Pack Your Crap, We're MOVING!

Well, I went and did it. Please to transfer all bookmarks and RSS feeds to:

http://missbanshee.typepad.com/missbanshee/

Or just click on over and go from there.

This site isn't going anywhere, but it's not going to be updated anymore either. So...join me over yonder, won't you? I promise we'll have just as much silliness on TypePad as we did here.

See ya there!

We Are Experiencing Technical Difficulties: Please Be Patient

I know, I know, the site looks different every 15 minutes. New Blogger layout? Wordpress? GASP, TYPEPAD? Typepad makes me feel dumb. I find myself yelling at the screen a lot. And having the urge to suck my thumb. Which always helps. Blogger is like the kindergarten of the blogging world. Put the little blocks in order, press the little pictures, all done, yay! You may go outside and play now.

This is what paralyzing boredom does to a person.

Things That I Have Given Way Too Much Thought To Lately:

• What on earth did that bloody cat eat that could result in so much horror on my carpet?
• My parents are returning from Europe - What will be the prezzie situation, and will it include a sexy European man folded neatly in a garment bag? (Ventilated, people! I'm not heartless!)
• Speaking of sexy, will my confession of The Pink Shoes of Shame mean I will be forced into celibacy for eternity?
  
• "America's Got Talent?" Perhaps. "America's Got The Dangerously Insane?" For certain.
• Watching Intervention: Totally counts as a meeting, if I drink coffee and talk back at the screen, right? Plus, I can do it in my jammies.
• I'm serious, WHAT did that cat EAT? I need stock in carpet cleaner.
• HTML: Will I ever learn it? More accurately, will I ever stop pretending I WANT to learn it?
• Living across from Friendly's, which is the crack den of ice cream: Morbid obesity imminent?
• Facebook status updates: Why am I obsessed?
• Making lists on blog: Please stop, implores internet.

Scenes from Insomnia

As I have been talking about incessantly lately to anyone who will stay still for three milliseconds, I've been suffering (SUFFERING!) from insomnia. It's a side effect of my (lovely and amazing) brain pills, and I've been soldiering through, since I'd rather be awake and sane than sleepy and bonkers. However, when one hits around 72 hours straight of wakefulness, sanity becomes a distant memory. I offer this entry as a deep and heartfelt apology to all and any of my friends, who really must be deleting my screen name from their IM clients as we speak. As well they should.

Things that seem like a super idea at 4 AM, which are in actuality never a super idea, not even a little:

1. Walking into town in overalls, a sports bra, and a studded collar.
2. Knitting five bags, three hats, and a set of fingerless gloves
3. Which is appropriate, since my hands are falling off from the incessant knitting
4. Taking pictures of self looking like Trainspotting 2: Even More Attractive
   
5. Making a pot of coffee, because why the hell not?
6. Or two pots.
   
7. Writing what seem to be utterly brilliant blog entries and MamaPop articles, only to realize they are more like "manifestos" and "not spelled correctly, even a little bit"
8. Listening to Joy Division
9. Hysterically crying
10. IMing with unsuspecting friends:

missbanshee: I'm walking into town!
friend of banshee: That is a spectacularly bad idea.
missbanshee: I can't stay still! I'm out of yarn! Gotta walk!
FOB: No walking. Shut the door and get in the bed.
missbanshee: The bed has shunned me. Like the Amish. I shall never lie in the bed again!
FOB: Well fine. The couch then. Shut the door, LOCK THE DOOR, and sit on the couch.
missbanshee: Is that a direct order?
FOB: YES. Yes, that is a direct order. Uh...obey me!
missbanshee: That is so sexy.

Of course, there are other things that happen to one's brain on no sleep. Things become very black and white. (And pretty colors, after the 48 hour mark, but that's neither here nor there.) Situations, people and things are reduced to being paralyzingly funny or horrifically awful. Non-sequitors abound. Y'all? No one is ever going to talk to me ever again.

4:23 AM

FOB: I really need to go to sleep, dude. It's past 1 AM.
missbanshee: WHAT? You're three hours behind me! Suck it up, California person! Let's vacuum under my bed.
FOB: What? Let's NOT. You have neighbors, remember? Neighbors who will kill you if you start running the vacuum at 4 in the damn morning.
missbanshee: *lower lip quivering* My bedroom is so dusty. You know why? Because it's LONELY. My bed has never had anyone in it but ME. No one loves me! I'm going to die alone and no one will know until the STENCH from my DECOMPOSING CORPSE permeates my WHOLE BUILDING. *sobs*
FOB: Oh jeez. Um...uh...Hey, would vacuuming make you feel better? Why don't you vacuum. That's a great idea.
missbanshee: No, that's stupid. It's 4 AM! I'm going to scrub the kitchen floor.
FOB: Perfect.

So yeah. I've been a delight to be around. Now that I'm on the equivalent of a horse tranquilizer (thanks, doc!) and getting some sleep, I see what I've been doing, and, to everyone I have tormented within an inch of their unsuspecting lives as of late? I'm really, really sorry. Please forgive me. I've knitted you a pantsuit in gratitude!

Now if you'll excuse me, the contents of my freezer aren't going to alphabetize themselves, you know.

Poll Time! Do You Hate This Layout, Or What?

Welcome to today's installment of "Keeping Busy to Keep Teh Crazy At Bay!" So it's poll time, my precious little squirrels. I want your opinions. Do ya hate Blogger? This layout give you a pain? Or are you as terrified of change as I am, and want nothing to change at Inverse Candlelight? Do you not care at all, with a vengeance, even?

I've made a mirror site at Wordpress, and I'd love your opinion. Do we stay here, on our comfy Blogger couch, or move on up to the East Side? Take a look over at Wordpress, and come back to vote in the poll! Please? I'll give you a hug!

eHarmony Can eBite Me

I am a single woman. Free as a bird. No strings attached. Woo, feminism and hear me roar and let me burn that bra. No man for me! My bathroom is so clean!

It sucks.

It sucks, and I don't care if all the militants are getting the vapors, I am being honest. I am lonely as hell, and after over two years (YEARS) of being single, I have had just about enough of it. I'm not the random hookup kind of gal, (not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just not my bag, man) and since I don't have any friends in the area, I don't so much...leave my apartment. Ever. I have awesome, tremendous, fiercely loved friends, don't get me wrong, and I'd waltz through blazing fires for any of them, but there's not a one of them who could just randomly come over for a cup of coffee and a bad movie. Not an option. Yeah. Suck.

"So go out!" my friends wail. "Meet people! Do things! Stop spending eleventy million hours on the internet every day and go interact with actual people!" Well, this is easier said than done. For one, where the hell do I go? My whole adult life, the only social venues I have utilized are friends' houses and bars. And I am not allowed to go to bars anymore, in case you haven't heard. I have crippling social anxiety, and the concept of New People terrifies me. No new people! Only people who have read the dossier regarding Mah Crazy: Let Me Show You It! For I am vair, vair uninterested in having to carefully reveal the dramz to anyone new. I have a feeling it would end with "and then he ran away like his dick was on fire."

And to be honest, I was really destroyed by my last breakup. I'm not going to trust a new person for a really long time. There are also other factors of acursed circumstance that the internet doesn't get to hear, but yeah, going out and finding a local cat to start the awkward beginning-dating thing? Eeesh. Not really interested, thanks.

I can just picture my personal ad now:

"SWF seeks SM for possible LTR. Enjoys tv, playing on the internet, yarn, and coffee. SM must be open to mental illness, addiction recovery, arts and crafts addiction, pop-culture obsession, random goofiness, clumsiness, and cleaning up after barfy cats. Please have a job, your own apartment, a wicked sense of humor, and a bank account of your very own. No man-children, meanies, or frattys, please. Email only, the phone gives me anxiety attacks."

Woo, buddy, they'd be knocking down the door! Not that I'd ever place a personal ad. I have been on one (1) personal-ad date in my life, about five years ago. It was awful. But not in the way you probably guess. Nope, he was gorgeous, talented, funny, smart, (did I mention gorgeous?) and, drum roll...HE DIDN'T LIKE ME. Oh, that's just GRAND. So no. No personal ads.

(At this point, my friend cuparfyfe is eating his own face and screaming at the computer screen about how all I do is self-sabotage and dig my own grave re: relationships. He is...not wrong.)

So what the hell is my point, for the love of God's argyle socks? What was the reasoning for this blithering rant, when clearly I am not actually going to DO anything about this situation other than point at myself and howl "UNLOVABLE!!! MENTALLY DISEASED!!! RUN AWAY!!!"

My point is that fucking eHarmony dot com should not use a dude who resembles Zippy the Pinhead in their commercials to motivate me to "find my match." Do NOT call me, Zippy. And tell JoJo the Dogface Boy he doesn't have to bother either. I'll just play some Facebook Scrabble with my beloved, if not geographically convienient friends and knit more hats for the cats.

Saturday Arts n Crafts!

Saturday is Craftyday!

Must keep busy. Shark Week too exciting to stay still.
Not unlike Mme. LaFarge, knitting away for France.

Tada! Am v. talented and fabulous.

One word about my knitting hat and I'll gut you like chum.

Have a lovely weekend, internet!

Today's Actual Conversation: Tough Love With the Internet

Me: Internet, we need to talk.

Internet: Well, come sit by me, baby. What's on your pretty little mind?

Me: I'm not falling for it today. The platitudes, the lovey-speak. I can't do it. This relationship...it's just not healthy. Something has to change.

Internet: I don't know what you're talking about, angel-face. You know I love you!

Me: Oh, I love you so much! I lo-Wait. Wait, no, we really need to talk. Stop doing that.

Internet: What am I doing, my precious little cupcake, other than worshiping and adoring you?

Me: You're making me lose focus. Look, some shit has gone down in the last week that makes me think that maybe you're punishing me a little bit. In a very passive-aggressive way. I've written down some examples...

Internet: You didn't cheat on me with Word, did you? I thought I corrupted that program for good this time.

Me: No, Word isn't working right no-Hey! What did you just say???

Internet: I said that you look utterly irresistible in those overalls.

Me: Oh, okay, aw, thank you...Wait, dammit! I'm trying to make a point here! Okay, so here's some points I wanted to make regarding some shady behavior on your part that I've noticed lately.

Internet: I'm all ears, my sweet love.

Me: Sigh. Okay. Now, yesterday for example. You let those hackers into my site, my beloved bloggity blog, and they redirected my stats counter to a Russian mail order bride website. I lost everything! Why did you do that? Is this because I can't seem to decide on a browser? I always come back to Firefox, you know that.

Internet: When you do that, I don't know from day to day which shoes to wear to compliment my browser. It's confusing.

Me: The internet wears shoes?

Internet: FABULOUS shoes. Hey baby, let's stop talking about this and go look at shoes. Look, I've got Zappos aaaaaall bookmarked for you. My treat.

Me: Ooooooh, yeah, let's see what's new for fall...NO! No, we're not looking at shoes. We're talking about our relationship!

Internet: How about pants? I love you so much, baby. Let me show you some pants that will make your ass look FANTASTIC.

Me: Oh, pants...NO! No, and this is another point I wanted to make! My credit card cannot take it, with all the books and music and dvds and shoes and pants! I am unemployed, Internet, you KNOW that! It's all I can do to scrounge the money to keep you CONNECTED every month! And all you do is enable me to buy things I can't afford! The Program talks about enablers, you know. We just...we can't go on like this. It's not healthy.

Internet: You know, as you've been adorably rambling, four of your friends have changed their Facebook statuses, and you've got seventeen new RSS stories to read.

Me: Oh, CRAP! Okay, lemme check. Hey, do you think I'll get some nice comments on my last post? Oh, and I uploaded a bunch of new pictures to Flickr, better check that too, and oh, hold on, it's my turn on Scrabble, and I've got MamaPop comments to read...

*MANY, MANY HOURS PASS*

Internet: *smokes cigarette with a satisfied and sated grin*

Me: *looks blearily around for all the time and energy I have misplaced, like underpants after a one night stand*

Me: What was I saying? I feel like I was saying something before.

Internet: You were just telling me how much you love me. And I love you too, baby. I'm not like the others, my darling. I'll never ever leave you. Now stop worrying that pretty little head of yours and let's go find some precious little jewelry with charms that look like sushi rolls.

Me: You're right...I don't know what I was thinking. I love you too, Internet. Are you...sure I wasn't saying something before?

Internet: Shhhhh, my darling. Shhhhhhhhhhh...

See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil

Things that have been greatly alarming in the past week:

My neighbors having passionate fights in their underpants.

The talking heads on Fox News.

Blogger vs. Troll Wars.

It's been quite a week. Thanks a trillion to all you lovely people who contacted me about my last post. I promise, I'm doing much better, and we can now return to our regularly scheduled silliness. Y'all are rock stars, and I love ya more than my luggage.

You Can Knock Me Down, But You Can't Keep Me Down

One of the most difficult things about dealing with mental illness is feeling better. When you've become so used to chaos reigning in your mind, having a quiet in the storm is disconcerting to say the least. I've been lucky enough to have found a medication cocktail that has made my borderline personality disorder and bipolar II (different from bipolar I in that I don't get manic episodes or completely lose touch with reality - it's also known as "the good kind") much, much easier to deal with. It's taken an incredibly long time, but I'm finally feeling like I'm going to be able to not only live with this, but thrive and actually, shockingly, be happy. It's an amazing feeling.

It's also scary as hell.

A major issue that I have had throughout my life is an inability to allow myself to hope. I haven't ever let it in because of a terrible, all consuming fear that hope is an invitation for pain. As if the universe would look at my optimism, laugh its balls off, and drop an anvil on my head, Acme style, for having the audacity to look for a brighter future. It's a survival technique that I have held onto my whole life. Of course, it's also a self-fulfilling prophecy. If I don't allow myself to hope without being convinced it will lead to pain, I'm going to find pain anyway, even if it is just to prove myself right. I know this, logically. Hell, I have an extremely expensive graduate degree in helping other people with problems just like these. Ones who cannot help themselves help everyone else, etc. etc. etc.

So in the past four weeks or so, I have been able to allow myself the tiniest amount of hope. I came to the realization that I'm here for some sort of reason (I got out of the hospital when no one thought I would, so there has to be SOME reason, I concluded) and even though I'm still not sure what the hell that reason is, I'm sticking around to find out. I love a good mystery. I'm working my ass off trying to get my brain in order, and it's really been paying off.

This weekend, the bubble burst. It was bound to, as emotion is an ebb and flow, and the high of coming out of the fog was going to taper off. I've been in a fairly wretched mood, with lows that come fast and hard. I'm riding the rapids right now, but this time, unlike all the other times this has happened, is different. I still have hope.

I'm not blowing sunshine and glitter up anyone's ass here. I'm just saying that the universe and the misfired synapses in my brain are giving me a hell of a ride right now, but I know I'm going to get through it. I can flip off the darkness and yell into the storm that I've beaten a hell of a lot worse than this, that circumstance and my own betraying mind have tried to break me again and again, and they haven't gotten the job done. I've made it this far, and I have no intention of stopping any time soon. So I give a hearty "fuck you" to the maelstrom in my mind today. You can kick me all you want, but you can't keep me down. I'm stronger than that. I always have been. I'm just grateful that I finally know it now. And that I will continue to hope, despite it all.

Strong in the broken places. That's damn right.

Unbreakable With Armor

And Unbreakable Without.

The Shame! The Shaaaaaaaame!!!!

Hello, my precious little squirrels! Why don't you skipper on over to MamaPop to read my article about cultural shame? And leave your own cultural shame confessions in the comments? You know, confession does the heart good, and it will also be your good deed for the day. And no, I still haven't read King Lear. Cordelia can suck it.

Quick Sock Monster Note!

If you really, truly for serious want a sock monster, email me at missbanshee at gmail dot com for details, my precious little squirrels.

Kisses!

UPDATED!!!! Go to the Monster Photo Set on Flickr to see monsters up for adoption!

I Will Never Learn.

Supercuts: For When You Should Have Done It Your Damn Self.

Wow, Supercuts. That's really...Super?

Much better. Done my damn self.

Ah, much better. Let this be a lesson to you, kids. You pay $14 for a haircut, you get...a $14 haircut. Wah.

Okay, had a good cry and decided something:

Stop being sad and be awesome instead.

Obsession.

It all started so innocently. A birthday present! From my dear friends Steve and Meaghan! How lovely! And this is what it looked like, and I had no idea what I was getting myself into.


Innocuous, right? Innocent. Adorable, even. So I get this book, and come up with the idea to make one, as a super seekrit special project for a specific super person. And I did, and it was awesome.


But, you see, I don't have a job right now. I'm on a "sabbatical." Or a "medical leave." Or, "batshit crazy timez." So I have a lot of free time. A LOT of free time. So I thought well, I'll try another one of the patterns. I have plenty of socks, as they are only a dollar at Walmart, so...Why not? And I did, and it was good.

So what's the problem that is now destroying my life? I'll tell you. Behold!


The first step is admitting you have a problem, and that you are powerless over your addiction. So...Hi. My name is Miss Banshee, and I am addicted to making sock monsters. My house is full of 'em. My couch is covered in sock bits and thread. The cats scurry off with mouthfuls of yarn and stuffing. It's an arts and crafts crack house. And I can't stop. Is there a 12 step program for this? A Big Book for sewing addiction? Because I clearly need help.


So...anyone want a sock monster? They're looking for good homes, and if I don't get them out of my house, they're just going to keep harassing me to make them new friends. Halp.

No Sleep Till...

I have insomnia. It's been two weeks. It's really starting to take a toll. I vacillate between this:

Woe.

Aaaaaaaaand this.

Give us kisses!!!! Everything is funny!!!! Let's paint the apartment!
PURPLE GLITTER!!!!

When all I want to do is this:

Sigh.

It's almost definitely due to a new medication I'm on, but not taking it is not an option, for I'd really prefer being tired to being batshit insane, which is what the med prevents me from being. It's a sucky tradeoff, but a sacrifice I'm willing to make. So, Mr. Sandman, please send me a dream. It can be about arranging matchsticks for all I care. Just let me sleep. Because everyone I know is sick of me talking about it, and so am I.

Hey! Are you following A Year in the Mirror? Because there are some RILLY attractive pictures of sleep deprivation there, boy. Like this one!:

Can I carry your groceries? I've got two eye bags that would do nicely.

Kisses, my little monkeys. Please send very very sleepy thoughts. Or narcotics. That would work too.

Today's Actual Conversation: Insane and In Motion!

My poor common sense, guys. She is SO patient and SO abused. Like, Valerie Bertanelli in a Lifetime movie abused. Here's a conversation I had with Common Sense today. Tragic.

Scene: Driving home. Music blaring, windows open, our heroine is bopping along to Boston punk rawk and waving a cigarette around in time with the music, swigging her eleventieth cup of coffee, and careening through lunchtime traffic. Common Sense rides shotgun, seatbelt securely fastened, helmet with mouth guard in place, wearing hockey pads, with rosary beads clutched in one hand, her last will and testament in the other.

Me: *slamming steering wheel repeatedly* The goddamn horn is broken! *slam slam slam* How am I to express my displeasure at these knobs' driving skills without the *slam* horn? *slam*

Common Sense: Okay, I understand you've only had this car for a year and a half...

Me: *SLAM SLAM WHACK* What? Can you believe this idiot? Green means GO, jackass! Put up a Post-It or something!

CS: Like I said, I realize you've only had the Kia for less than two years, but-

Me: Her name is BLOODREIGNE. We've talked about this before. She's a 2002 Kia for chrissakes. I have to emphasize her badassery if I'm ever going to hear the end of The Mocking.

CS: Well, it does-

Me: She.

CS: *sigh* She does get very good gas mileage. Your friends certainly can't mock that, with fuel prices being what they are in these trying times.

Me: Bloodreigne is to be FEARED. Mere humans should gaze upon her in AWE. She doesn't NEED expensive gas! She runs on the souls of the non-believers! Muahahahahaa! OH. Really? We're gonna go 7 miles under the speed limit, dude-in-a-Mercedes? Really?! *whacks steering wheel again* See?? It's BROKEN! I hear NO BEEPING!

CS: What I was trying to say is that I know change is hard for you, and that's something we're working on, and getting a new car after having the Chevy for so long-

Me: BLUE LIGHTNING!!! *begins weeping*

CS: Oh dear. I'm sorry. You have to remember that Blue was very very old, and she never could have made it all the way to Georgia back when we moved there. She went to a good home! A farm in the country! Where she could play with all the other Chevys!

Me: *sniffles* I loved Blue, you know. She was my constant companion. My bosom friend. HER horn worked, sorta! *weeps noisily*

CS: Now I really must insist that you stop crying and pay attention to - Please stop fiddling with the iPod and drive properly!

Me: You got me upset. I don't like talking about Blue Lightning. The wound is too fresh. I need to find a song that accurately expresses my pain at the loss. What the hell were you babbling about again? OH. JUST PULL OUT IN FRONT OF ME. LOVELY. I HOPE YOU GET EBOLA. *slam slam slam* DAMMIT! Why isn't this horn working?

CS: *takes deep breath* Do you see the two small buttons on either side of the steering wheel?

Me: Oh, yeah, they're right here. Hey, they've got little horns on them-

CS: WATCH THE ROAD.

Me: Well, you told me to look!

CS: Yes. Two buttons with little horns on them. Coincidentally enough, they represent the horn, which will sound if you press the horn-labeled buttons. Which you could easily reach if your hands were at 10 and 2 where the driver's manual says they should be, instead of holding a filthy cigarette in one and the iPod in the other, and you were not actually driving with your knee.

Me: Oh. So what have I been doing all this time when I was trying to beep the horn?

CS: You've been repeatedly and viciously punching the air bag.

Me: Ahhhhh. Probably shouldn't do that, huh?

CS: *adjusts chin-strap on helmet, tightens seat belt.* Well, dear, we take things one step at a time. At least now you know.

Me: And knowing is half the battle!

CS: And tomorrow you're on your own. I'm taking the bus.

I Am Officially Special.

Hot diggitty! I am now writing for MamaPop, your one-stop snarkfest on pop culture! All the ladies who write there are fabbity fab, and now you can catch my articles on Wednesdays and Thursdays, as well as on the Project Runway open thread on Wednesday night over at MamaPopTalk. I'm one of the moderators on the chat, so you know you best ackrite! If ragging on celebs and dissecting pop culture is your bag, come visit us - you know you want to, betches.

PS: To all mah betches who are lucky enough to go to BlogHer this year, have a fantastic time, and remember I am there in spirit - A spirit in a really fierce dress!

We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Silliness

To talk about a serious subject. In honor of the return of "Project Runway" this Wednesday, we need to discuss my pants. More specifically, my addiction to buying new pants. And you know what that means! Another poll! Y'all helped so much with the haircut decision (I'm keeping it shaggy for now, but if the humidity gets above eleventy billion, no promises) so tell me which pants were the best purchase. I'll take your answers to heart, reflect, and...probably buy more pants. So sad. I need a meeting.

And forgive me, please, for the quality of these pics. I'm still learning the camera thing.

Exhibit A:


The black skinny jeans. "Slave to trends!" you howl. You are right. These will probably be out of fashion by the time I post this blog. But I love them! So comfy!


Exhibit B: The standard issue blue jeans. Flared bottom. Too long, but if I wear a heel, they don't drag on the ground. I like these plenty, but the whole trend of the faded starburst-like crease pattern right over the crotch? I do not need extra attention pointed towards my ladyflower, thanks.



Exhibit C: Capris! I love capris. I especially love wearing these capris with huge heels so as to be the obnoxious woman who wears the shoes that make her 6 feet tall.

SO! Were these good purchases? Which should be the go-to pair? Do I need to go buy MORE pants? What kind? What cut? What color? Speak, oracles! Clicky on the poll!

Sigh. I love pants.

Yes, We Have No Belly Dancing

Because there is no end to the lengths I will go to in order to humiliate myself, here is my first real attempt at a video blog, in which I explain why I will not ever post video of my attempts to belly dance. Woo! Science and technology! (I won't tell you how long it took me to put this together. Let's just say I have no editing programs, so it had to be a one-shot deal.)

Be kind, please.



If you have trouble seeing the video, CLICKY CLICKY.

A Year In The Mirror

When my drinking started getting completely out of control, my body changed drastically. My arms and legs were twigs, and my stomach and face swelled. I looked horrific. Sick. Dying. Because I was. Now that I'm five months sober, I look, well, like me again. I've started a Flickr set to document the beginning of the year I started looking at myself again, starting on my birthday, June 30th. It's work for me. It's still very hard for me to look at myself, to look at the person who almost died due to my own emotions and resulting actions, who medical professionals were convinced was not going to make it. But I'm doing this as a project of survival, and the beginnings of accepting and loving myself - maybe for the first time.

A Year In The Mirror.

Something must be done.

People, I have a thatch upon my head. Something must be done. It's freshly dyed and ready for a mowing. Whatever shall I do? Go to the sidebar and make decisions for me! If you have other suggestions or details on your vote, leave em in the comments.

"Filled With Shame" Doesn't Begin To Cut It.

The dvd player is fixed. I am so embarrassed I cannot even form words. I cannot even share what the problem was, people. It's THAT humiliating. Let's just say this brief exchange occurred.

Me: Still broken! Wah! Window! Out it! *click click click* The remote does nothing!

BrotherBanshee: That's because THAT remote is for the TV you had in HIGH SCHOOL.

Me: Nooooooooooooo.

BrotherBanshee: Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeees. Idiot.

Me: Oh. You know, this situation is not entirely unexpected.

Things That Have Not Improved With Sobriety

And I had such high hopes...

1. Ability to spill or drop everything I pick up
2. Ability to walk into every door frame I attempt to pass through
3. Forgetfulness, including but not exclusive to forgetting to A) put coffee in the filter, B) Turn on coffeepot, and C) Plug in coffeepot.
4. Falling, falling, falling all the time, all over the land, even when standing still.
5. Tripping over cats, coffee table, own feet, air.
6. Breaking/forgetting how to operate every electronic device I own.
7. Forgetting things like my own phone number, address, and spelling of own name.
8. Where the hell is my cellphone? What did I do with my coffee cup? What was I talking about again?
9. Stabbing of self in eye when attempting to apply eyeliner.
10. Bruises of unknown origin.
11. A bunch of other stuff that I can't think of right now, because my attention span is also shot, and I'm now thinking about monkeys. I love monkeys.

Basically, I still appear to be intoxicated mostly all the time, even at almost 5 months sober. I really need to be in a padded room with protective headgear so as not to be a menace to myself and others. I'm really just thinking of the greater good. And monkeys.

Today's Actual Conversation: At least I didn't electrocute myself. Yet.

Happy birthday to me! I am now 31 years of age as of June 30th, and still utter kryptonite to electronics. Behold!

mcclainx: You need to watch this movie "Once." Go rent it. Rent it today.

missbanshee: I will do that! Wait a minute, let me make sure the dvd player is working, for, as you know, technology hates me.

*insert dvd. Whir whir whir. No picture whatsoever.*

DVD Player: Haha. No movies for you, jerky. Lookit me! I work! See the numbers? I'm playing the dvd; you're just not allowed to watch it. Neener!

Me: Hmm. This cannot be right. *presses various buttons on various remotes. Absolutely nothing happens.* Well, that was worth a shot.

missbanshee: Nothing is happening. The dvd player is broken. I will now chuck it out the window.

mcclainx: You will not. Is it plugged in?

missbanshee: YES, it is plugged in. My darling Amir showed me the error of my ways regarding that. It's plugged in. Oh wait. There's a pluggy thing that's missing. It should be a color. A yellow pluggy thing is missing. Broken! Out the windee!

mcclainx: Go to Radio Shack, foolio.

missbanshee: Okay! I shall do just that! Radio Shack is right across the street from Blockfucker. So...Convenient!

*several weeks pass*

mcclainx: Did you watch that movie yet?

missbanshee: Nope. The dvd player is broken, remember? And you wouldn't let me throw it out the window?

mcclainx: Oh my god, go to Radio Shack. For serious.

*Another week passes. I want to get a bellydancing dvd. (Did I mention I'm learning how to belly dance? I am. The things I do for blog fodder.) I try the dvd player again, hoping the technology fairy has visited during the night.*

DVD Player: You've got to be kidding me.

The Entire World: GO TO RADIO SHACK. My GOD, woman, it's a miracle you can leave the house without a HELMET.

Me: I think I shall go to Radio Shack.

*At Radio Shack. An adorable dude with a complicated haircut assists me.*

Me: A yellow pluggy thing. So I can belly dance!

Adorable Dude: Forgot your helmet today, huh?

*I procure the pluggy thing (yellow!) and the dvds. I skipper home.*

Me: Oh, I am so smart. I will now plug in the yellow pluggy thing and everything will be rainbows and unicorn glitter.

*plug in pluggy thing. As everyone, including my dead grandmother can guess, absolutely nothing happens. Immediately hop on internet, with no regard to the fact that my friends are at work and not technical support.*

missbanshee: Nothing is happening! The pluggy thing! It does nothing!

mcclainx: *sigh*

*I frantically take pictures of the back of my TV and DVD player, and email them to my long-suffering friend.*

mcclainx: Still figuring out the focus on that camera, huh?

missbanshee: We need to FOCUS on the dvd player!

mcclainx: Ok, you need a router, so blah blah technical stuff blah blah blah.

missbanshee: Sorry, I was thinking about cute bellydancing outfits. And unicorns.

mcclainx: I will travel the 3000 miles it will take to throw you out a window.

DVD Player: Whir! Whir! Still perfectly fine! I just hate you! Because I am made of shin-kicks and paper cuts!

Me: Wah.

So I'll ask my brother, the Dumbledore of electronics, to look at the damn thing. Because I know I will have to have a very firm conversation with the belly dancing dvd. If I don't break my neck first.

We With Filthy Mouths Will Carry On The Torch

Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker and tits.

RIP, George.

Karma Chameleon

Yeah, y'all think you got it goin' on...But were YOU the coolest kid in the second grade?

I thought not.

Git Offa Mah Lawn, You Damn Kids!!!

I was driving home the other day, and in front of me was a tween (I haaaaaate that word) girl on her bike. I knew she had to be between the ages of 11-15, because she was wearing shorts that could double as a belt, and had highlighted hair that probably cost more than the entire contents of my refrigerator. She was weaving in and out of traffic like Amy Winehouse on a particularly spectacular bender, and as I rode the brake at a whopping 5 miles an hour with visions of lawsuits dancing in my head, a thought popped into my head:

"That little bitch is texting. I bet my fucking life on it."

She finally wove over to the side long enough for me to pass her, and as I did, I looked over my shoulder to see that she WAS texting, goddammit! On a BIKE! In MOTION! On a road with AUTOMOBILES which were ALSO in motion! Without a HELMET! And I drove the rest of the way home in a rage, ranting and raving about the state of humanity today at the top of my lungs to exactly no one. Because I was alone in the car. And not texting. IN A MOVING VEHICLE.

My girls over at 30 is the New 13 and If You Believe, Clap are now (right now! Go read!) talking about pre-teen fiction they wrote/pre-teen characters they are trying to write, and how the pre-teen mind eludes all logic indeed. What the hell were we doing at that age? And more importantly, what the HELL were we WEARING? What did we DO before cell phones and MySpace and the internet in general? We were less likely to end up on "To Catch A Predator," I know that for certain, but christ on the cross, at least we TALKED. Do pre-teens...talk? Anymore? I picture withered vocal cords and super-strength thumbs becoming part of the evolutionary process.

I know I am a bitter old lady, but I swear to god, if I see one more in-motion-vehicle of any sort with an operator in the midst of texting her fucking BFF, I am going to put on my old Anthrax t-shirt and Doc Martens and start bashing their highlighted heads in.

(This post is brought to you by my upcoming 31st birthday, of which I am not obsessing about AT ALL.)

Today's Actual Conversation: Fill 'er up!

Scene: I frantically look for gas that is less than four dollars a gallon. Spotting a station that is boasting $3.89, I careen across four lanes of traffic and pull up to the pump. Being a good Jersey girl, I wait for the attendant. Jersey girls never pump their own gas. (Ok, no one in Jersey pumps their own gas. One of the myriad perks of living in the Garden State.) Enter gas attendant.

Me: Hi! Fill it with regular, please.

Gas Station Guy: Ay, mami. Habla usted Espanol?

Me: Uh...A little...Un poquito. Muy, muy poquito.

GSG: *laughs* I teach you, mami. I teach you good.

Me: Yeah...uh, here's my card.

GSG: *ignores my outstretched credit card* I teach you after we get married. You marry me, mami? Usted esta tan caliente. You so hot.

Me: *nervous laughter* Uh...gracias. Here's my card.

GSG: *takes card, starts pumping gas. From the back of the car, he's still talking.* Caliente, mami! You marry me, okay?

Me: *I do not respond, as I watch the dollar signs clang on the gas pump. Wide eyed from horror at the price tag of this tank of gas, which would be plenty for me to live on for a week in different circumstances, I finally realize he is STILL TALKING.*

Me: Huh?

GSG: *handing my wounded credit card back* We get married, mami. I take care of you. Te quiero, hermosa señora. I love you.

Me: *pauses* Would I get free gas?

Because I have no shame

...or dignity, or common sense:

Mah Flickr. Oh, the humanity.

Real update with real content soon, including a new Actual Conversation, in which I consider marriage as a solution to the rising gas prices.

Where the hell is my boom box when I need it?

One of the plusses of going through all my moving boxes is finding crap I haven't seen in many, many a year. Other than completely hilarious old pictures I really have to get into a scanner, my favorite find so far has been a box of old cassette tapes. More specifically, old MIX tapes.

Now, kids, gather 'round and let Granny Banshee tell you about mix tapes. Back right after the Ice Age and before the internet (I know!) when teen angst reared its ugly head, or when you were sooooooo in love, ohmygod, you made mix tapes. Some were for you, intricately composed of the songs that really SPOKE to you, man, this is the story of my LIFE, only Pearl Jam really UNDERSTANDS ME and my PAIN of being 14, man! Others were worn to a staticky thread after that amazing boy broke your heart, you don't even LIKE that song, but oh, oh, you still love him, and once upon a time he loved you enough to make you a mix tape, so you listen to it over and over, carefully backing it up onto ANOTHER tape in case, horror of horrors, your Walkman ate the tape or you lost it on the bus. Liner notes were carefully and artistically fashioned and dated, and sometimes you were so proud of your efforts that you actually considered LAMINATING them, so deep was your passion for mix tapes.

Nothing can compare to the dedication needed to make a mix tape. CD mixes are okay, I GUESS, but nothing like the real thing. And forget iTunes. No. No passion there. A slight to the magic of the mix tape. No, the real deal involved sitting on your bed in a pile of cassettes, wearing your fingers to the bone carefully constructing your list, then, in an OCD act worthy of Howard Hughes, recording the tapes on your double-cassette boom box, re-playing and pausing for optimum editing. You worked that pause button like a SAFECRACKER, finding the one millisecond difference between a perfect segue and a disasterous cut-off of the last song. Tapes were also a very specific length, and let me tell you, if I had given a millionth of the obsessional time I took to make sure all the songs would fit on a 90 minute tape (45 minutes on each side, no leeway) to high school math, I would have been accepted to MIT. If you screwed up? You had to go back and do it ALL AGAIN. And don't even THINK of recording at double speed to save time. The audio isn't as good, and that would prove that your dedication to the mix tape was a SHAM. No, you sat there for hours until the tape was perfect, and then worked yourself into an absolute panic attack wondering if your music tastes were cool enough to be worthy of your high school paramour. (Hint: they never were. Such is the pain of pubescence.)

So I've been listening to my old tapes in my car. Yes, the only tape player left in my life is in my 2002 Kia, (don't smirk, the Kia demands AWE and RESPECT.) It's pretty amazing how music takes you back to specific times and places, with incredible emotional memory. I was playing an old tape my pal Mark gave me back in the day, and I swear, as soon as the grainy audio started, I was back walking down Amsterdam Avenue on a summer day. I still can't listen to most Sarah McLachlan without remembering the walk across Boston Common from my dorm to the classroom buildings. And forget about the songs from the Soul Asylum Unplugged show, which I taped from the VCR to the boombox, to the mix tape. I mean ALL the mix tapes. Every single one from 1994. And I made a LOT of mix tapes in 1994.

I remember being out of my mind frantic when my Walkman was stolen during AIDS Walk 2000, not for the machine itself, but because it contained a mix tape that K-Bat had made for me. Don't worry, K-Bat! I had made a backup tape! Banshee don't PLAY when it comes to mix tapes.

At this point, I am seriously, seriously considering finding a way to burn all my tapes onto mp3s, because these cracked and worn tapes are only going to hold on for so long. But I'll never, ever, throw them away. I wish I could make more. It makes me sad that angsty teenagers will never know the emotion of crouching over a boom box, thinking of that special person you are absolutely certain you will love forever and ever, spending insane numbers of hours constructing just for them, only for them, the perfect mix tape. Because that? Is love.

A Love Letter to My Wireless Tech Support Dude

My Dearest Amir:

Ah, Amir. I am so grateful to have you in my life. Why, Amir? Because you, Amir, are absolutely delightful in every way. When I realized that my CD/DVD player was not working, I was despondent. "Wah!" I cried, flinging myself onto my imaginary fainting couch. "I will never be able to install my wireless router without the install DVD! Life is not worth living any longer!" Oh, the bitter, bitter tears I wept, Amir. I dreaded calling tech support, not knowing I would soon meet the most wonderful man in the world. I am, of course, talking about you, Amir. You see, Amir, I do not have much luck when it comes to calling for information over the phone. I hate the phone, Amir. I especially hate the evil, sociopathic, sadistic douchebags at Sallie Mae, who make me cry every time I call them regarding my student loans. Oh, my student loans, Amir! The mere thought makes me shake with anguish.

But I am going on a tangent, my dear Amir. For this love letter is for you, and the fantastic support of the technical sort that you so generously gave me this evening. You were personable and warm, asking me if you could refer to me by my first name, and if I was calling from the United States or Canada. Oh Amir, of COURSE you may call me by my first name! Such a chivalrous gentleman you are, my sweet Amir. You then took me gently by the hand and said that you would be happy to walk me through my installation, as if we were strolling through a field of wildflowers. You had me at "hello," Amir.

What is it that makes me love you so, Amir? Let me count the ways! Is it your lilting accent? (I hear Bombay is lovely, Amir. Perhaps someday I shall visit you!) Is it the way you gave me intimidating strings of numbers to apply to the installation program, the way you oh so patiently waited for me to stupidly repeat and confirm said numbers over and over again? I'm not very good at math, Amir. Please don't hold that against me. Or is it your wicked sense of humor, which you displayed when you kindly asked if I had bothered to plug the router into the electrical outlet? I hadn't, Amir! Oh, Amir, how we laughed! What is your sign, Amir? I'm a Cancer.

Amir, you are a king amongst men when it comes to technical support. I will never be able to thank you properly. Mere words cannot contain my gratitude, and dare I say, Amir, love? I am writing this from my bedroom, Amir. I can now do this because of your genius work in guiding me ever so lovingly through my installation. Do you mind if I call you, Amir, on those cold, lonely nights? You did give me your direct line, Amir, you naughty, saucy thing. Amir, would you think less of me if I "accidentally" poured a cup of coffee into my router so that we might speak again?

Amir, you need a raise. And a lovely office, with a door and a nameplate. Would you like a nice cup of tea, Amir? I will get it for you. Because it is thanks to you, Amir, that my faith in calling technical support has been restored. If you're ever in New Jersey, Amir, I'd love to take you to dinner. Email me, Amir. I could even read it from the bathtub now. And it's all because of you.

Love and kisses forever, my sweet Amir. I will never be able to gaze upon the festive blinky lights on my wireless router without thinking fondly of you.

XOXOXOXOXO,

Miss Banshee

Thoughts on Statistics

I've been very open and blunt about my stint in rehab, and my addiction to alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. Enough to put me as close to death as one can get without actually being on the slab. I talk about it, I joke about it, and 104 days after my last, almost fatal drink, I'm still beating it soundly, as they say, one day at a time.

I'm one of the lucky ones. In more ways than one.

I got a phone call today from a fantastic person I went to rehab with. We were thick as thieves there, and by the time we became "old timers" there, were more caregivers than anything else. I was, obviously, a drunk, he a "pharmaceutical enthusiast." We both had serious drive to get better, and coming up on four months on the outside, we're both doing very well. He just became a father, and I'm regaining my independence. We are not the norm.

We chatted about who we had heard from and/or about, and out of all of us, we are the only ones left who haven't "gone out" again. The statistics for relapse are grim, and for today, he and I are indeed, in the vast minority. I was proud of us, terribly proud, and at the same time, incredibly sad for all the people we knew who are back out. There's nothing we can do for them, and that sucks. But, given the damming statistics, we can't. We have to take care of ourselves. It's not easy, being selfish. But we have to be. Just listing all the names of the less fortunate made that grimly obvious.

I don't have anything stellar and inspiring to say about all of this. I'm just a little stunned at the perspective I gained from that conversation. I think often about the people I went through rehab with, I wish them the best, I worry about them. But for today, I'm just incredibly grateful for what I have, and that my pal is doing so well.

Congrats, DP. You're going to be a great dad. You know what to do. Love ya.

Movie Review: HARD CANDY

Much to my delight, my cable company has provided me with eleventy million movie channels by accident, and before they realize their mistake and cut me off, I've been watching movies that I didn't have the chance to see before. This review is chock full of spoilers, so if you don't want to know what happens in "Hard Candy," I would leave now.

HARD CANDY - Ellen Page, Patrick Wilson, Sandra Oh

*** out of 5

I had heard about Hard Candy when it was doing the festival circuit as "the one where the kid foils the pedophile," and that's a pretty accurate way to sum it up. What that doesn't explore is that the film is a fantastic character study thinly veiled in the "Little Red Riding Hood" story. Seriously, Page wears a red hoodie. We get it, movie. Anyway, the setup begins when Jeff (Wilson) and Haley (a pre-Juno Page) meet in a chat room and he convinces her to meet him at a coffeeshop. He's 32, she's 14. Helen Keller could see where this is going. They meet, they flirt, she plays the Lolita role very well, with the interesting choice of making her look not only extremely young, disturbingly so, but ambiguously gendered. The flirtation ends up at Jeff's swank LA apartment, and that's where his sick fantasy takes quite a turn. Aw, poor Jeff.

You see, Haley is not as sweet and innocent as she seems. Far from it. She knows about Jeff and his penchant for little girls, and, through an ambiguous and superfluous B-plot, he might have a personal investment in the disappearance and murder of another pubescent girl. Haley has a plan for Jeff, a very well thought out one, and we wonder for most of the film what her ultimate intentions are. Does she want Jeff to confess? Kill himself? Does she want to kill him herself? Is this revenge for the murdered girl or something that lies entirely with Haley? We never find out if Haley is simply taking revenge for Jeff's past victims or if she is a vigilante for abused girls everywhere (at one point, Jeff asks in desperation "Who ARE you?" Haley's answer clues the viewer as to her motives.)

The film is not without its flaws, of course. I was concerned at one point that it was going to become yet another "splatter porn" movie, but the castration scene ends up being more psychologically disturbing than visually graphic. I would have liked that scene more if we didn't see anything at all, for the movie is at its strongest when it is simply close-ups of Wilson and Page, focusing on the cat and mouse dialogue. In fact, this would be a perfect script to perform in a black box setting, without a set or anything visual to distract us from the verbal dance between Jeff and Haley.

I lost some of the guys at "castration scene," didn't I. But we must press on!

The supporting characters, (all three of them) are completely unnecessary, and took me out of the moment. Although I love Sandra Oh, her character of the well-intentioned neighbor is absolutely nothing but an embodiment of the "oh noes, she's gonna get caught!" plot device. Jeff's girlfriend, too, is superfluous. She can serve her purpose in the film without ever actually being seen. Eliminate her worried close-ups and simply keep the visual of her car driving up the winding road to Jeff's apartment. Much more intense.

And "intense" is the perfect word for this movie. Page is excellent, and her cold, calculating persona has just the right amount of cracks to make her human, if a bit verbose for a 14 year old. Wilson, most well known as the pretty boy in the recent "Phantom of the Opera" remake, does well with the vacillation between a sick perpetrator and a terrified man not only trying to survive, but coming to terms with who he really is.

Then there is the issue that hit me as soon as Haley's true intentions are revealed. What would I do? If a child rapist was at my mercy, what, exactly, would I do? Would my plan be as intricate and brilliant as Haley's, or would I just smash his skull in with the nearest blunt object? Self-insertion into the plot and Haley's motivations is easy to do, and that's where the script is the most successful.

I won't give away the ending, but I'm ambivalent about it, mostly because I don't know if that would be what I saw as the ultimate answer. But the mere fact that I became that invested in Haley's plan says a lot for the movie. I'm glad I finally saw it.

Because it's too good to not repeat...

In honor of the New Kids on the Block (NKOTB if you're nasty) reunion, I just HAVE to re-post an extraordinary IM conversation from way back between K-Bat and myself, wherein a chance encounter dissolves into discussing punk rock history with Jordan Knight, inviting him to go to K-Bat's office Christmas party, and ultimately convincing him to commit suicide. So without further ado, Ladies and Gentleman: The Jordan Knight Conversation.
-------------------------------------

KristaBat: i'm drunk.
missbanshee: you are!??
KristaBat: still.
missbanshee: Heh
missbanshee: awesome
KristaBat: from last night.
missbanshee: very nice
KristaBat: guess who i made friends w/ last night?
missbanshee: who?
KristaBat: JORDAN
KristaBat: FUCKING
KristaBat: KNIGHT
missbanshee: Shut. The fuck. Right. Up.
KristaBat: ha ha hahahhhaaa!
missbanshee: HAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAA
KristaBat: i was so fucking drunk and he was at the
linwood.
KristaBat: and i pretended i didn't know who he was!
missbanshee: that is fucking AWESOME!
KristaBat: i was like, "did you go to emerson? you
look really familiar"
missbanshee:
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!
missbanshee: You fucking RULE
KristaBat: and then i talked to him about like, fugazi
and shit
KristaBat: HA!
missbanshee: oh my holy god, that is the funniest thing
of all time
KristaBat: i'm laughing SO hard right now. all by
myself. at work.
missbanshee: how gee-ross is he now?
KristaBat: fat.
KristaBat: and wearing like, swishy pants
missbanshee: Oh my GOD
missbanshee: this is the greatest story of all fucking time
KristaBat: fucking JORDAN KNIGHT!
KristaBat: HAHHHHHAAAA!@
missbanshee: Swishy pants!
missbanshee: Fat!
missbanshee: At the Linwood!
missbanshee: With YOU!!!!
missbanshee:
HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAA
missbanshee: oh nmy god, it;s so funny i might shit my
pants
missbanshee: My mouth, it hangs open
KristaBat: i'm like, crying right now.
missbanshee: That is so fucking unbelievable
KristaBat: HA!
missbanshee: Ha! You talked about Fugazi with Jordan
fucking Knight!!!!!!
KristaBat: oh god.
missbanshee: HAHAHAHAHHHHAHAHAHHA
KristaBat: yeah i was like, " NKOTB? that's so funny
that you were in that group...
missbanshee: HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
KristaBat: and i totally pretended like i DIDN'T know
every word to every song...
missbanshee: WHICH YOU DO!
KristaBat: I KNOW!
KristaBat: i swear, my sister was going to crap
herself.
missbanshee: MEEM WAS THERE?!?!?!!
missbanshee:
WAAAAAAAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHA!
KristaBat: YES!
missbanshee: I'm openly weeping with the laughter
KristaBat: oh my god, i'm crying. i tried to make him
come to CHARLIE'S!
missbanshee: STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!!!!!!!!
KristaBat: oh myh god, i'm CRYING!!!
missbanshee: Did he put those sweet sweet NKOTB
moves on you?
KristaBat: alas, no, i don't think he did.
missbanshee: I'd quote lyrics, but I honestly always
hated them
KristaBat: or he may have..
missbanshee: perhaps he's gee
KristaBat: i really don't remember,
KristaBat: could be gee.
KristaBat: HA!
missbanshee: swishy pants, after all
KristaBat: true dat.
KristaBat: i'm so not doing work right now.
missbanshee: This? Is the greatest thing ever
missbanshee: Dude. Jordan motherfucking Knight. You
should have asked him if Danny still looks like a chimp.
missbanshee: "So Jordan, do you, in the privacy of your
own home, like, still dress up in your 8-Ball leather
jacket and acid-washed jeans and try to remember all
the old choreography?"
KristaBat: oh.
KristaBat: my,
KristaBat: god.
missbanshee: "Do you call Donnie and try to get him to
hook you up with some poon?"
missbanshee: "He was really good in all those movies.
He's been in a lot of movies, Donnie has. Did you go
see them?"
KristaBat: dude. stop!
KristaBat: HA!
missbanshee: "I heard Joey's on a tv show, Jordan.
Have you seen Joey on the tv show? Like, every week
he's on it."
KristaBat: HA!
KristaBat: i'm like, laughing maniacally right now.
missbanshee: "Dude, at least you don't look like a
chimp, Jordan. That's all I'm saying."
missbanshee: "Jordan, please stop crying."
KristaBat: AHHHHH!
KristaBat: i wish i remembered more of what actually
happened.
missbanshee: I'm fine with making it up...
KristaBat: fucking JORDAN KNIGHT!!!
missbanshee: HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA
KristaBat: so SO funny.
KristaBat: oh god.
missbanshee: Utter brilliance.
KristaBat: dude.
KristaBat: must do work now.
missbanshee: Yeah, cut and paste this fucker and send
it to Joe
missbanshee: Your Joe, not Joey McIntyre
missbanshee: although with your new connection with
Jordan, I'm sure we could get it to him too
KristaBat: i definitely called him last night about it.
missbanshee: check all your pockets for the digits,
dude.
KristaBat: HA!
KristaBat: oh my GOD.
missbanshee: "Krista, it was so good to meet you.
Please don't go, girl. Love and kisses, Jordan Knight.
PS: Please call me. Please. PLEASE.
KristaBat: oh my god. please... don't go girl...
please... don't go girl...
missbanshee: I'm collapsing with laughter
KristaBat: jordan and jon.
KristaBat: yeah
KristaBat: c'mon
missbanshee: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH
missbanshee: You know ALL THE LYRICS.
KristaBat: we got a funky funky christmas goin on
missbanshee: You had a denim jacket COVERED
WITH PINS
missbanshee: you kissed them EVERY DAY
KristaBat: i'm crying.
KristaBat: i liked joe the best though
missbanshee: You whispered your secrets into your
JORDAN KNIGHT PILLOWCASE
KristaBat: i'm convulsing.
missbanshee: Joey? He was a FETUS! And
GEE-ROSS
KristaBat: i can't even breathe
missbanshee: Holy shit, you should have taken Jordan
Knight back to Big House
KristaBat: oh my god.
missbanshee: casually walked into the living room in
your NKOTB pajamas
KristaBat: "what? these old things?"
missbanshee:
BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHHAHAHAHHA
missbanshee: You could take Jordan Knight to
ManRay
KristaBat: stop.
KristaBat: or my christmas party.
missbanshee: "Cusraque, this is my very dear friend
Jordan Knight"
KristaBat: oh MYGOD! the tears!
missbanshee: Cusraque goes apoplectic, cause you
know he was a closet NKOTB lover
missbanshee: Taking Jordan Knight to The Model...
missbanshee: I'm going to pee myself
KristaBat: yeah dude. that would have been too
much for the model to handle.
KristaBat: like, jordan knight and amy mann would
have been in the same room.
missbanshee: "So, Jordan Knight, since I'm assuming
your schedule is rather sparse, do you want to come to
my office Christmas party?"
KristaBat: it's at the science museum. i like science.
do you like science?
missbanshee: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
KristaBat: liking science is funny.
missbanshee: Asking Jordan Knight if he likes science is
funnier
KristaBat: sayign jordan knight over and over is the
funniest thing EVER.
missbanshee: EVER
KristaBat: dude.
KristaBat: oh god.
missbanshee: I'm going to have a heart attack
KristaBat: i must do work.
KristaBat: but i can't.
missbanshee: NO! Jordan Knight doesn't want you to
do work!
missbanshee: Please don't go, girl!"
KristaBat: but then i'll never get to leave this
godforsaken place.
KristaBat: you're my popsicle.
KristaBat: from the very first time i met you girl you
KristaBat: cap
KristaBat: tured me.
KristaBat: HA!
missbanshee: "Hey, Jordan Knight, can you make my
Christmas party a very funky one?"
KristaBat: so good!
missbanshee: I'm in danger of losing all bodily functions
missbanshee: "Hey Jordan Knight! You made me shit
myself!"
KristaBat: HA!
missbanshee: "I must say, Jordan Knight, that's pretty
punk rock"
KristaBat: he WAS at the linwood after all.
KristaBat: i
KristaBat: am
KristaBat: crying
missbanshee: "I like punk rock. Do you like punk rock,
Jordan Knight?"
KristaBat: do you like FUGA-21? i like FUGA-21.
missbanshee: "Hey, Jordan Knight, so can we talk
about how Donnie is like, hot and rugged and in tons of
tv shows and movies and has lots of tattoos and is
probably getting more poon than he knows what to do
with?"
KristaBat: hot and rugged.
KristaBat: Jordan Knight is such a loser!
KristaBat: HA!
KristaBat: oh shit.
missbanshee: "Hey! Hey, Jordan Knight, what about
that solo career? Do you remember the video with the
ferris wheel, Jordan Knight? I do."
KristaBat: You know what Jordan Knight?
KristaBat: You've got the right stuff.
KristaBat: baby.
missbanshee: BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH
KristaBat: love the way you turn me on.
missbanshee: The right stuff to make me pee myself
laughing...
KristaBat: you got the right stuff.
KristaBat: baby.
KristaBat: you're the REASON WHY I SING THIS
SONG.
KristaBat: what??!?!?!
missbanshee: "Hey, Jordan Knight, just thinking about
you made me throw up a little."
KristaBat: don't worry. i swallowed it.
missbanshee: I did that for you, Jordan Knight
missbanshee: You know what, K-Bat?
KristaBat: ?
missbanshee: You've got the right stuff, baby
KristaBat: shut.
KristaBat: up.
KristaBat: oh
KristaBat: oh
KristaBat: oh
KristaBat: oh
KristaBat: oh
KristaBat: HA!
KristaBat: dude. i know the fucking DANCE
missbanshee: "Well, look at it this way, Jordan Knight.
You could always hang yourself like Jonathan Brandis.
People would remember you then."
missbanshee: "Never forget about suicide, Jordan
Knight,"
KristaBat: it's really the only way.
missbanshee: It's really your only option, Jordan
Knight.
KristaBat: killllllll
missbanshee: Do it, Jordan Knight. Get the rope.
KristaBat: here Jordan Knight, let me kick that chair
out from under you...
missbanshee: You have nothing to live for anymore,
Jordan Knight. Go with a little dignity. On your own
terms and all
missbanshee: Do it.
KristaBat: i mean, you're already wearing swishy
pants...
KristaBat: who cares if you shit yourself...
missbanshee: there's nowhere to go now but down
missbanshee: you're already giving hummers for crank,
Jordan Knight, don't think we don't know
KristaBat: i'm in a band called hummers for crank.
KristaBat: do you want to be in my band?
missbanshee: HAHAAAAAAAAAAAAA
missbanshee: crying again...
KristaBat: here, Jordan Knight, have a tambourine.
missbanshee: BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
KristaBat: i don't think i've laughed this hard in
YEARS.
missbanshee: Shake that thang, Jordan Knight.
missbanshee: neither have I
missbanshee: I can barely see
KristaBat: me either.
KristaBat: i have so much work to do too!
KristaBat: HA!
missbanshee: SO DO I!
missbanshee: ARGH!
missbanshee: a little bit
KristaBat: JORDAN!
KristaBat: what a fucking gay-ass name!!
KristaBat: dude.
missbanshee: Well, think of it this way. Even as he's
swinging from a noose, covered in his own poo...
missbanshee: At least he didn't look like a chimp.
KristaBat: when he was in NKOTB he used to have
to go out and wear "a hat and glasses"
KristaBat: so girls wouldn't recognize him.
missbanshee: Krista, he had to travel INCOGNITO
missbanshee: Like a SPY
missbanshee: Jordan Knight, were you really a spy?
KristaBat: and last night i was totally talking to him
about like Husker Du and Bob Mould's solo career!
missbanshee: Did he have ANY idea what you were
talking about?
KristaBat: NO!
KristaBat: HA!
missbanshee: I can't believe he OUTED himself as
JORDAN KNIGHT
missbanshee: I would have been like, uh, my name's
Bob
KristaBat: i KNOW!
he was like, "i was the LEAD SINGER in new kids on
the block..."
KristaBat: HA!
missbanshee: STOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
missbanshee: "Seriously, Jordan Knight, it's time to get
the gun."
KristaBat: i'm going to fall out of my chair.
KristaBat: okay.
KristaBat: work.
missbanshee: we need to stop
missbanshee: for a bit
KristaBat: more later.
missbanshee: saving conversation...now
KristaBat: yes.
KristaBat: me too!
missbanshee: HA!
KristaBat: oh god.

This just in: Hookers have feelings too

Found this on Metafilter this morning. Apparently, a college journalist wanted to end his column with a bang (horrible pun intended) and go to a brothel to request a cuddle. The experience was not what he expected.

Now, I'll be honest. I went into this skeptical, but my immediate reaction to reading it was that it was overly twee, but enjoyable. I felt it was touching and well-described. It may have intruded on my heart a little bit.

Of course, the feminist in me swelled up and whacked me upside the head soon after. I started mentally grumbling about white, middle class male privilege, and how "shocking and unexpected" finding that prostitutes are people too is, zowie my goodness, what a revelation. I became a little ashamed of myself, and figured I would immediately be banned from Jezebel, at the least.

Still, I'm not entirely full of hateration. It's an interesting topic, at least, and certainly one for discussion. And I am glad that, however blatantly obvious, this guy had his prank turn on him, and maybe made him think about societal preconceptions and how they so often differ from reality.

It's an obvious revelation, to be sure, but it was also something that caught my attention and made me shake the cobwebs from my brain early on a Sunday morning. There's something to be said for that.

I still wish he would have played Scattergories with her, though.

I'm a New Yorker. Got a problem with that?

I was born and raised in New Jersey. I am not ashamed of this at all. I love Jersey, and will defend it to the end. However, in all my travels, I have related to one location more than any other. I love it, I hate it, it is part of me, and will be forever.

I am a New Yorker.

I lived in New York for only a few years, but, growing up less than an hour from midtown, it wasn't just "the city," it was MY city. As a kid, I went to Broadway shows in my best Christmas dress. I visited the Rock Center tree, the Met, saw the dinosaurs at the National History museum. I've lit candles at St. Patrick's, and had tea at the Plaza. As a teenager, I went to the Knitting Factory and CBGB's for shows, in the dark, cramped, tiny spaces where you always had the chance of seeing Joey Ramone shooting up in the corner. I got served at the Bar 55 before my sixteenth birthday. I was often mistaken for homeless. Back then, this was cool.

I moved to the city from Boston after college. I love Boston with all my heart, but that's another post for another time. I lived on the edge of lower Harlem on the West Side, in a neighborhood where I had Glatt Kosher Chinese food and Barney Greengrass and muti-millionaires living across the street from housing projects. I loved my neighborhood. I had a microscopic studio apartment with a waterbug problem and an old AC vent that was constantly leaking, no matter how many times it was patched. It was the most perfect apartment in the world. I worked thousands of temp jobs, modeled for shoe companies and makeup demonstrations. I acted in Lower East Side theaters with more rats than actors. Kevin Bacon's kids played with my neighbors' kids. I bought knock-off designer purses and had Dim Sum in Chinatown. I would walk from 93rd St. to the Village and back on the weekends for kicks, people-watching through Jackie-O sunglasses. I ate shady burritos and Ethiopian food. I loved every minute of it, even when I hated it.

I saw my world explode.

I left the City eight days later. I haven't lived there since. It's too hard, too fast, too crowded and too nerve-wracking for my often-fragile psyche. But I am still a New Yorker. Always will be.

Smithsonian Magazine puts being a "rude, crude New Yorker" in a lovely light.

Things I've Learned From TV This Week

It's May sweeps, and I am television's bitch. Let's run down all we've learned so far.

Don't ever take flu medication and get into a bus crash.

Fatties are beautiful, and Top Model is still rigged.

Little children are evil.

I hate Meredith Gray and her stupid, whiny, squinty face.

America loves the song stylings of an abused pre-adolescent and a gigantically cranium-ed bartender.

Barney Stinson is the most legend-wait for it-dary character on television.

Michael Scott often makes me sad.

Methinks it's time for a haircut.

This is what I look like in the morning.

Fierce!

Today's Actual Conversation: Customer Service Edition!

Scene: CVS checkout. Feeling rather fabulous in my kick ass new t-shirt (thanks, Krista!!!) that reads: "Rehab is the New Black." All I want is to pay for my contact lens solution and a pack of cigarettes and proceed with my day. No such luck.

Wonky-Eyed Cashier: *hushed weird whisper* Your shirt...Rehab is the New Black...I don't get it.

Me: Oh, it's a joke-

WEC: Is that...like...when black people call other black people n---

Me: NO! No no no! It's like "pink is the new black" or "skinny jeans are the new black" or something - it's a joke!

WEC: So...it's a racial thing?

Me: Jesus, NO! Nothing like that!!! It's a FASHION thing, don't you watch Project RUNWAY, it's a joke, oh my GOD.

WEC: Oh...I don't get it. Do you need matches?

Me: I am so blogging about this.