On the Hunt

I'm fairly new to this whole dating thing - which isn't to say I haven't had long term relationships with different men throughout my life - and as a young adult, late-twenties age person, I'm having a very hard time believing that people my age or older have no idea about common courtesy, manners, etc. . .

I've been on a few dates since moving here to Las Vegas and I'm wondering if maybe it's just me, my luck, the town, or the failure of humanity in general that is making me very sad in a 'in the pants' kind of way. It seems as though my social circle is lacking, and being that I work and have other such responsibilities to take care of, I don't often get out into 'the scene.' Now, that being said, I'm not a 'scene' kind of girl to begin with, generally. I avoid clubs and the strip like the plague; I'm much more of a sit at the bar, have a drink and/or shoot pool, go do something active sort of person, which only makes meeting people more difficult than it would normally be. That and I take online classes, which automatically means I don't spend nearly enough time out in public. At least, not enough time to find myself someone worth my effort unless I rely on dumb luck.

More to the point, I've been chased to the world of internet dating, where the men may or may not actually be six foot three with blond hair and blue eyes and may, in fact, look like a hedgehog mated with Chewbacca ... Where they freely admit they are nerds but don't tell you the truly awful bits about their nerdiness, as in they may live in their mother's basement and spend more time playing WoW than talking with actual human beings in a face-to-face manner.

It's this disconnect that makes me think that perhaps, just perhaps, internet dating is not, while one of the only options that has availed itself to me as a means of meeting new people, a very good idea. The social and societal problems that stem from people who are too awkward to communicate in a tete-a-tete fashion also make these same people eager to communicate via the interwebs . . . and thus makes me one of those apparently strange people who is using an interwebs-based dating site and who is not in the slightest socially awkward.

So I'm a stranger in a strange land either way I slice it; I can be wonderfully social and rad in person, but I don't get out much and clubs - especially those "hip and happening" places are populated with people I absolutely loathe 99.9% of the time - are out of the question and make me uncomfortable, but those people that I meet via the interwebs also make me uncomfortable and are generally people who I believe to be nice, interesting, etc... but can't seem to function as normal members of society.

I suppose I need to find some weird middle-ground where there are acceptable (or at least appear to be acceptable) men who are not interested only in leveling-up with their characters and perhaps sneeking a peek at my bewbs, but also a place that isn't full of people who value the thousand-dollar pair of high heels they'll wear once and throw away because, well, they've been worn once.

There has to be a better way for me to meet my potential other-half!

Fast Food

I know it doesn't take a lot of brain-power to work in a fast food environment. I did it for a few years in high school and while it wasn't exactly scintillating, it was, in fact, a job that put money in the bank. It isn't something, unless you're a manager, you need to really put a lot of thought into. There are diagrams in the back on how to do everything (including washing your hands . . . I'm shocked there isn't one in the bathroom on how to properly wipe your own rear-end) and these diagrams use small words... and are in both Spanish and English, last I checked.

I'm fairly positive there's no translation error when I tell the speakerbox "No lettuce, please," although I could be wrong... in which case, I'll start saying it in Spanish (Por favor, no lechuga... yes, I learned this on purpose). The thing that generally irritates me to the point of turning around and making them make it again - and yes, I've done this before - is the fact that apparently, when I say "No lettuce, please," people hear "OMG I WANT TOO MUCH OF EVERY CONDIMENT YOU HAVE BACK THERE EXCEPT LETTUCE!!!!!!!!".... which is absolutely not the case.

No lettuce is not in any way, shape or form, equal to "give me the works, drown my burger in mustard, mayo, secret sauce, onions, pickles, cheese, tomato, chincillas and whatever else you've got back there! I mean it! If you don't put your shoe on my burger, I'll pull the trigger on this block of C-4 I've got strapped to my chest!"

That is all.

I'm Drowning in Attention!

Ok, really, I love you all but I'm about ready to go off into the desert and live under a sagebrush. I have oh-so-many things to post but I want visual aids for these things, and most of them reside on a camera for which I have no reasonable (aka: free) way to get said pictures onto my computer (anyone have a mini usb something-or-other cord?) for said pictorial explanations. 

Just so that you are all aware, October has been unusual for me, in that everyone and their brother has wanted a piece of me this month. Generally speaking, this is sort of nice as an ego boost/social life sort of way, but you people are wearing me ragged! I haven't had a day to myself (without work or school) since the last weekend of September. Usually I'm complaining about nothing to do, now I'm complaining about no sleep and having to 'pencil people in.' What has the world come to?

So, in general, this is how my month has gone: Weekend 1 of October (and prior) was preparation for Renn faire/going to AZ to visit the Puck and the Jenn. This was nice, a way to sort of get away from the trials and tribulations that have been happening in my life lately (lots of drama, we won't go there, being that this is a public journal and I like to protect those who may be offended by my saying they're generally being a-holes). It was good but it wasn't really much of a vacation. It also consisted of me going to Momma D and helping/begging her to help me make some garb up for faire, being that there was a distinct lack of pretty garb going on in my collection.

Weekend 2 of October was Renn Faire. A good time was had by all, Jenn and Puck were in town, as well as most of the Gypsies and we had excellent fun with them. Puck took 2nd place in National Steel and 4th in the Renn tournament, which is awesome (being that now I'm officially his squire, I can brag about this sort of thing!). We had drinkings, we had adventures and we got to introduce Jenn to the fun of Faire without the hassle of helping setup/tear down our ungodly cool/wicked-to-put-together-and-take-apart campsite. More on this later.

Weekend 3 of October was my birthday weekend, which included a plane trip to Michigan, a Halloween themed wedding and my first visit back to see my family in 5 years. There is SO much more to post about this, including a call from my ex regarding his loss of a certain article of my clothing, Michigander graffiti and more... it will be its own post, I promise

Weekend 4 of October was a visit from Snatchypants (aka: Denise), one of my best friends who happens to live in Reno. She flew in on Thursday and left Sunday afternoon. Denise is a wonderful, awesome, exuberant, excellent person and there are definitely more things to tell you about her visit. This is just an outline!

Next weekend (aka:  weekend 5) will consist of my hours at work being changed - on one day's notice - from 11:30am - 8pm, to 4:30pm - midnight. This starts Wednesday (aka: tomorrow) and ends Friday.. and I have the distinct feeling that my new hours of operation (10:30am-7pm) will begin Monday. So now, I'm in a quandary: I was supposed to do Karaoke Thursday night for Momma D's birthday and also, was going to go to 2 parties on Friday night, each before 12am. AND I've got a Halloween party on Saturday that's bound to be at least quasi-stressful given the guests attending. 

Needless to say, I'm going to just curl into a corner and cry for the first few moments of sweet, sweet November.

Busy, busy

All right, so I've been slacking off on posting here and apparently people have noticed. To all those of you who actually care (all two of you), I apologize profusely.

So what the hell have I been up to? On many a front, you don't even want to know, but mostly I've been insanely busy trying to get ready for the month of October. This past weekend was Renaissance Faire and it was a blast. Mr. Puck and Kobold's girl, The Jenn came up from Phoenix to stay with us and have fun times. The nice thing about not camping out at faire is tear-down. Holy crap am I glad we didn't have to load a whole u-haul again this year. On the down-side, we did have to drive home. Saturday night was a late night for everyone, and around 4am I was VERY tempted to just knock on Geatano's tent and tell him to roll over and share the blanket. Turns out, he was freezing to death. Poor guy, I totally could have fixed that, as anyone who has ever shared a bed/sleeping bag with me can attest, I am a human space-heater. 

At any rate, a good time was had by all and I bought a new bodice, which I will be wearing for the wedding that's coming up this weekend. I'm flying back to Michigan (for the first time in about five years) for Lisa's wedding - which, incidentally, is my birthday as well - and it's a themed wedding, so she's asked me to wear my garb. I'll have to say, it's most certainly a far cry from what I was wearing going to the Michigan faires. It'll be excellent and uncomfortable for the first bit, but then I believe I'll be doing a costume change for the reception. Can't dance too well in a bodice in which the front busk is made from heavy duty fiberglass and DOES NOT bend.

The best news, of course, is that I get to see my friends and family again. I have seen my brother, father and mother but none of the others have been brave enough to make the trip out to Nevada. This of course, has to be remedied soon, as Nevada has a lot of fun things going on, even if you're not on the strip.  Hear that, folks? Come visit me!! You'll have a place to stay and I'll show you the inside-scoop on what to do. Also, I'll get to see the people whose writing I've been reading and vice versa. Apparently the writer's club is DEMANDING that I make a guest appearance for their meeting - and even setting up a special meeting just for me - so that they can all shake me and kiss my hand or something. I'm not sure if this constitutes a following, but I'll go ahead and say it does for the ego-stroke involved.

Moving on, the weekend after next, my Denise-y-poo (aka: snatch) is going to be in town for a concert. She'll be staying with me and has promised a good time and some girl-talk. That's one of the things that I really miss about Reno, the female friends I made up there. It's all well and good to be 'not-really-a-girl' but every now and then you just need to dish about guys and bitch about how dumb they are with another female.

Also, I've been working on my schooling, which means I'm taking classes, working, getting mobbed by people that want my attention (in-state and out), and generally being a good kid as best I can. I've only got a few more classes and I'll be done with my degree (yes, finally) and have that all-important piece of paper. Sidenote: did you know there is a whole job dedicated to social media for a PR/Advertising perspective? I want it so badly... mom said she's got one of these people at her University and I've got to say I wouldn't mind doing that for a career, believe me!

So all in all, life is good. Look forward to a few observational posts forthcoming on the ethical treatment of Rennies and a few other topics. For right now, I'm duck-and-covering for the holy crap stuff that's going on in my life.

The Move

It started with a minor problem. We went in Friday morning early to sign the lease and give the management our money. Kobold had taken the day off work so he could get started. Apparently when we spoke with the lady about getting into the apartment 'early' we were not clear on how 'early' we wanted in. Misunderstanding being what it is, Kobold ended up having taken the day off work for no really good reason, as our apartment (and our key) wasn't ready yet. Not truly a big deal, more aggrivating than anything else. Kobold went home, and I began the drive to work.

But then Ava's "check engine" light came on. This is not generally a good sign, especially since the AC has stopped working, and about 5 minutes later, the temperature light came on. Not good. I left work a little early to make sure that I could get her into the shop before they closed. I needed an oil change anyway, and I figured if this was a coolant issue (could be), they could fix this issue by making sure that the coolant was full, etc... The service man at Terrible's was excellent and said that although he did not see anything wrong with the coolant, that Auto Zone did a free diagnostic scan (and they were just down the road!).

So I rolled down the road in the 114 degree heat and got the free scan, which said it was a coolant issue. Interesting. Being that the Auto Zone shares a parking lot with Pep Boys, I drove there to see if they would give me some assistance with this coolant issue. I told the man what was wrong, he said he could fix it, no problem but then as soon as I told him what kind of car I drove, he turned whiter than a sheet. Not a good sign. The man said he did not work on bugs. I asked him to recommend a shop that did and he said that my best bet would be to take it to the dealership (wuss).

Now my mission was clear but I had to drive from Henderson to Las Vegas (normally about 30 minutes) in the heat, avoiding the freeway because it's Friday and all the tourists are in town. It took me about an hour to get across town to the dealership, which thankfully is very near to my house.

I get to the dealership, soaked in sweat and now very cranky (and PMS-y). I tell the service man what's wrong and he proceeds to tell me that he could check the Check Engine light for $139 and the temperature light for $70. I stare blankly at him.

What the hell?

Of COURSE I want you to check BOTH lights but seeing as they're related, let's go ahead and check the cheaper one because, well, that sort of makes sense to me. Idiot. He proceeds to treat me like a stupid 'female' that doesn't know anything about cars. Until we get inside at the dealership and I start raising a fuss. Then he starts to listen. I inform the man that I have an extended warranty and that I will call him with the details (as I don't have the warranty in the car). This is when Kobold picks me up.

So we go home, have dinner and I promptly pass the hell out.

Saturday dawns early and Mr. Puck has joined us from AZ. Kobold and I loaded the first truckload last night so we could take a load over while we get our keys. We get tot he office and the nice lady tells us that we don't have keys yet. She calls maintenance. Apparently they are surprised we're moving in. . . but the apartment is unlocked, so we go upstairs to see what's up. Apparently they are surprised because they had to do some major hustling yesterday. One of the workers fell and broke Kobold's bathroom's toilet. There is no toilet in his room.... just a hole. He's not pleased. Not only this, but the refridgerator is not cold and smells (literally) like something died inside it.

So we start to unload what we can. Dan is on his way (one of my friends from work) to help. He gets there and promptly locks his keys in his car. This is when I have to call Freak, because, well, he lives in the complex and probably has a wire hanger. He brings it over and helps to unload the rest of the truck. Apparently my friends are not skilled in unlocking cars with wire hangers. I call AAA and Freak and Kobold go back to the house for another load.

An hour later we've got a few loads done and AAA has finally showed up to unlock Dan's car. That done, Puck, Sparkles and Kobold are each loading trucks and making runs while Dan and I unload and generally help out as best we can.

The rest of Saturday was rather uneventful, we went to Madison Ave for pizza and drinks and then passed out. The boys went out, I don't know where, but they were out late. I was dead to the world.

Sunday saw no change in the toilet or key situation, and someone locked the actual doorknob when we left for the day Saturday... and we don't have keys for the doorknob, only the deadbolt. Puck and Kobold took a load over (while mom and I were cleaning the house) and just about had to break into the place. Once they had unlocked the door, they discovered that the elevator was broken. We're on the 3rd floor. They called Dadu and Sparkles for help while Mom and I did our best to get the house cleaned and ready for the inspection for deposit-retun.

After 2 long days of sweaty, back-breaking work, I'm ready for a massage and an island getaway.

The good news is we're moved and all we have to do now is unpack and 'nest' properly. Thank god.

The Thing About Kobolds

Kobolds are wonderful things. They're very useful, in that they move heavy things, cook, clean, take dead weasels out to the trash, are excellent craft partners, go to bookstores without so much as a whimper of malcontent, keep away unwanted suitors and generally take care of Rabbits in an excellent fashion.

If I didn't know any better, I'd say that we were dating (even Kobold's girlfriend, Jenn is inclined to think so, and is ok with it... which is the scariest part).

Example: We go out on "date nights" on a fairly regular basis. We go naughty-toy shopping together. We eat opposite parts of the oreos... (yes, he's a freak of nature, he only likes the frosting. We have a system worked out. It's all ok) and generally speaking, we keep each other in/out of trouble as much as is possible without too much effort put into it.

Kobolds are all-purpose excellent owners (can't call them pets because, well, I'm the housepet, not him) and though at times can be a bit overprotective and attention-seeking, make for awesome roomies.

Important note: This is not to say Pucks or Joshes are not also good room mates. They would be better if they weren't moving to Arizona, but we'll take what we can get.

But the most wonderful thing about Kobolds is that there is only one.

I don't know just exactly how we'd get more than one (reproduction/procreation is not allowed. Were this to happen, offspring of Rabbit and Kobold would come straight from the womb, be strapped to a plow and "plow good" for the rest of their natural-born lives), but I think it's safe to say that one is just enough.

Nectar? Really?

When you think of the word "nectar" you think of flowers and humming birds. Images of Greek goddesses and ambrosia appear in your head (or, at least they do in mine). Nectar is such a sensuous word, it makes you imagine that whatever this thing is, it must absolutely be thick and rich and sweet and terribly bad for you.

Generally speaking, you don't think of cacti and you certainly wouldn't think of anything other than a tall stove-pipe-type (Saguaro, I believe they're called) cactus. Ladies and gentlemen, when you think of nectar, you do not think of this:

That being said, you'd better believe that some industrious little fucker has made cactus nectar. In order to cash in on the latest trend to sweep the hippy/yuppie (how have these become the same thing!?)/health-conscious/vegan/vegetarian culture, someone has decided that the plant above should be squeezed and the "nectar" bottled for consumption. Mind you, I'm only slightly jealous that this marketing genius has already snatched up the whole "deadly/dehydrated plant nectar" idea because, well, if we're going this route, I've got plenty of good ideas. Think of the possibilities:

Venus Flytrap nectar, Palm tree nectar (not coconut juice, this is different), Brussels Sprouts nectar. We could even go a different way and skip away from plant life. It may alienate the vegans/veggies, but the marketing options would be excellent. Pizza nectar, guacamole nectar, sardine nectar and more!

This is a goldmine and I am working on a process to help refine the sugar + water + (random ingredient) = nectar quotient. It's got to be more sugar than anything, then water, and then just enough of the magical juice to make it taste particularly awful... but not enough to water it down so that it would actually be considered juice and not nectar. This is very important. Nectar = fancy, juice = boring.

Conclusion: If you bottle it and market it the right way, the rich yuppy idiots will buy anything if it might be healthy and slightly indulgent.

The Nerve of Some People

"We have women in the military, but they don't put us in the front lines. they don't know if we can fight, if we can kill. I think we can. All the general has to do is walk over to the women and say, 'you see the enemy over there? They say you look fat in those uniforms." - Elayne Boosler

Wise words from a woman who understands exactly what is going on in the female psyche. That being said, as I'm sure most of you already know, I'm not really a girly girl. I am and always have been one of the boys and despite my best efforts at being a slightly slimmer girl, I will always be built like a German plowhorse.

I am a member of a certain dating website, on which I have posted a picture of my face. I believe it's the picture you all have seen on my myspace, facebook etc. Black shirt, cheesy smile .. the whole nine yards. It is the only picture on that website and it's not really indicative of my weight... because let me tell you, I've seen a bunch of variation on face-to-body weight ratios. Needless to say I'm fairly proportionate but I don't have 18 chins or anything, either.

Anyway, I get this message that says (basically I'm paraphrasing... I was so mad I deleted the message):

"Hey! I saw your profile and wanted to invite you to this new club in town. It's called Plush and it's for BBW, full-sized women and the men who love them. We should check it out!"

At this point I feel that it's necessary to say that I may be chunky and I may agree that I'm a fatty but I am in no fashion obese. 99% of the men I know can pick me up without straining their backs and I don't (always) have to shop at the big-girl stores.

This email angered me. Mostly because it flew in the face of everything I've so recently decided to work hard at in my life; namely, getting my crap together in a really general sort of fashion. I'm going to school, I'm working out, I'm trying to figure out why I'm messed up, etcetera. So here's this stranger that basically says "HEY! You're a fatty, wanna go shake your rolls with other fatties?!"... And for a lingering moment I wanted to cry.

Then the moment passed and I was pretty pissed off. Generally speaking, I'm not an easily angered person and I generally don't cry at the drop of the hat but this is freakin' stupid. What the hell is going on with people that they can just assume that a girl who is slightly overweight is a BBW, proud of it, and wants to go to a club where creepy men lurk around looking for that excellent suckling pig to roast after sha-boinking? Holy balls, that's just a disturbing image/thought.

The worst part is, I told Momma D about the entire situation and was visibly disturbed by the whole thing... and she wants to go. I think she might have a weird collection-fetish (Kobold says yes) for fatties... maybe why she likes me so much (no matter that I'm blood-related lol). I'm scared, but I told her I'd go. I figured if anything at all, it'll be an excellent ego boost. Momma wanted to know what fatties wore to the club. I didn't have the heart to tell her she really DIDN'T want to know. Ugh. I shudder at the thought.

Sad days

Mr. Doorstop, my oldest traveling companion and ferret-face-grumpy-pants has passed away. He is in ferrety heaven now, amusing himself with plastic bags and empty boxes, no doubt. I can't even stand the thought that I didn't have a proper burial for him... except that I live in the desert and I'm 99% sure that the feral cats in the neighborhood would have found it excellent to dig him up and eat his face.

I was getting ready for bed last night and as I'd seen him earlier in the evening laying in the bottom of the cage, I decided to check on him again. He'd worried me a little bit being down there, but the dryer was going and it was hot in there, and when that happens, the both of them lay in the bottom. I made sure he was breathing and let him be. At about midnight, he was no longer breathing. I don't know if it was the heat that did him in (the dryer doors were left open, which makes my room pretty much akin to the amazon freakin' jungle) or that he was just too sickly to carry on. Either way, it's very sad.

He's been with me for almost 5 years now. From Michigan, where my brother bought him for me on a whim, to all my years in Reno, and now to Vegas. I'm sorry that I hadn't spent more time with him recently. Makes me sad to think I won't be able to feed him peanut butter bites anymore.

Skidmark is confused and looking all over the cage for his buddy. He's never been without a friend before and I'm not sure how well he'll cope. I know that ferrets do better with someone to entertain them, and usually even better with someone of the ferrety nature. We'll see how it goes. He was scratching and clawing at the cage all nigth last night and I know he's confused. Poor little guy.

So here's to Doorstop, my silent travel buddy... the one who kept me sane on the drive from Michigan to Reno and the ferret who rode with the sunroof open from Reno to Vegas.

As Promised...

Pics of the belly dancing belt. 99% complete. Just need a few more dangly bits (yeah, I know, it seems excessive).

I Do Not Have an Accent!

Apparently there are some of you that think that I have an accent. By comparison I know that I have neither a Southern, Bostonian, Cheesehead/Fargo or New York accent... Which is not to say that I don't have one at all, but I will tell you without any hesitation, that as far as Michigan accents go, mine is minimal at worst. There are far worse things, certainly. Not only that, but my supposed Michigander accent is not at all as bad as a Yooper accent. More on that later.



I've been thinking about this for a little while now and yes, I have noticed that I say certain things a little differently. At least, differently than the native west-coasters. I sometimes catch myself saying cattywompus or screehawed, or referring to pasties not as the things that the strippers wear, but as the meat pie pastries that are yum-tastic, using "yah" (aka: "ja") instead of yeah, saying things like "in a coon's age" or "If, dog, rabbit" and generally confusing the crap out of people who aren't familiar with the terms. "Pop" has become "soda" and I've adopted the habits of my new climate rather well, using "gnarly" in both good and bad contexts and saying "dude" more than any one person ever should.

I say here that those things do not an accent make. Those happen to be a certain way of speaking that is not an accent but a dialect. I own up to my midwestern dialect and after consulting the wikipedia pages for both "yooper" and "pennsylvania dutch" dialects, I can absolutely see where I get my proclivities (check those websites by the way... hilarious!).

I'm going to go on a little rant here about Yooper talk.. mostly because I saw a bumper sticker the other day that I haven't seen in years and always makes me giggle. It says "Say yah to da UP, eh?" For those of you who aren't aware... that totally makes sense to people who know anyone who has lived in the UP (or of course has been there themselves).

Per the wikipedia page, Yooper speak extends over into Wisconsin and covers basically only that area and the Upper Peninsula (The U.P... thus, Yooper) of Michigan. While true, some of this slang leaks down to we trolls (those who live under the bridge, ie: the mitten part of Michigan) and we use some of it too. Now. Being that most of my family has lived/worked in the UP at some point in their lives, it's not surprising that I picked up on some of the habits of speech.

The UP is truly its own little world and while I'm not exactly qualified to share with you all the differences in culture, I will refer you to a useful website. This will at least partially explain why I speak the way I do... you all can laugh if you like and think it's cute but the point is,... it's not my fault.

Heh.. thanks Kobold.

Kobold sent me this comic this morning and while I had seen it before, I had forgotten all about it. It's from the wonderful people at Queen of Wands. I believe she's not making comics anymore (sad panda) but if you've got a minute to read through them... well, honestly, you'll start getting creeped out a little bit. The main character, Kestrel reminds me of a certain redhead that lives in a house with Kobold. Scary scary.

Either way, I thought I'd share the comic because, well, it's hilarious first of all and secondly, you would not BELIEVE how many times I've had to do this. I understand that generally speaking nerds/geeks are male and know their stuff. I want to know, though... how hard is it to believe that females can also be nerds and know their stuff.

Kobold said that if I actually had to talk like this, then he would call in just to hear it. The sad part is, I do actually have to talk like this to some of the men that call in (and sadder, some of the women). They want a GUY on the phone.

Roger has added, too, that in his experience, even if he has less of an idea what's going on, he gets the same thing. Or rather, his supervisor gets the same thing. She's basically a guru but the idiot callers want a man on the phone.

I can think of very few things that urk me more than being truly sexist and this is one of those things. Of course I like doors being opened for me. Of course I like being treated like a girl. I absolutely abhor being treated less than equal and I cannot stand the thought that someone thinks that because I have boobs, I am absolutely unable to help them when it comes to tecchy stuff. Those people can all die in a fiery plane crash.

Conclusion: I can do anything you can do better, I can do anything better than you. :P

Measurable Results!

A few things are going on in this post, but mostly I'll be bragging. If you don't like it, deal. I don't brag often and I only look for a pat on the head every now and then when I've done something especially spectacular. This weekend is one of those cases.

First and foremost, I should explain a few things so that this whole post makes a lot more sense to those of you who don't interact with me on a regular basis. 1). All of the boys and myself (and a great many more of my friends in town) are part of a Renaissance reinactment group 2). I'm not generally a crafty sort of person 3). I have major spatial issues which makes it difficult for me to do puzzles, etc. 4). I THRIVE on praise.

Moving on.

This weekend we had an event. For future note, any time I mention an event, it's most likely that I'm referring to #1 above. So there was an event this weekend and because I was super-stoked about finally getting the shipment from ringlord.com (chain mail website, yes it's super nerdy), I decided to bring my pretties to finish up a belly dancing belt that I had kinda-sorta started that Friday.

Let's note here that I'm new to this whole mail thing and I don't do very well usually. It takes me a long time because of #3 above and my hand strength isn't exactly what it should be. That being said, I had to undo 90% of what I had done because I wanted it to look differently. Major PITA. No good, but it killed time and we were having fun at the event. I DID get 75% of what I wanted DONE at the event, including adding bells and scales and making the belt retardedly heavy for no apparent reason. It is teh bomb and I'm super stoked to get a clasp for it and try it out at imperial war, where my dancing is being demanded by the girl-with-no-bones bellydancer.

See #4 above both for the girl-with-no-bones bellydancer saying I'm good enough to dance with her and Mr. Kobold's commentary about how he's proud of me for doing good mail! I was all concerned because when he first started to teach me, we were using craptastic wire and I got all sad and dispondant about it because the stuff I managed to make fell apart pretty quickly. Turns out, when I have the right materials, I have pretty decent skill for a beginner!

Also, I'm being offered cash-money to make belts for others. Holy crap, yeah I can do that without any issues at all. It's fun, it gives me something to do when I'm bored and more importantly, I get to give people prezzies. What's better than that?

Secondly, Mr. Puck is a knight (as are all the other boys) and has been without a squire for a few years. Apparently in this sort of symbiotic relationship that we already have, taking me on as a squire is not such a huge leap from what we've got going on anyway. The conversation went something like this.

"You're not a squire yet, are you?"

Nope.

" - something about being his squire-"

How would it be different than what I do now?

"... you'd have a red belt that I could pull on?"

Ok, why not?

So now I'm unofficially Mr. Puck's squire. It's funny primarily because I'm Josh's replacement, as he used to hold that position. So at the event when we heard Mr. Puck yell "Squire!" both of us turned. I had the good sense to go bounding over there. Apparently his Mt. Dew had been stolen by a certain gentleman. Now, being that Mr. Puck values Mt. Dew right up there with platinum and sex, this is a serious offense. Given that it's "effort" to go get the Dew for himself, he called me. Makes sense. So I bound over to the gentleman in question, slap him on the arm and put out my hand for the Dew, scolding him "No!" Mr. Puck proceeded to dissolve into a laughing fit.

I figure it this way: Mr. Puck has little-to-no fear of being silly, making an ass of himself and challenging people. If I'm his squire, I should behave much the same way. It's a challenge for me to do so, mostly because my tactics are usually... eh.. more tactful than a slap and a scolding. But I can blame it on my knight! This is what he would have done if he hadn't been too lazy to get out of his chair. Well, maybe. He probably would have ended up wrestling on the ground but I was in a bodice and that just ends badly for everyone after a while.

Later, Mr. Puck said he was proud of me. See #4 above. **glow~!**

Lastly, I've lost close to 20 lbs since I've moved down here to Vegas and I'm starting to actually like the way I look. (I know, shocking!) So I'm going to step it up a notch and join the gym. I checked out LV Athletic Club on Friday with Kobold and I've researched 24 hour fitness on my own. I figure the lesser of two evils is the LVAC, being that it's closer to the house. Even though the salesman with braces and TOO much energy was super excited about selling me a package and called me on SUNDAY (super big no no for me, thanks), I think I'm going to go with them. All in all, it's not a bad plan. $5 to sign up plus the first month's fee of $22. No biggie there except I'm in a long term contract with them... but as Dan put it, I don't plan on going anywhere so what's the big deal?

Conclusion: I'm crafty-ish enough to be asked to make things for others, I can slap people and get praised for it and I'm going to stop being so much of a fatty.

Vampires and Frankenstien

While being forced to watch "Bitten" - a lively not-too-serious venture into the vampire mythos, staring... Jason Mews... - last night with Puck and Kobold, I started trying to think of truly good vampire/occult movies that I'd seen recently. I could think of none. (Sidenote: Puck, Kobold, Mr. Josh and I are all VERY confused and scared about this "Bitten" movie. It made my brain hurt... literally. Don't watch it.)

The most recent additions to the movies I've seen that match this genre are two pieces done in the mid-to-late seventies and directed by Andy Warhol, called "Blood for Dracula" and "Flesh for Frankenstein" both of which were so appallingly awful that they went around full circle and became awesome again. Very few movies do that for me, but when one of the lines from "Flesh for Frankenstein" is so brilliant that it stays with you for months afterward, there's something to be said for the awfulness.

The quote is as follows: "Igor, sometimes, to know life, you have to f*ck death in the gall bladder."

I'm just going to let that ruminate for a minute. I want you to read it out loud (extra points if people hear you). Now, aside from the fact that that statement should indeed hurt your brain in many different ways, I'm going to try and elaborate some of the story so that you can at least appreciate the ridiculous nature of what's going on.

Picture the usual Frankenstein setup, Dr. Frank there in his lab coat, Igor off to the side, tables and tessla coils abounding. Now. Instead of the giant green monster, picture a rather good-looking blond who happens to look like Sally from Nightmare Before Christmas because she's had various limbs/parts sewn back on. Not a bad looking girl in general, and especially since she's basically a zombie.

Now, the suave and debonair Dr. Frank is intent on making a male monster for his female so they can procreate and make a pure race (wow.. sounds a lot worse when you put it in text). Anyway, Dr. Frank has the hots for girl-monster and decides that he can... um.. partake in the fruits of his labor. He doesn't want to create an impure child, though. Problem.

So he opens up a hole in her side and goes to town, ordering Igor to move the table so he doesn't have to work so hard. So here's Dr. Frank, humping away at this semi-conscious blond zombie with Igor half-watching. Once he's finished, he orders Igor to put the table back the way it was, and then comes the infamous line. Problem solved. Every one's happy, right?

Everyone except the audience... which in my case happened to be 2/3 of the boys as well as Dan. . . all of us were stunned to silence/laughing hysterically.

It's this caliber of movie that I adore. I plan to buy "Flesh for Frankenstein" as soon as I can find a readily available copy... or when I find it on Amazon.com. Either way.

"Blood for Dracula" is much the same, with violent sex scenes and frontal female nudity all around. Most of the cast from Frankenstein is also in this movie, so it makes things a little easier to handle. Frankenstein is also Dracula, go figure.

Seems that in this case, Dracula is only able to feed on the blood of a virgin. Of course, he strikes out a couple of times and finally ends up pinpointing the only sister in a house full of young fillies that happens to be a virgin. Just as he's about to descend upon her and drink her blood (blaah!), the "hero" of the story defiles her in the living room... in front of her mother. Again, there was stunned silence/hysterical laughter.

I also plan to buy this movie.

So with the reviews of these awful/wonderful movies, I suppose my real question is: "Is there a GOOD vampire/monster movie?"

I'm betting the answer is no... or maybe... there is one but it's never been seen.

Den Mother

I've had a couple of comments about the note in my profile about being a den mother for my three male roomies. This coupled with the mention of "From the top rope!" in the latest post makes me think that perhaps I should address the bizarre, sometimes-abusive and yet fulfilling relationship I have with "the boys."

When speaking the words "The Boys," the phrase sometimes includes me (I'm mostly OK with this, considering that a). I live with them and b). I've never really been considered one of the girls), when being used by outside-the-house sources, but for this post, will define the three males in my home: Josh, Puck and Kobold. Yes, I realize that 2/3 of those names don't really make a whole lot of sense. We'll not cover that and just say that it's a long story. Moving on!

It's not that I'm necessarily a den mother so much as I am the little shoulder-angel for the boys and mostly it's the fact that I still have the sensibilities of a Midwesterner and I'm enough of a giant wuss to worry about them when they do stupid things like contemplate a barfight or decide to go marauding down on the strip to terrorize the tourists.

An excerpt from a conversation last night:

"Yanno, in Nevada, so long as it's not concealed, it's legal to carry a weapon."

"Dude! We should totally take our swords next time we go down to the strip!"

. . . this sort of thing begs "Rabbit intervention" which generally means distracting them by some other idea that is equally fun but has a much lower chance of landing any one of us in the Clark County detention center.

I have known Kobold for nearly 9 years now; he's dated my best friend, I've lived with him before and we generally get on pretty well unless somehow I've failed him and he's bored. It's a bad thing when Kobold gets bored, mostly because this means that Rabbit (that's me) has to entertain him in some fashion or she ends up twisted up like a pretzel, bruised or some other such silliness. Rule for Kobold: Don't let him get bored

Puck I met a few years ago at a renn event. He and I get on very well indeed and while he doesn't share the "entertain me, I'm bored" symptoms that Kobold does, he is a big fan of WWE (or whatever the hell organization it is) wrestling and every now and then decides that I'm a good practice dummy when it comes to submission holds. Needless to say this is also no good and usually ends with me begging him to stop digging his bony elbows into my softer parts.

Josh is the third roommate, and up until recently, the one that I've had the least amount of interaction with because he worked wonky hours. That's remedied for the moment, which means that generally speaking we get to spend more time together. He's the quieter but no less devious combination of the other two. Generally, he's more laid back and definitely less prone to getting me into some sort of compromising position that involves me screaming "Pants stay on the Rabbit!"

That being said, I'll add in here that I love my roommates dearly. They take care of me, they make sure I'm safe and we have a good time together. When I try and describe our dynamic, mostly it comes down to "perverted brothers." Being that I found out that Kobold and I are somehow related back in the far branches of our family tree, it's more true than I probably am even aware of.

We're all giant perverts, which means sexual innuendo and threats run amok in the house, but I am and always have been just fine with that. Most girls would find an environment like this at least ridiculously uncomfortable if not unlivable. To them I say: "Wuss..."

On the subject of them being protective, sometimes it borders on overprotecitve (thus the initial statement that they're like brothers to me) but not in a necessarily bad way. I know they're looking out for my well-being. Because I'm that lovely Midwestern breed of naive, I'm more prone to giving money to bums, helping strangers, talking to random people, etc . . . which in this town can sometimes get a person into trouble - ie: "Why yes, Mr. Homeless Man, I'd love to help you wrangle that bag of empty cans into this dark alley."

Really, most of this is for my own good. I owe each of them a large debt of gratitude for moving me down to Las Vegas from Reno when things went south with my ex-boyfriend. They did it without question and without giving me (much) crap about being a girl and crying when I left my friends up there. I wouldn't trade any of them for anything... except those times when I'm twisted into a position that makes me scream "I'm gonna drown in my own boobs!" It's never a good thing, but I know it's all in fun. They wouldn't pick on me if they didn't care. Clearly, they care a great deal.

Most of all, it's entertaining living with these three. I often find myself wondering how I got into the situation I'm currently in. I mean that in the most immediate sense possible, not in the "gee, where would I be without these guys" but more in the "How the hell did I end up with marshmallow in my hair?" fashion. That's right. Marshmallow in the hair. It's entertaining. We cook, we clean, we go do renn events. Generally it's that weird mid-twenties family that only ever happens in the sitcoms that are moderately popular excepting that the characters are too "out there" to be real. These are the sitcoms that come close to describing my life but are too X-rated even for late night cinemax.

Conclusion: My roommates are a lot of fun, our house is never boring and I'm the little sister/sexy roomie that they'd never actually put the moves on.

No Real Danger

Yes, I watch too much television. I'm slowly sinking into the lovely spot in the couch that my fatty-butt has made and I get lulled into a sense of security that can only be disrupted by the roommates yelling "From the top rope" as they launch themselves from the far arm of the couch, elbow-first into my kidneys or by the cat deciding that I am his pet, and thus should be petting him.

While in this blissful stupor last night, I was treated to a double-header of excellent television on A&E. I'm not really sure how "Intervention" and "Obsession" are considered arts and entertainment television, but that's an entirely different rant for a different day. These two shows are absolutely fascinating. "Intervention" is about.. yeah, interventions. Last night's show was particularly interesting in the sociological/psychological fashion, though, as it was focused on a set of twins who were anorexic. Each one wanted to be "the skinny twin" and both ended up under 100 lbs. Sickening for college-aged girls who were yeah, about my height and slight of build to begin with. The thing I found most intriguing was the fact that they made rules for each other. . . You can only eat this much and can't go to the gym without me. They had become so codependent that it was really bizarre. They loved each other, slept in the same bed and all, but these two girls also HATED each other with a very bizarre passion. I simply can't imagine.

I didn't get to see the end of the show because at this point, I decided I wanted some cheesy tater tots and a chocolate milkshake from burger king. I'm a happy fatty. (You may think I added this to the story to be funny. It actually happened. My life is like a bizarro-world episode of Seinfeld.)

When I returned, summarily satiated at least for the moment, "Obsession" was on. It's a weekly show about Obsessive Compulsives and very interesting. The one I thought was most strange was this guy, we'll call him Steve, that was afraid of dying. He was very mathematically minded and catalogued all his doings: workouts, left turns, everything. He was married and had kids (wow.. that must've been awful for his wife).

I think the thing that most struck me was that he HAD to work out at least 8 times a day. 8 - times - a - day.

It boggles the mind how he had time to do anything else in his life. Most especially since he couldn't turn right. . . Like Zoolander. Yeah, I made the joke.

So I'm thinking to myself: "What job could I possibly do that would allow me to work out 8 times a day" . . . never mind the fact that I , the happy fatty, would NEVER even think of trying to work out more than once a day, excluding renn events. Apparently this guy was working on a book contract. I wish!

He got ANGRY that he could only work out twice a day - therapist's orders - and by the end of the show had managed to only conquer turning left and taking the obsession of working out down to five times a day. He also still takes over 2,000 pills a month (hello, can we say ridiculously expensive!?) to make sure he's healthy. I just want to impart here that if he DOES manage somehow to live forever, he's going to be homeless for all the money he spent on pills, gym memberships and eating healthy.

Conclusion: If you're an out of work author, you run the risk of becoming a death-obsessed compulsive exercise-a-holic. Note to self: Never consider writing as a career path.

Deprogramming

I've recently noticed a push by ad campaigns to return to the values of our grandparents, to cherish the things that were important to them and to make sure that in these "tough economic times" that we enjoy the littler things in life; the simple things (I listen to far too much television, and I absorb the ads far too readily, even when I'm only half paying attention to any of it). While this is all well and good as far as sounding idealistic and lovely, I'm of the opinion that there will never be any such thing as a return to the good old days of moral imperatives and scrimping and saving. We're too far gone from that already.

I think the best we can do is hope for people to realize that they absolutely do not need the $400 iPhone with the $200/month media plan so they can email pictures of their new pedicures instantly to all their girlfriends so they can be super jealous about the little flowers they got painted on their big toes.

And I said hope for it . . . we all know it's not going to happen.

Especially not considering the last post about $100 jeans with granny-knit all over them.

Moving on, though, I'm rather fascinated with why they're running this campaign to begin with. Generally speaking, I'm going to say that their goal is to get people to think about values and saving money and to remind them that their grandparents made it through tough times, which means that they can make it too. Generally. More likely is the fact that most of these ads are being run by banks, life insurance companies and things of that nature, which can only lead me to the conlusion that they're in it to make a quick buck. Fair play on them, preying on the country's insecurities. I'd do it too if I were independently wealthy.

Moreover, I think the point I'm trying to make is this: Why not? Why don't we give this whole 'living clean and enjoying the small things' a try? Seems simple enough. Grab a beer, park yourself on the lawn and watch the kids play in the street. My neighbors do it all the time (sans lawn, as no one here really has a lawn so much as a collection of dirts and a palm tree or two) and seem to be perfectly content to do so.

So why can't we just deprogram for a minute or two? Step away from the cell phone, go outside and away from the TV. Don't bother with going and doing something, just ... take a walk or enjoy the stars (if you're lucky enough to be able to see them).

I distinctly remember one of the most purely peaceful moments of my life was standing on the peir at Grand Haven, staring out into the lake. I was perfectly quiet for about half an hour, just watching the water turn pink and purple with the sunset, listening to the sky-rats and breathing in the clean, wet air. Every now and then when I get really stressed, I remember that moment as best I can and take a deep breath.

It seems to me as I think about it, that it's the quiet moments like that that seem to be the most worthwhile. The long hours I spent staring out the window at the dorm room, at the maple tree there as it changed colors, dropped its leaves and started growing them again. The moments I spent at camp trying to memorize the way the lake looked through the trees. The years I spent enjoying the drive home, through the intermittent canopy of leaves that arched over the dirt road.

I have the sneaking suspicion that the kids growing up now are going to remember things differently; their first game system, the way the sun used to come in the window and throw off the TV's picture, their first cell phone with a camera.

Conclusion: I am better than the kids now-adays. They are spoiled, but only slightly moreso than I am. Kids today, I'm tellin' ya.

Really?

I was browsing the internet, with the thought that I really should learn how to better dress myself (cargo pants and a teeshirt, with flipflops every day gets old, even for me). I came across the following:

Jeans Under $100This wardrobe staple doesn't have to cost more than two digits.

And I just had to stop and think to myself "do I actually know ANYONE who would pay $100 for a pair of jeans in the first place?" The answer, of course, is no, because I don't bother with people who would pay that much money for a single pair of jeans. It absolutely boggles the mind. For a bill, those jeans had better make me look like Dita VonTeese, damn it.

So I started imagining what a $100 pair of pants would have to look like for me to buy them. Initially, I thought about something like this:


But I then realized that you could get the very same pair of jeans by gluing grandma's old crochet to a pair of levi's without batting a lash. Total cost? $20.00 on a good day.

So I did a little research about jeans that are ridiculously expensive. Apparently there is an inverse relationship happening here. The more money you spend on your jeans, the smaller they get. It would then follow that if you have lots and lots of money to spend on jeans, you're apparently a stick figure. No wonder I can't fathom spending more than $40 on a pair of jeans.

Conclusion: I'm a poor fatty who is not at all fashion-conscious.... but I'm a happy fatty.

Continuation of the "Bubba" Story

Due to recent demands, I'm posting the edit-and-continuation of the bubba story here. Now quit your complaining!!

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Nothing says “terror” like a hot desert breeze and the slow sputter of a car dying on the side of Nevada’s Highway 95. It was 12:30 PM, and I was three hours outside of Las Vegas, on the way home to Reno. The trip one way takes an efficient driver 7.5 hours, including a ten minute stop in Tonopah to use the restroom, refill the gas tank and avoid the stares of the small-town locals.

So as my 1989 Volkswagen Cabriolet (also known as “Gretchen”) decided it was time to take a break, my heart leapt to my throat, beating double-time. There was no chance of cell phone reception here in the middle of the desert. It seemed as though the towering telephone poles - the only tall things in plain sight excepting the distant mountains - stood testament to the foolishness that was the thought of using a wireless phone. I quickly took stock of what I’d need to get to the next town. Tonopah was an ominous 30 mile hike from my position, and while I knew there was a small town just on the other side of the hills, I had no idea what the mechanic situation was. I’d been through the town tens of times before, on my way to or from the only two outposts of humanity in Nevada, and it seemed reasonable enough that there was someone there that could help me.

Upon further consideration of the mile-long hike uphill in the desert, trudging along the side of the road in the mid-day heat was not quite so alluring as sitting in my crippled car and baking to death slowly. It may not sound terribly palatable to those of you reading right now, but I assure you, when faced with miles of asphalt and sand, there is a certain something to be said about a slow, avoidable death. I wasn’t sure how long that would take, or if I would be served medium rare or medium well, it seemed infinitely more appealing than walking to Goldfield. Then again, I did have to be to work on Wednesday. Admittedly, my work ethic is a bit skewed.

I decided that avoiding being eaten by rattlesnakes and kangaroo mice was probably the way to go. Gathering the things that were most important to me (and most interesting to thieves, should there be any marauding coyotes waiting to ransack my car when I’d gone), I closed and locked both doors and turned toward the intermittent Northbound traffic. Thumb out, pointed skyward I squinted into the glaring sun that seemed to be only a few miles above my modest reach.

Thankfully, it took only two tries for me to impart some sort of sympathy from the passers-by. An elderly gentleman with his war-time Asian wife in the passenger seat of their heavy duty truck pulled off the highway, causing a cloud of foul-smelling dust to follow behind the RV that the powerful engine dragged behind. The man hopped from the truck and without hesitation asked what was wrong.

Was I out of gas? Was it overheated? Did I need some water; a ride to Tonopah? I was overwhelmed by his apparent concern for a stranger and answered as best I could. I told him that my battery had died and had been replaced while I was in Las Vegas. I also told him that my battery light had come on once more before the engine died. He seemed to think that the problem was the alternator, that it wasn’t charging the battery properly.

He was wrong. Clearly, he had no idea of knowing that I had replaced the alternator just two weeks previous. It was a Bosch. It was installed by a certified master mechanic. The week before that, the master fuel pump was replaced, and the week before that, it was the slave cylinder. I had just replaced the last of the four tires, as well. It boggled my mind, but as the large truck pulled back onto the highway and the wife turned to ask me if I needed some water, I was already attempting to figure out the best course of action. I had chanced to think that the alternator was bad as Gretchen rolled to the side of the road, but I had quickly corrected myself. There was absolutely no way my mechanic would do this to me.

The drive to what was charitably called a town was short, but no less awkward than I had dreaded. The wife kept asking if I wanted to go to Tonopah instead of Goldfield. Her broken English seemed to have been taught by the husband, given her southern twang matched his. Given the visual of an aged woman of Asian descent, it seemed to fit her awkwardly, like a little girl wearing her father’s cowboy hat.

I insisted that I would be fine, that I was neither hungry nor thirsty and that, if all else failed, I had family in Vegas who could come rescue me. As the buildings grew and faded in frequency all within eyesight, the driver and I both began to lose faith that this haphazard gathering of humanity harbored any manner of help for me or my car. Just as I thought to rescind my offer to tough it out in Goldfield and accept the ride to Tonopah, we cried “there we go” in unison.

Out of the truck I shuffled, thanking the man and his wife profusely. They wanted to know if they should stay and give me a ride to Tonopah if people aren’t helpful here. I said I didn’t want to hold them up any longer, though really the answer that first screamed in my brain was something akin to ‘just take me home with you, I’ll cook, I’ll clean, I’ll even wipe your ass if you say please.’ Perhaps I’m just too Midwestern farm-girl to actually say something even close to that.

As I approach the shack, I note the tow truck and the car in the front lot, which I suppose could be called a parking lot. Inside the car that had been towed were two boys probably in their early teens. When I say ‘inside,’ though, I mean quite literally inside... Standing in the engine compartment, rooting around for parts or some other such activity one would expect from vagrants/junkyard heathens. I suspect that when the apocalypse happens and monkeys start repopulating the world, they’ll do much the same thing; scrounging for useful parts left over from the humans’ habitation of the top rung on the food chain.

The car looked as though it had been sandblasted by a blind man; original paint was faded, and the primer gray shone through, giving me the fleeting thought of a jack o'lantern grinning a gap-toothed smile. A little macabre, and not the image I wanted burned into my brain, especially considering the fact that I was looking for assistance from these people, whatever sort of people they might have been. I started to hear imaginary banjos start to play in my brain. I’ve seen Deliverance; I know how this could end… Instead of indulging the fantasy, I focused on what lie before me.

The structure looked as though it had been there for eons. Each rusted nail seemed to be hanging on for dear life, determined to be the very last one to keep the roof attached to the rest of the ramshackle hull of the place. It was small, uninviting and infested with both children and rotting husks of ancient pickup trucks. . . but it was there. Settling myself into a hopeful smile, I opened my cell phone but I was quickly as disappointed as I had been when I’d opened it twenty minutes ago, nearer my car. No matter! I was with people now and not in the middle of the desert without human contact. This was certainly a step up from being stuck inside my car, slowly roasting to death in order to provide an excellent meal for the Gila monsters or whatever sort of animal lived out in the desert.

As I approached the building I noted the astounding plethora of dogs, children and Chevy parts surrounding me. Odd, but I grew up in a small, rural town, so I tend to consider myself adept at rolling with the rednecky punches (I was inclined to think there was no such thing as a 'rednecky punch'... this experience taught me differently). The children all stopped and stared, one taking the time to wipe his forehead with his arm. It was hot, nearly 95 degrees already and it was hardly afternoon.

None of the children spoke to me and seemed instead, content to stand and stare as though I were some strange, shiny thing that they rarely got a glimpse of. I had the feeling that in this town, I would be the pretty one. This is never a good feeling, as most of the time being the pretty one, the new one, the strange one or the weird one always breeds curiosity or contempt. Either way, I did not want to draw undue attention to myself so I disconnected my just-as-slack-jawed-as-theirs stare from the children and headed toward the building on the premises. If I didn’t know any better, I would have sworn I had entered one of the creepier, children-centric horror movies… the kind where you end up being chased through a corn field by the little blond-haired, blue-eyed kid.

Stepping into the decrepit structure, I decided it seemed more equipped to handle local flea market excursions than automotive needs. 8-track cassettes, Beta Max players, Atari consoles and black and white televisions were jammed up against the wall in hand-made shelves. The balance of the room was dominated by old appliances - most from the 1950's era - as well as magazines, shoes, clothing and kitchenware. All of it was covered with a rather well established layer of dust and desert grit that seemed to have settled over everything and everyone I'd seen since I hopped out of the Veteran's truck. Undeterred, I smiled at the early-teenaged girl who appeared at the counter. She, upon seeing a somewhat-distressed stranger, leaned back to yell “Gran’pa!” and then smiled, holding up one finger to me, as though she surmised instantly that she could do nothing for me.

Presently, an older man in black suspenders, silver crew-cut and a scowl appeared. He was wiping his hands on a shop towel. This was just the sight that I had wanted. The waving of the red fabric between his thick, greasy fingers made me breathe a sigh of relief. I was saved. Surely, this was an excellent sign!

He unabashedly assessed me as I told my tale of woe, then grunted and shook his head, “Sorry, but I’m tryin’ to get out of the repair business. I’m retired.”

I stood there; mouth agape for a long moment, staring at him as though he’d sprouted a second head on his shoulders. I nearly screamed. Surely he was pulling my chain. If what he said was true, the sign declaring “24- hour service station” was highly misleading. Instead of bringing this to his attention in a calm and rational manner, as I normally would have done, I started to cry.

I feel that at this juncture, it is important to note that I am not the sort of woman to lose my cool in a stressful situation. I have had a flat tire in the same county in which they filmed the move Deliverance; I have been locked in a bomb shelter; I have been surrounded by security guards who didn’t speak anything but Russian and I’ve handled myself well in most other sketchy situations.

Once more, a slow, hot death in the car was looking terribly appealing. Unfortunately for me, it was now miles away, baking in the hot desert sun as I should have been. I silently cursed the fact that I had decided to go and hitch a ride into ‘town.’ So it was with a sigh, I asked the man if I could use his phone, being that I couldn’t get my cell phone to decide it wanted to pick up any of the very weakest signals. He agreed and I called my boyfriend to tell him I was going to be ‘a little bit late’ coming home. He was understandably worried for me, but I told him that everything was fine. I lied, of course. At this point, I was fairly certain that nothing was fine and I would end up with my head on a pike placed near the roadside to warn all out-of-towners what happened to people who sought assistance.

After I finished up my call, the man who identified himself as CJ, asked if there was someone I could call to help me get back home. Explaining my situation further, I commented that my closest rescue was in Las Vegas, but that I needed to get home to Reno today. He pondered this for a moment, fingers dipping into the belt loops on his worn blue jeans.

“Tell ya what, hop in the truck. There’s a guy in town who could be able to help you out. He’s not a mechanic, really but he’s good with cars.”

I was elated. A ray of hope! My father, who worked with cars most of his life, and who is incredibly mechanically inclined, would never call himself a mechanic but I’m sure he’d have been able to assess and fix my problem. With this rationale, I was certain that the man CJ was speaking of was of the same ilk. Not a mechanic, but someone who could help.

Still a little teary-eyed, I got into the passenger side of CJ’s truck and buckled myself in. Undoubtedly, it was going to be a short trip, but I decided that obeying the rules of the road here applied. Once in the car, CJ informed me that not only was he retired and helping to raise his grandchildren, but that he was the county commissioner. A prestigious position, definitely. I congratulated him on his appointment and, between checking his mirrors, he eyed me sidelong.

“So what’s a good, god-fearin’ girl like you doing in the city of sin?” he asked with a decidedly biblical note in his voice. Clearly, this man doesn’t know me very well.

“Oh, I was just visiting some friends.” I add, leaving out the part that involved drinking, staying up ‘till all hours of the morning and generally marauding around barefoot in a public park wearing a bodice and armed with a dagger.

He left my trip to Las Vegas alone after that and started to describe the man with whom he’d be leaving me. It didn’t seem like a bad idea in theory; this man, Bubba, was good with cars and was always home. He didn’t charge much and had been able to help lots of people since the service station had gone out of business. He was a good, Christian man and shouldn’t give me any problems whatsoever. Bolstered by these descriptions, I watched intently as we pulled into a driveway between two double-wide mobile homes. Each was separated into threes, apparently because the rent on a whole double-wide was a little much for the residents of Goldfield. I began to get a little worried.

I reached for the door handle of the truck and started to unbuckle my seatbelt, but CJ put his hand on my arm and said “Wait a second, let’s see if he’s home.” He stuck the silvered head of a war veteran out the driver’s side window and bellowed,

“Ey Bubba… you home?”

From inside the trailer we heard rustling and then a muffled “Yeah…”

“You dressed?” CJ called from the truck. I immediately knew exactly why he’d cautioned me to stay in the truck. The response only confirmed my suspicion.

“…Gimmie a minute.”

I was truly glad that I was able to hide the look of horror that crossed my face for a split second. The thought of what a man named Bubba would look like without clothes made me shudder. Not only that but a grown man that answered to ‘Bubba’ was not exactly bolstering my faith in the fairytale that I had concocted in my brain that involved me getting my car fixed.

True to his word, Bubba emerged from the trailer a few moments later with a gap-toothed grin and a squint into the blazing hot daylight. Momentarily, I wondered how they had trained a bear to put overalls on without assistance. He was a larger man, easily six foot three and a biscuit shy of three hundred and fifty pounds. The tattered red shirt he wore beneath the overalls was covered in grease and sweat stains, but was passable for a man who was going to do some work on a car; trouble was, he didn’t know about that yet. The few silver hairs on the top of his head were all akimbo, giving him the appearance of a gnarled cockatoo. In his massive hands, he held a beer each and smiled at CJ as he lumbered down the steps from the trailer toward the truck.

I started sobbing. Uncontrollably. Like a little girl whose hamster has “run away” mysteriously in the night.

Sun and Sand are not Your Friends

As many of you may have heard, I've gone and moved my entire life once again. This time it's a sure thing and it's certainly a step in the right direction, though it happens to have been a step southward. I'm now living in what many people consider the only city in Nevada. While it is the largest, it is very clearly not the only city. It's also not the capital city. Furthermore, it is almost exactly 7.5 hours driving from Reno to Las Vegas (yes, further than you thought, isn't it?) and Reno is not the capital city either.

So, in keeping with observing my surroundings, I thought I would add a few things in here to let you know just how different Northern and Southern Nevada are. Many people think 'it's the same state, must be similar, anyway' but they are ... well, horribly and tragically wrong. There's a reason Reno has the name "biggest little city in the world" and that it's held on to that title for so long. It's homey. It feels like a big city all of a sudden got friendly. Las Vegas is not that way. I envision Vegas as the ignored love-child of New York (to be specific, Broadway) and Los Angeles; glitz, glamor, homeless people and the ungodly hot desert to make everyone super-awesome-agitated. People move here to make it big as a model, actor or performer and end up serving dinner at Denny's at 3am (thus, the Los Angeles part), or are strictly here for business, have things to do, peoples' dreams to quash and babies to toss into the street during rush hour (New York)... though I can't say that it's like that all the way around, there are certainly instances that make me think that perhaps if it weren't so darned hot, people might relax a little bit.

Which brings me to my next point: The desert. Reno is not the desert. It's a "high desert" or "sierra" climate. Vegas is a desert, no question about it. For those of you who think that it can't possibly be that different, think of it this way. Northern Nevada is basically Northern California: pine trees, lakes, rivers, snow, etc. . . Southern Nevada is where Death Valley resides: Cacti, rattle snakes, scorpions and sand. Lots and lots of sand.

I have recently become acutely aware of the vast differences in the geography and climate between Northern and Southern Nevada and the sometimes blissful-seeming verdant green of Michigan. I'm convinced there is no such thing as the mythical "cool desert breeze." Just like a unicorn, the easter bunny and world peace, it just does not exist. The winds that blow here are far harsher than the winds of change. Don't get me wrong, I love the desert (for the most part) and I'm extremely happy to have the chance to live somewhere that I don't have to even think about shoveling snow in the winter time.

These winds, like the winds of my childhood home, sting and burn but unlike the chilly Midwestern winter winds, these burn in a peculiar and much more lasting fashion. The winds here can average up to 80 miles an hour, which is basically unheard of back in Michigan outside of tornadoes. Not only do the winds here carry the speed that is a little astonishing (thanks to being in a valley) but they also happen to often carry the fine gritty sand that I'm convinced, can sandblast a Panzer. Too long out in the wind such as this and you'll end up "wind burned." I never realized that there was such a thing before moving here. Not even in Reno, as it does get generally windy there, but it very rarely carries sand with it unless you happen to be near the beach.

Wind burn is a special sort of pain. It's not like a sun burn but it's similar enough to draw a line from A to B. Basically, the tenderness of the skin, the reddish tint to the flesh and the general hatred of life is the same. There are, however; a few important distinctions. A). Although you are attempting to keep the area clean and moisturized, there is ALWAYS at least a shoe-full of grit still on your skin, so that when you attempt to cleanse or moisturize the skin, you end up aggravating it worse. Always. B). Worse than a sun burn in most cases, is the appearance of the flesh after a nice sand-blasting. Generally, you look as though you're a leper. Because of the lovely red color of the burn, the scabs over-top are an excellent blood-red color as well which generally makes you look as though you've crawled out of the very last circle of hell to come up topside and say "hey, what's up?"

I have begun to adapt to the harsher climate by drinking more water, staying away from the seemingly ever present day-star and generally becoming even more of an indoor pet than before. It is key to realize that you are in a desert, and that you need to drink water. I am not a fan of water in general, and specifically, the taste of the water that happens out here. It's either in a plastic water bottle, which inevitably makes it taste like plastic, or it's sink-water, which means it's Vegas water, which means there's a good chance it's infected with some sort of ungodly disease. Neither of these options are super appealing to me, but I've taken to drinking the bottled water, for fear of utter and total dehydration and death. Mostly death. I very distinctly remember Kobold's visit to Michigan and his comment that he was scared. He had to use the bathroom ten times more often than he did back home. I laughed then, now I know the truth. If I were to drink liquids at the same rate back in Michigan as I do here, I would explode/float away/continuously be in the bathroom. While this may seem funny to you, think back to when you were young and healthy and hardly ever had to pee... then remember when you got pregnant/old/sick.... yeah. Suck.

In summation: Desert living is never as glamorous as you think it might be. Sand and sun are generally considered the enemy, the out-of-doors is best avoided at all costs, and the people here are just as sick of the heat as you are, but they're too angry, poor or tired to move.

Adventures on the Road

I will be posting my (mis)adventures from my many travels here, regarding my trips to and from Reno, Las Vegas, Michigan and all points in between. It may interest you to know that the picture to the left is not the car in which any (at this point) of these adventures have taken place. Instead, I'll be writing about my beloved and dearly departed other cars, Pandora and Gretchen. Their stories are much better than Ava's just yet.

The good news is that my "adventures" always end up with my being alive and generally none the worse for wear. The best part is, they result in pictures like the one to the left. I don't really remember where in the world I took it, but it was on the initial drive from Michigan to Reno a few years ago. Who could resist the open road when it looks like this?

I should also add here, that "adventures" seem to be inherited from my mother, Susan. It seems that at least once during every family vacation (or outing between just Mom and I) we've had an incident which we affectionately call an "adventure." These have included, among others, parking in a building that turned out to be a bomb shelter, somehow ending up "backstage" at Disney World and seeing characters in costume, but without their heads, and swerving across numerous lanes of traffic to get to a certain mercantile which sells shells and other sea-related objects. Needless to say, this is the sort of thing that breeds a sense of humor in a person, as well as a fair amount of caution and planning ahead for unforeseen circumstances.

But my parents both gave me a good idea about what sort of adventures are to be expected, and it seems that I take after Daddy as well, in that I've hit my fair share of deer. Thankfully, he was the one who had the foresight to teach me how to change my tire, my windshield wiper blades and my oil. . . so I'm pretty much set for things that are general as far as maintenance goes. The following stories marked "Adventures" are accounts of things that could not possibly have been planned for.