I think my body double is going to murder me

So, I sew things sometimes. For the first few years I just sort of stitched things and pressed them up against my body staring suspiciously into the mirror. It…sort of worked, things came out reasonably well.

Finally, when I decided I was going to keep doing this, I decided I needed a dressform. Problem is those bitches are like $200 and I had -$100 to be spending. So…I got a little innovative.

I’d read about making a wig-head using duct tape, fabric, and batting so of course my innovative self thought “I can make a torso body double too!”

I wrapped myself in a roll of duct tape, nearly suffocated when I didn’t leave an allowance for expansion of my lungs, and then cut it off and stuffed it with two pounds of batting. In the end I had a duct tape replica of my torso and I felt like a freaking genius.

Thrilled with myself I admired my brilliant handiwork and stuck a shirt on it to preen at how perfectly it mirrored me.

Content with a good night’s work I retired to my laptop to screw around on the Internet instead of doing anything useful. study. screw around on the Internet instead of doing anything useful. It was at that point I started IMing a friend of mine.

“Guess what I made!” I announced, pleased with myself. I showed him a photograph of the genius creation I’d spent two hours making, and his reaction was less than enthusiastic.

Offended by his lack of admiration I began snarking. “You better appreciate my hard work” I snapped, “or I’ll send it after you.”

Then, I went too far. “I can hear it dragging itself down the hallway right now.”

 

That was it.

 

I couldn’t sleep for hours, I had to keep my overhead light on all night, and I was afraid to walk into the room where I’d left it or even out into the dark hall. Every time I heard a bump or a squeak I felt a rush of terror. After weeks of overwhelming trepidation I finally had to throw my brilliant creation out because I wanted to remember what it was like to sleep again.

I literally lived in terror of an armless, legless, mimicry of my own chest made of duct tape and stuffed with cotton batting. I still have nightmares about it.

This is why I own a big dog.

I Wish We Had a Queen

So, for purposes of this blog, my boyfriend’s name is JC. He’s a funny guy, often we get into bantering and it’s usually amusing. I think. Maybe I’m the only one who finds it funny.

JC: Did you know it’s easier now to get to Mars than it was back in Columbus’ time to get to America?

Me: No, I didn’t.

JC: I should say I’m looking for a super expensive ball of space metal, and the Queen will fund my endeavor to Mars.

Me: But that would never work. We don’t have a Queen.

It took me a while to realize why it was weird that I thought that was the biggest flaw with his brilliant plan.

Okay, seriously, what the hell is this?

So, I’ve had this blog since Monday when I remembered my Wil Wheaton story and decided it had to be shared and then when my writing made me chuckle I figured “I’m awesome, time for a blog.” Maybe not exactly like that but whatever.

So my first day I got 43 views and I was like “AWESOME.”

Then, 10. Which seemed logical since my day 2 post wasn’t about Wil Wheaton.

Then, 14. Also awesome.

Then, yesterday, 59.

Today it’s 3pm and I’m up to 54.

 

What the fuck is going on here?

Are there like 50 webcrawlers running all over my page? Googling says they go like a couple times a month not 50 times a day. So I don’t understand and I’m confused.

My friend Rhys suggested it might be a good idea to just post asking “what the hell?” So…if you’re reading, say something? Explain to me how the fuck I have 54 views already? Are you all sitting there and refreshing the page a few times to screw with me?

That’s it, isn’t it?

I’m on to you now.

Stop it.

 

Stop it right now.

 

I’m off to spend the weekend away from the Internets, so I probably won’t be posting again until Monday.

 

STOP IT.

Update: I changed my mind. Go ahead and sit refreshing. It was much more fun to watch the numbers skyrocket daily.

Sometimes I Do it to Entertain Myself

I have a dog, as I’ve said. She’s an Australian ShepherdxGolden Retriever I adopted from a shelter as a rambunctious puppy three years ago. She’s big, intimidating, and a source of comfort for me when I’m afraid the squeak I heard is a serial killer approaching my room with an axe.

Her given name is Avalon, but I can’t help calling her about 80 silly nicknames off and on.

One of them has gotten more and more amusing for me the more I’ve added to it.

 

Originally: “Dog.”

Then, that wasn’t amusing enough: “Doglington.”

When that didn’t do enough: “Sir Doglington.” (Yes, she’s a girl and I’m a dork)

Finally, while sitting at a stoplight after picking up the youngest of the two children I nanny for today, I dubbed her: “Sir Doglington of the Order of the Green Collar.”

 

I don’t think anyone else but me finds it funny, but really I’m my own audience most of the day so that’s no surprise.

Updated: I get it from my mom. She calls her parrot, Hobo, “Pepper.” Or “Sergeant Pepper.” Or “Sergeant Pepper and the Lonely Hearts Band.” (all periods optional in pronunciation)…I know that’s the name of a band but it makes me laugh all the same. She had a little song about “wouldn’t you like to be a Pepper too?” That she sings now and then. My mom made me who I am. Blame her.

Failure: A Tale of High Heels

So I went out to a club a few weeks ago with a friend of mine. Thinking I would look extra awesome, since she always looks incredible, I wore leggings, a skirt, an adorable shirt, colourful makeup, and my 5″ stiletto heels.

Things I learned:

• I can’t walk in those suckers despite all my practice attempts
• I don’t handle aching feet well
• I shouldn’t drink while wearing 5″ heels
• No, really, I shouldn’t

After I almost broke my ankle trying to dance I sort of planted my feet and waggled around. Even then I couldn’t stay balanced, even holding on to my friend. So finally we gave up.

Fortunately I had a pair of mismatched shoes in my car trunk. I took the heels off and carried them as I walked barefoot through the night streets of Denver toward my car, unperturbed by claims that I should really be wearing shoes. At this point I could have walked on broken glass and it would have hurt less than those damn heels.

I spent the rest of the night wearing one gold and brown sneaker and one Converse — gray with a bunch of colourful unnecessary zippers.

The Time Chopped Made Me Stupid

I love watching cooking shows. They’re interesting, they expose me to unique techniques and foods I’d never heard of before. I like to learn things.

The problem with this is a problem so many people have with watching cooking shows: you start to think you can do it too.

After a five hour Chopped marathon at my old house, I suddenly realized I was hungry and I had some chicken in the freezer that I hadn’t touched in like two months so it was a good time to use it.

I pulled out a bunch of bowls and the chicken and my George Foreman Grill

because that’s how I roll.

Roommate: What’re you doing?

Me: I’m making food. I’m being a chef. Want to have some when I’m done?

Roommate: Not even a little.

She knew.

I poured about a gallon of lemon juice into the bowl, with some soy sauce and wine (look I was a broke college student, I was using what was in the kitchen). I stuck the chicken breasts in there as I heated up my George Foreman. Once I was satisfied with the chicken being good to go I threw a handful of every spice in the cabinet on top of it and stuck it on the grill. Then I tucked a pat of butter into each under the skin. While that sizzled grandly I put the rest of my lemony concoction into a pan and heated it up with some flour.

Then I poked the chicken, considered it done, and pulled it onto a plate. I poured my lemon sauce on top, and announced I had created a masterpiece.

I cleaned up my (not inconsiderable) mess, and sat down next to my roommate on the couch with my prize.

She watched me.

I cut the chicken. Dipped it into the sauce.

Took a big bite.

 

…oddly, if you marinate chicken in lemon, use 30 spices, and make lemon sauce… it’s rather like biting into a lemon you’ve marinated in chicken.

 

I ate the whole damn thing because I refused to admit defeat to her. But she knew. Oh, she knew.

 

Damn it, Chopped.

Spiders: The Tiny Menace

I have a tenuous relationship with spiders. I’m petrifyingly phobic of them It took me a while after I moved out of my parents’ house to come up with an agreement that seemed to work for us both:

They leave me alone, I leave them alone.

They come near me, I scream like a little girl and hide in a corner.

(for the record it’s now been two hours since I started this post. I found “picsthatdon’tsuck.com” and sat slack-jawed clicking through them. Totally lost my train of thought. Oops.)

Just the other day I was in my room setting some painted items down to dry on a box. Just as I put another piece down a black stain moved and tried to kill me scuttled across the cardboard.

I promptly shrieked and threw myself back to avoid the menace, tripping over a pile of items I had been putting off organizing, and falling flat on my ass.

It sat, and it stared. I sat, and I stared. I realized with dawning horror that it was close enough to touch my project and it might get stuck in the paint and then I would have to start over because every time I saw the piece I’d be like “SPIDER IS IN THERE OH GOD.”

So, doing what any rational person would do, I kicked the box, jostled the items away from the spider, and then swept them all to the ground as my heart tried to strangle me.

The spider seemed unperturbed. Feeling a sort of mutual understanding now I tiptoed around the long cardboard box, and then hoisted it up. The spider didn’t like that. It immediately attacked. Set off a small bomb. ran at me harmlessly.

I dropped the box, panicked over the spider potentially getting into the carpet, and scooped it up again. The spider, dazed by my inventive intimidation methods, froze.

I tiptoed from the room trying not to jostle the spider, snuck (is snuck not a word? Firefox thinks it isn’t. Sneaked?) down the stairs, and headed to the front door. I should mention I spent the whole time whispering, “hey, hey, hey, you stay over there. HEY. HEY. You know the rules. Fuck you, stay there. STOP IT. NO. DO NOT MOVE. I WILL KILL YOU IF YOU MOVE DO NOT MAKE A MURDERER OUT OF ME!” <– okay, maybe I didn’t whisper the whole time.

When I got to the back door I ninja’ed it open, and scampered outside. I bashed the box against the ground until the spider fell off, and then bolted back inside before it could get me… feeling triumphant. I had taken care of a spider all by myself and it only took me half an hour to stop trembling and feeling itchy.

It took me 10min to deal with a spider the size of a key on my keyboard. Somehow I’m responsible for feeding and dressing myself and keeping a dog alive, as well as the two kids I nanny for. I cry when I’m confronted with spiders, I faint when someone comes at me with a hypodermic, and I can’t be in a dark room with any limb over the edge of a chair or bed.

I think I’m failing adulthood.

Updated: Also, in my psychology class a few years ago, my teacher was talking about phobias and how the truly difficult ones to treat would be afraid even if there was, say, no actual spider.

Then he held his hand up and said “pretend this is a jar. There’s a spider in here.” And he took a step toward me with his arm out.

I’m relatively sure he had no idea I’m phobic which explained the look on his face when I leaped out of my chair and scrambled back over the desk behind me, blurting “get that fucking thing away from me!” in my most adult thoroughly terrified voice.

It happened so fast I didn’t have time to process “I know there isn’t a spider there he just says there is.” which of course was his whole point. So I made an ass of myself and got to sit red-faced for the rest of the class.

Touche’ psychology, touche’.

The Time I Terrified Wil Wheaton

So I’m a dork and I go to events like Dragon*con. You’d think this would be cripplingly terrifying, flying by myself out to Atlanta and riding the MARTA crammed with people… but it’s not so bad since there’s alcohol literally EVERYWHERE at D*con.

I figured this post would be the best way to introduce myself to the blogging world. Hi there.

At Dragon*con this year I was waiting for an upper-level elevator which is different from the regular ones (there’s a few that go to floors 1-10, and others 10-40, and two more 41-the end …something like that) and the system for figuring out which is what is completely confusing as hell so I was totally lost and just assumed I was in the right place because the goddamn signs make exactly NO sense. I should mention I was in full armor for my Ashlotte costume from Soul Calibur IV.

So Wil is standing there with his publicist or something and the guy is listing off a bunch of plans for the day and because I started drinking at like 6am I’m not in my usual terrified state of mind (panic disorders unite. Also I’m joking, I was barely even buzzed…which makes this worse somehow.)… so I blurt “sounds like a BUSY DAY!” and they both turn and stare at me and the guy is like “…what?” and I was like “O_O you…you were…listing a lot of. Um. Things. Sorry.” And then I blushed so hard my hair lit on fire.

So then they went back to ignoring me as they should and then the elevator opened after another five minutes and I’m all “hooray!” (…yes out loud) and then they let me on first because I was totally clumsy and useless and I need to cling to the bar in the back of the elevator or it will immediately plummet to the ground). Not my brightest costume choice. So I stomp into the elevator, and turn around, and ohshit this is the one that goes 40+ and I needed 35. So now I need back off. And I’m way too embarrassed at this point to do anything but gape as they hit something like 49 which is the freaking TOP and I am TERRIFIED of elevators and WHY WOULD ANYONE GO SO HIGH EVER OH MY GOD. My hands are sweaty just thinking about it.

So, I should mention at this point, I had NO IDEA who Wil Wheaton was and had NO IDEA I was in the elevator with such a famous dude. So I, graceful as anything, mutter, “fuck, I’m so scared of elevators.” And I get another weird look. I then hyperventilate all the way up because THERE IS NOT ENOUGH ALCOHOL TO MAKE THIS OKAY (did I mention the elevators are glass so you can watch yourself go all the way up to where you’re going to die? Yes, really. Also the PRESSURE IN YOUR EARS changes. It’s NOT NORMAL.)

Then we get there and they got off and I leap out because that’s what I do when I get off an elevator in case it suddenly drops and I’m stuck in between the elevator and the floor. Now I just look utterly insane (before I looked normal) and I’m desperately wishing I didn’t wear my armor because I feel extra stupid and I should have just put my damn corset on so at least I could look hot while looking stupid.

So I think “AHA I will pretend this was on purpose and walk off like I’m going to a room and find the stairs and go down a level and then wait for the elevator there.” I shit you not, I didn’t even know who these men were and I was too embarrassed to show I’d ridden a death-vator up to their floor out of embarrassment about getting on the wrong one. I would have just run down the 10 flights but my costume would never have allowed it…the other flaw being the stairs are apparently invisible so if there’s ever a fire YOU WILL DIE if you’re on an upper floor in the Marriott.

So I start walking like I know where I am and I head down one hallway then this lady gets in front of me and holds her hand up and cocks her brow all ‘I know you don’t belong here, girl in armor.’ and I’m like “…do you know where the stairs are? Just looking for the stairs.” And she’s like “…no.” And now I’m so red I feel like I’m going to cry and I can seriously not move in this costume so I kinda waddle away while Wil and Wil’s friend walk over to that girl and she’s all “Are you Wil? Here’s this SUPER EXCLUSIVE party invite from (some celebrity whose name I can’t remember but apparently he was a big deal).” I kept lumbering around as if I were just trying to figure out which room was mine and finally admitted defeat and stood at the elevator, head down, and they wandered into a room chatting without even looking at me so it was a lot of pretending for nothing.

I then waited for 10min for the goddamn elevator, and then another 20min for ANOTHER elevator that would take me to the right floor.

I STILL DON’T KNOW WHERE THE FUCKING STAIRS ARE.

(It took me a month to remember this incident and Google to find out who the hell that guy was. I remembered the guy with him mentioning The Guild so I looked up who was there and realized ohshititwaswilwheaton. Why couldn’t I have freaked Felicia Day out? I bet she’d have been totally cool about it…plus, I would have recognized her and probably wouldn’t have looked like an idiot to begin with).