell, without hearing the tones that ring out between the strikes. Still, I knew it was loud enough to wake the neighborhood, even if it would never wake me.
 
So I left the alarm connected. And for a few weeks, I even activated it at night. But then the neighborhood reports of car break-ins stopped, and I began to feel guilty about activating an alarm that I couldn't even hear. I meant to disconnect the alarm, but I never got around to it, and I meant to take the remote control alarm activator off my keychain, but I never got around to that either.

Fast forward to this morning:

In the rush to get out of my house, I dropped my keys, and I dropped a Genetics textbook on top of the keys. Cursing and stumbling, I scooped both of them up and got in my car, activating the overhead light as I opened the door.

I bet you're way ahead of me.

 I'd like to say that I noticed the concerned looks of the drivers around me, as I drove for 6 miles with my car alarm blaring. But I didn't. I was late to work, and thinking only of shaving off enough driving time to justify a visit to Starbucks.

As I pulled up to the drive-thru window (it takes very little for me to justify a trip to Starbucks, I'm embarrassed to say), I heard a strange sound coming from the passenger seat. Later, I realized this was the point at which I rolled down my window, but at the time, I was sure the sound was inside my car. It was vaguely musical, but it also sounded like a mechanical problem. It was faint, yet insistent. I leaned my face toward the radio, then toward the seat, noticing that the sound seemed to disappear even as I was moving toward it.

But then the Starbucks greeter began to talk, and I turned my attention to the menu, with its built-in speaker, and listened for the peppy-but-endless greeting, where the voice from the menu board spends 20 seconds telling me all about the latest dessert offering or specialty drink before finally asking me what *I'd* like to order. Except today, it didn't quite go like that.

"Welcome to Starbucks, er....uh....uh...." I had begun to lean my head out of the window, ready to bark out my order at the first phrase that sounded anything like "May I take your order?" I glared at the menu for delaying my prompt, and then I heard the strange sound inside my car again. I whirled back to the passenger seat, pawing through the textbooks and papers to retrieve my cell phone underneath. I held it to my right ear, the ear that kept hearing the sound, but the cell phone, or whatever was making the noise, had gone silent again.

So had the Starbucks guy. "Hello??" I asked the menu board.

"Uh... can I help you?" the menu board answered.

I realize now that he was probably offering to call 911, not take my coffee order.

"Yes! I want a venti breve latte!" I had leaned my head completely out of my window, my right ear facing the car hood. When I heard the sound again, I knew it was coming from outside of my window, not inside. And I knew exactly what it was. 

In a wild panic, I grabbed for my keys, which were still in the ignition. I identified the remote control for the car alarm,  but could not identify the "off" button. During the three years or so that I've been carrying the activator on my keychain, the print had rubbed off all the keys. I took my best guess, and launched my head and shoulders back out of the window, turning my right ear like a telescoping antenna toward my car hood, and listening for the sound of an angry song bird. Satisfied that the alarm was turned off, I sank back down in my seat.

"Um.... okay." the menu board tentatively said.

When I reached the window, I searched the faces of the employees for signs of confusion, hesitation, concern, for any visual indication that my car alarm was still on. I'm quite adept at using visual cues to supplement my limited access to audio cues, but there was no indication that anything was unusual in their world. I had indeed managed to turn off my car alarm.

When I got to work, I told my coworker about my morning. For nine years now, this coworker  has insisted on talking to me behind her cubical wall, then gets mad when I can't understand her. "Your hearing is selective," she growls on a weekly basis.

So I told her about my car alarm adventure, mostly because it's funny, but also because it shows I Really Can't Hear. I explained that the hearing aid in my right ear is newer than the hearing aid in my left ear, and was picking up the car alarm better, and making me think the sound was in my car. We laughed about how the Starbucks guy must have thought there was a car jacking in progress, but if the camera was working, it must have been even more startling to see me sitting there calmly. 

But in the end, it was only an anecdote, not a learning opportunity. Anyone who can look at me and my hearing aid wearing ears every week for 9 years and insist that my hearing is selective is not going to change her opinion based on a funny story about a Starbucks drive-thru. Too bad I can't just bring in the car alarm and set it off every time she talks to me from the other side of the cubical wall.





 

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Date: 2008-05-08 01:19 Subject: Thumb of Pestilence Security: Public

I don’t exactly have a green thumb. It may even be the Thumb of Pestilence, since my yard is home to a half dozen rotted tree stumps full of creepy crawlies that look suspiciously like termites, an occasional black widow spider, several legions of fire ants, and loads of poison ivy. On two occasions over a year apart, I ran over a Copperhead snake while mowing the lawn. Friends laugh at my obvious preference for the indoors, but really, it seems the wisest choice.

Still, I’m embarrassed by my lawn. When I wind up in a conversation with one of my neighbors, I try to buy an ounce or two of their patience by babbling, “I’m in grad school and work full time, and whew, study, study, study! That’s my life!” I stop just short of begging, “Please don’t hate me because I suck at lawn care!”

But I graduate in 3 days, so can’t use school as an excuse anymore. I’m ready to take on the lawn, but all I know how to grow is poison ivy. I can’t grow grass, that’s for damn sure. I have giant bald patches in my yard, which makes the lawn look like it has male pattern baldness. The rest of it is green, kind of, but it isn’t grass. In my yard, moss, clover and broadleaf weed compete for survival of the fittest. Grass always loses.

At the enthusiastic recommendation of mirrormargaret, I hired Shawn the Gardener for a one hour consultation. My mantra, which I hammered more times than was probably necessary, was “Give me ideas that will make my yard look good with the lowest maintenance possible.” One look at my yard made it clear that low maintenance would be a step up from the maintenance currently invested.

I was nervous about Shawn’s visit, because I don’t really understand people who are passionate about gardening. I think of them as fussy perfectionists, the kind of people who are constantly waging war against the inevitable victors, like dandelions and Japanese beetles. People passionate about gardening are hyper-vigilant control freaks. Why else would someone spend their weekends pawing through the dirt to pull up a plant that they didn’t put there? I like to think I have a much more Zen attitude about yardwork, where I allow everything in my yard to sort it out amongst themselves. But Shawn has me beat when it comes to the Zen of Gardening. Communication is the key to changing my mindset, and thanks to his outlook on gardening, I feel inspired. This is no small feat. Here are a few of his pearls of wisdom:

When describing how rich and full of nutrients a certain brand of mulch is, he exclaimed, “If I had pica, I’d eat it!” (Being excited by mulch seems to be common to avid gardeners. Last week M remarked of her own mulch, “It was so decayed that it almost smelled like poo, but it wasn’t quite to that point, so it smelled fantastic!”)

When describing the large pine island in the middle of my yard, Shawn launched into an analogy that would melt an English professor (no wonder M adores him): “See, what you’ve got here is a dictionary. Your azaleas over there, that’s a paragraph. Your English Ivy, there’s another paragraph, and your monkey grass is another. Now you just need to pull out all these random sentences and SAY something.”

While taking a short break by resting the fence and scanning the yard, he thoughtfully said, “We’ve got to get some Qi back into this yard.”

He left me with a list that will take the better part of summer to complete, and at least for right now, I feel excited about the work. It’s like Shawn plugged me into his vision of my yard, and in keeping with the Zen philosophy, I see the way my yard truly wants to be, if I will just allow it to be so.

That said, it has not escaped my notice that the two garden projects I jumped immediately into did not involve touching dirt or getting on my knees. See, the real trick to having a green thumb is enjoying the feel of dirt on your hands, and it’s unlikely I’ll ever grow a green thumb. But I’m hoping to at least lop off my Thumb of Pestilence.

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Date: 2008-04-04 01:30 Subject: Toasted marshmallows Security: Public

 

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Date: 2008-03-16 11:43 Subject: Attention Dates Security: Public

 Thanks to a heavy dose of school, work, and a small case of Head-Up-My-Ass, my recent time with mirrormargaret  hasn't been very high in quality. The worst of the immediate stress (for now) passed on Wednesday afternoon, after I handed in my paper for my molecular genetics lab. That's the same afternoon that mirrormargaret  told me she needed more attention from me, that she wanted to be "treated like a princess." She didn't tell me how this was to be accomplished, and when she noticed the look of panic that edged across my face, she asked, "Didn't any of your other girlfriends want dates where they could be treated special?" "Yes," I answered, "but they never made me guess how to do it." See, that's the beauty of choosing bossy girlfriends, a pattern that is all too clear in my choices. They tell me what, and they tell me when, where and how. And mostly I don't mind, as long as it's clear when the date begins and ends. mirrormargaret  was fascinated by the concept, and proclaimed that she too would like what she dubbed "an attention date." It's a new name, but it seems I've been doing Attention Dates for a very long time. 

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Date: 2008-03-08 12:22 Subject: Creepy haircuts Security: Public

 

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Date: 2007-11-29 21:44 Subject: I yearn to see the pretty blue flames Security: Public

Yesterday I bought 50 match books because my beloved makes the most horrifying butt gas I've ever smelled, and I'm tired of running out of the room screaming like a little girl every time this gas emerges. And I'm not kidding. It smells organically fetid, like a buried carcass that has been dug back up after a week. It's like the butt gas molecules grab hold of my nose hair and hang on for 10 minutes or so. It has a heavy smell, something that is way bigger and stronger than air should ever smell and when I run out of the room, I feel like I'm trying to outrun a tsunami. But this mad dash can ruin a moment, any moment, really, so I'm hoping that the matches will neutralize her butt bombs. Scrambling for matches while holding my breath and puffing my cheeks out like Louis Armstrong can ruin a moment as well, but the recovery time is much quicker. I hope.

I have matches because now I have a strong scientifically based theory that it will never get better.

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Date: 2007-09-04 18:11 Subject: Hollis Gillespie's P-ness Security: Public

 I got to meet Hollis Gillespie this weekend at the Decatur Book Festival. I went to a writing workshop she was giving on Saturday, in which no one did any writing at all. I can't say that I was either surprised or disappointed though. Hollis Gillespie is not the author you read if you're really into structure and form and doing things by the book, so it made perfect sense that her writing workshop would not involve writing. Really, it was more of an hour and a half long pep talk, with lots of affirming and hilarious anecdotes about how really cool things happened to her when she put herself on the right trajectory and went for it.

mirrormargaret and I also went to see Hollis do a reading on Sunday. True to form (or non-form), she didn't actually read anything, she answered questions.  It was a very sweet gesture on Margaret's part to go check her out since Margaret had never even made it through one of Hollis' columns. I'm guessing this is because for the more orderly minded, Hollis Gillespie's style can be a challenge. For my less than ordered mind, her style works really well. Maybe it's the Southerner in me, but I'm comfortable being derailed by threads and branches and tracks that have very little to do with the narrative. I just sit back, enjoy the ride, and trust that it will eventually get me there. And with Hollis' writing, it always does.

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Date: 2007-08-17 17:35 Subject: Life Lessons Security: Public

There is a security guard at work who just loves my bike and whenever I ride to work in my truck, he unfailingly greets me with "Where dat motorcycle?" Only I just today figured out it's a greeting. For the last 16 months I thought he really wanted to know.  All this time I've been answering both truthfully ("oh, I'm going to run some errands after work and need my truck") and patiently ("it's too cold to ride") and sometimes not so patiently ("hello!! It's pouring down rain!!").

Today, I rode up to the gate on my bike, and while the guard was checking my badge, he asked, "Where dat motorcycle?" I looked at him incredulously and answered, "I'm sitting on it", like he must not be able to see for himself. I've had the rest of the day to work through this, and that's when it finally dawned on me that it's a friendly greeting and nothing more, and that no explanation was ever needed. And this has been going on for almost a year and a half.  I figure he must not mind my responses or he would have stopped asking a year ago. 

Last week after a delicious dinner of leafy greens, Margaret bared her teeth at me. It was an exaggerated grimace that showed all her front teeth and lots of gum, and she displayed them in such an expectant way. I hesitated uncertainly, then grimaced back, making sure to show all my teeth in exactly the way she was showing me hers. I think I may have even growled and thrust out my chin for good measure, as I began to get into what I assumed to be a game. That's when she told me in her most deadpan voice, "The correct response is 'no, you don't have anything in your teeth.'" I started howling laughing, because I had gotten the social cue so horribly wrong. She only meant for me to check her teeth for stray greens.

The common link these two events share is my complete unawareness of the appropriate social response. I swear, some days it's like I woke up in a different country, and though I may know the language, I find myself stumbling over all the strange customs. Sometimes I'm aware there is a proper response, one that everyone else seems to know, but I have no clue, so I hesitate or deflect. Other times, I realized from the puzzled faces that I've just answered oddly or inappropriately. 

My ultra-pragmatic parents noticed this trait in me early on, and were sometimes amused by it, sometimes exasperated, sometimes embarrassed. It frustrated them that I was so literal, that I missed many social cues, that I needed to be told what to do, step by step. If a single step was missing, so the family folklore goes, the task would not be completed, and the result was a bit like a crashed computer program. In fact, my mom frequently compares me to a computer when explaining to her friends how she so easily made the workplace transition to computers so late in life. "You can't assume anything about a computer," she often says. "They do exactly what you tell them to do, and not a thing more. I had 18 years of computer training with my own child, so when computers came along, I knew exactly how to talk to them."

After studying autism in a Human Genetics class last year, I realized that my parents must have thought I was autistic. All the signs were there: my dad telling me not to wear my coat in class at grammar school or people will think I'm 'retarded'; my parents giving me some word association test (probably out of Reader's Digest) and my dad's ashen face when I associated "black" with the word "pepper", instead of the word "salt"; my mom's annoyance at having to constantly explain my dad's never-ending stream of Deep South jargon and metaphors (but to my credit, how many 10 year olds from the suburbs of a major city would know what "useless as tits on a boar hog" means??).

So last year I called them up to see if they did indeed think I had autism spectrum disorder. Here's how the conversation went:
 
Me: I'm learning about autism in class. You thought I was autistic, didn't you??
Mom: (very politely) Well, they didn't call it 'autistic' back then.
Dad: (yelling in the background) No, they called it 'retarded'!!
Mom and Dad: (uninhibited laughter)

Tough love, my parents.

My literal tendencies have found a home in government science. I can wear a (lab) coat all day at work and no one thinks I'm retarded. There are plenty of absentminded types here, complete with crumpled shirttails hanging out, and no one thinks they're retarded either; in fact, they're often seen as brilliant. Here is one of the most important life lessons I've learned from working here: labels change when the context changes. 

Oh, and I've learned that quizzes from Reader's Digest are about as useless as tits on a boar hog.

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Date: 2007-06-25 03:46 Subject: Post-Pride Reflections Security: Public

So it's almost 4 am and I just woke up. I've had a full 8 hours sleep and feel rested for the first time this weekend. I also have a sunburn and suffered a touch of heat exhaustion yesterday, but can't seem to get the grin off my face because I keep getting flashes of fantastic drag queens in fabulous shoes running through my head. This can only mean one thing: It's the Monday after Pride.

 

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Date: 2007-06-06 11:33 Subject: Bodily Fluids Security: Public

So I've spent the last few months playing with the idea of buying a new couch, an idea that has turned into an obsession the last few weeks. There have been numerous trips to discount furniture stores, as well as department stores and higher end furniture stores. This is my favorite way to shop: decide in my head exactly what I want, then go find it for the best price, even if it takes months. Once it kicks into an obsession, I'm not driven so much by need as by want.

Not that I don't really need a new couch. The one I have has served me well for nine years now, and considering I bought it from Good Will for $100, it no doubt saw its better days before I got it. Since then, it has provided me my favorite spot for tv watching, entertained countless visitors and overnight guests, and during a rather chaotic time of my life when far too many people lived in my house, it served as a housemate's bed for over a year. This couch has had a very long and full life. Now the cushions no longer bounce back into shape, the pet stains have won out as the dominant color pattern, and the piping has worked its way out of the cushions to spring out and stab my thighs, neck and torso on a fairly regular yet random basis. A new couch is way past due.

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