Man of My Dreams

When I was very, very small, I had a dream.  In this dream, a bad man was executed.  First, his skin was peeled off.  Then, his muscles were boiled off.  His skeleton fell apart, and so he was nothing but veins and teeth and eyeballs.

He didn't die--in fact, he managed to escape into the woods.

I've always been prone to recurring dreams, and as I watched and rewatched the bad man's unsuccessful execution, he watched me.  In perfect dream-logic, I knew he was angry at me for witnessing his humiliation and escape.  And that when he got better, he would come for me.

He did.

It took a couple of years, but I dreamt of a house.  A giant, ancient, four-story house where the rooms were connected by balconies overlooking a central great room.  I was in my early teens at this point, and Antiques Roadshow was pretty much the greatest thing ever.  So while the adults argued over boring legal stuff, I went exploring in rooms untouched for years.

He was following me.

Not obviously, but lurking in shadows and flitting out of the furthest reaches of my field of vision as I turned my head.  He was keeping some distance, so I pretended I didn't see him.  I slowly began making my way back to the great room, where the adults still shouted.  I still stopped in several rooms--my curiosity was unabated, and I didn't want to blow my cover.  As I got closer to the stairs, I realized:  He knew I knew.  He was teasing me, luring me into a false sense of security. 

I abandoned a trunk of clothes and toys and hurried to the door, trying to look casual.  The staircase was a large stone spiral, and the sound of my footsteps was so much louder than I wished--not casual at all.  I abandoned that tack and ran.  The man--all in black, with a hoodie or jacket pulled up so I could never see his face--his footsteps echoed above me, gaining on me.

I missed the door to the first floor, which would have led me to the great room, to my family.  It was too far from the stairs to that huge room, and he was too close behind me.  I'd never make it.  I kept going down.

There were several basements, and all of them were twisty and confusing and damp and cold and dark.  It seemed I could keep going down those stairs forever.  But he was very close behind me now, just around the bend of the spiral.  Desperate, I ducked into a room and hid behind the open door.

There was immediate silence.  Had the man in black run past me?  Or was he standing on the other side of my door, relishing my fear while he waited for the perfect moment to grab me?

I wake up at this point. 

I've had this dream so often now that I know that house backwards and forwards.  I know all the basements now, and where the kitchen is (on the far side of the house on the first floor, with a large table for prepping), and what the exterior looks like (large tidy lawn, bushes below the first floor windows, six stairs leading to the heavy double front doors, columns holding the balcony above).

But the man in black isn't trapped in this house.  He lurks in dreams about my job, about grocery shopping, about cupcakes and any other crazy thing that swirls through my sleeping brain.  In these other dreams, he's at his scariest--he waits.

Oh Yeah, I Know How To Party

Last night I had a beer with the Kirby salesmen who were trying to sell the Dude a vacuum.  I have the suspicion that an evening spent hearing a sales pitch isn't supposed to be entertaining, but it totally was.  Mostly because the Dude and I can have fun doing anything.

• Grocery shopping?  A grand hunting/gathering adventure.
• Long car ride?  Hours and hours and hours of pure conversational brilliance.
• Washing dishes?  Still not completely terrible.

Then again, it might have been the fact that it was other people cleaning the house that made last night so darn awesome.

And that we had beer.  That always helps.

The Three Things I Need Before I Can Achieve Self-Actualization

A K-9 poodle skirt.

I need more time to
Write really awful haikus
To inflict on you.

To be Batman more often.

Villains, beware.


(True:  This is my face.  Hi, Internet!  Please don't do anything weird with my face.)

Five Things That Make Me Stupid-Happy

5.  Ice cream and beer.

4.  Everything about this photo:

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3.  This painting of a chair that you can actually sit in:

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2.  The custard-filled, green-iced doughnut with star-shaped sprinkles I had for breakfast.

1.  The fact that an English teacher reached out to me to use this post as a supplement for her high school students.  Told you I was smart!


(True:  This weekend I am going to Six Flags and a con.  Happy dancing all around!)

I Have Landed in an Alternate Universe.

Which I realized on Saturday evening, at a Roller Derby after-party with professional derby girls and Canadians.

Let's face it, guys--I'm not cool enough for any part of that scenario.

On a related note, Canadians really are as nice as everyone always says.  At the bout, the emcee hosted a game of scavenger hunting musical chairs.  One of the items the players had to find was a Canadian coin.  There was one group of Canadian fans.  They very politely gave every participant money from their pockets.

Also, the half-time show was a professional hula-hooper.

I swear to god I'm not making this up.

And no, I wasn't smoking anything, either.


(True:  Have you ever seen Roller Derby?  Because you need to.  Also, where can I take hula hoop lessons?)

This is the main difference between me and the rest of the world.

I came around the corner by my cubicle to overhear a co-worker mention a "Lucius."

"Are you talking about Harry Potter?" I asked excitedly.

"No.  Basketball."

Well, I'm sorry, but people aren't allowed to be named Lucius outside of Harry Potter.  It's not nice to raise my hopes like that.

In unrelated news, I think it's time for a good old-fashioned HP marathon.


(True:  These co-workers are now debating the best way to drag a water-logged mattress out of a public pool.  I'm starting to worry.)

Because PRIORITIES.

I went home last weekend to visit my folks.

I leave some clean clothes and a couple of pairs of shoes there (let's not talk about the books, okay?), because I pretty frequently forget to pack stuff. 

This last weekend, it worked the other way:  I forgot half my stuff there when I came back to Chicago.

Things I forgot:

• Mascara
• Deodorant
• Toothbrush

Things I did not forget:

• The new book my mom is lending me

(True:  No need to worry.  SuperTarget and priority mail saved the day, and I don't believe I descended into smelly-kiddom.)

Hops in the Right Direction: It's Normal. Or Not, But That Doesn't Make It Abnormal--Just Confusing.

My dad and I talk dogs a lot.  He and his dog, Linka, are constantly training for the rally obediance trials they do, and of course Prada and I are always working toward new body confidence goals.  Needless to say, we never run out of things to talk about, and it's great to have someone to bounce ideas off of.

That's one of the best things about having a dog--I immediately have something in common with any other dog owner I meet.

And of course there's the pleasure and satisfaction anyone who has adopted a dog has.

But having a special needs dog changes things.  Not only do I have something to talk about with any other dog lover--which, as far as I'm concerned, is anyone worth talking to--I also have had a whole new world opened up to me.

Wait.

That sounds way too sappy, even for me.

How about this?

You know, having a tripod, is like, cool and stuff, because I never really thought before about how, like, it would make me a nicer, more compassionate person.  Dude.

(Okay, let's pretend I never wrote that.  That's atrocious.)

In all seriousness, though, having a "different" pet has made me re-evaluate the importance, even the necessity, of being physically normal.  Normal is what is.  My normal, and my normal with Prada, is different than other people's normal.  That would still be the case if she had four legs.  Or if she were the size of a Pyrenees.  Or if she were blind, or petrified of squirrels.

So, I figure that makes Prada no less not-normal than any other dog.  And maybe, by extension (it's a stretch, I know), that makes me no less not-normal than any other person.

Read This! The Enchanted Forest Chronicles by Patricia C. Wrede

I didn't read a lot of young adult fiction when I was a kid.  I kind of skipped straight from Goosebumps and Choose Your Own Adventure straight to proper novels meant for adults (a lot of fantasy, also some improper romance novels I sneaked from my Nana, who had one of those book club memberships).

Nevertheless, the school book fair was always one of the most exciting days of the year.  It wasn't like the Scholastic book club pamphlets we got every month--those just had books designed for my age group.  Boring.  The book fair had books for teenagers, and while ninety percent of them were in the Sweet Valley High type of genre (by which I mean, romantic word vomit), once in a while I'd come across a book that piqued my interest.

Calling on Dragons was just such a book.  It was the third in the series, and try as I might, I couldn't find the other books in the series that day.  But the idea of a fairy-tale princess who takes herself out of the fairy tale intrigued me enough that I bought it anyway--and I was one tight-fisted little kid.

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The Enchanted Forest Chronicles remains one of my favorite YA series to this day--one of the best things about fantasy novels is that the well-written ones never feel dated.

Dealing with Dragons begins the saga--we meet Princess Cimorene (one of my favorite heroines ever, and pretty much who I want to be when I grow up.  That or Betty White.), who doesn't like being told that proper princesses don't fence or learn magic or cook cherries jubilee.  So she runs away to volunteer captive for the dragon Kazul.  There, she cooks, cleans, practices her Latin, and kicks some evil wizard butt--all while sending well-meaning princes off to rescue other princesses.  (Something about a second-hand prince is just too perfect.)

In Searching for Dragons, Cimorene meets King Mendenbar, and that kicks off two books of twisted fairytale fun (wait till you meet Rapunzel...) and the kind of grand romance that doesn't make you want to gag or chuck the book across the room.

Finally, in Talking with Dragons (or maybe first, because the last book in the series was actually the first published), the adventures continue with Daystar, Cimorene and Mendenbar's son.

Oh!  And if you read this series, make sure you get your hands on Book of Enchantments, which includes the short story "Utensile Strength," in which our favorite family encounter the Frying Pan of Doom.  (This was a thing before the new Rapunzel movie.  Seriously.  Check out the publication dates.)

And you don't have to take my word for it that this series is one of the best:  It made NPR's list of 100 Best-Ever Teen Novels.  (Just ignore the Twilight series, and the list is a very good one.  Should I be embarrassed that I've read well over half the books on that list?)


(True:  I reread Dealing with Dragons last night.  Guess what I'm doing the rest of the week?)

Prepare to Squee

Okay, guys, I have to apologize.  I was going to do a proper blog post today, but I ate too much macaroni and cheese instead.

So here is a comic to distract you from the sense of loss I'm sure you're feeling right now:

(You'll have to go to the link to embiggen, sorry.)  Thanks go to my friend Marcin for sending this to me!


(True:  The words "I really want to see warm bodies" may have just come out of my mouth, but I meant the movie Warm Bodies, with no implications that the bodies I normally see are cold.  Or that I see any bodies.  Crap.  There's really just no way to turn that around, is there?  On the plus side, at least my co-workers think I am a harmless sort of strange.)

Sometimes, I Think I'm the Only Pineapple in This Fruitbasket.

Thoughts from the past week:

• It doesn't count if it doesn't set off the fire alarm.
• I've been drinking just one Mt. Dew for three days now, and I have yet to kill anyone.  Someone give me a ribbon.  Quick now, before I fall asleep.
• I indulged in a bit too much holiday cheer, and I'm going to Mexico this spring.  Crap.
• That's why I'm cutting back the Mt. Dew.
• This might be the worst diet ever.
• Stink the Cat keeps trying to eat all the expensive dog food.  Isn't it dogs that are supposed to eat everything?  One more example of how my life is totally upside down.
• Acai juice and my sleepy owl hat will cure just about anything.
• Bankers do not appreciate sleepy owl hats.
• Fictitious blue PVC corsets never stop being funny.

The meds the doctor's got me on for this supercold have got me up most of the night.  Like, all week.  I'd like to blame this post on that, but let's be honest, here...

This is my normal.


(True:  But seriously, why is that whenever I make a pizza, the fire alarm goes off, but it doesn't when I set an actual fire?  I feel that might be a design flaw.)

I'll Be Beating Them Off With a Stick For Sure

I'm thinking of signing up on one of those dating sites, and I'm hoping you guys can help me edit my profile.


Name:  Dana the Biped (Prada the Puff and Stink are freebies.  Or an entourage, if you think that's cooler.  Whatever.  We're a group package.  I really hope you don't have allergies.)

Date of Birth:  Old enough to buy beer, young enough to still get carded for buying beer.  Old enough for my great-aunts to think I'm a spinster, young enough to want to punch them for it.*

*I do not actually condone great-aunt-punching.

Occupation:  Full-time office drudge, part-time blogger/karaoke jockey.  I'm a "slash"--like the Midwest's version of Paris Hilton, except I know what Walmart is and my boobs are real.

About me:  Well, I've got a fair few skills that would help in a zombie apocalypse.  I know how to use a chainsaw and drive a manual transmission.  I'm great to have around in an emergency--I've set my kitchen on fire enough times to know that panicking helps nothing. 

I love to eat, so I'd be a great test subject for anyone who likes to cook.  And since I'm a total whiny wimp when I'm sick, you have the prime opportunity to play romantic hero by supplying me with tissues, cough drops, and books.  In my free time, I like watching Doctor Who and not wearing pants.

But seriously, how could you even edit such a work of genius and panache?


(True:  I'm limping through the whole day with just one can of Mt. Dew.  I'm impressed that I'm still conscious, frankly.)

Window Licker

I'm prone to really nonsensical dreams.

Sometimes, the people are made up of geometric shapes in primary colors.  I still recognize them.

Sometimes, I dream entirely in green.

And sometimes, there is no "plot" or people, just a series of sentences and phrases that don't make sense paired with really strong feelings about these sentences and phrases that don't make sense.

This morning, I woke up urgently needing poppy-flavored Windex.  So, you know, the next time I need to lick my windows, they taste nice.  (On a side note, what do poppies taste like?  I don't even know what they smell like.)

I just realized, this whole post sounds like I'm on drugs.  To clarify, I am not on drugs.  Unless you count caffeine, in which case I need to join a twelve-step program stat.


(True:  As the holidays are over, I'll be going back to my regular posting schedule.)

A Word on Words

You know what's weird?  The English language.  It's a bit of a soapbox of mine, but I'll try to keep it pauciloquent.

Our idioms are strange.  I understand them, and I'm a word nerd, so I actually know the etymology of them, but there are still some very odd ducks. 

"Horse of a different color:"  I think of purple ponies.  Always purple.  I don't know why. 

"Mind your Ps and Qs:"  And Ds and Bs, because the lower cases all look pretty damn much the same.  (The whole beer thing is much happier.)

"Square meal:"  For some reason, our lesson on the food pyramid in grade school always included this phrase, prompting me to believe that diet and geometry were closely linked.

We've also got strange words like "blurb" and "oaf" and "quire" (i.e., two dozen sheets of paper). And what does "i.e." mean, anyway?  In other words (wink), what the hell are we saying every day?


I'm not the only one.  Check out these cool Internet thingers for more...

• The Oatmeal
• "Idioms and Axioms Currently Used in America"
• 26 Weird English Words from A to Z
• A weird index

(True:  Don't even get me started on ten dollar words.  None of us have time for that.)

Happy Halloween! (And Many Morgue...)

Ba-dum chick.

I'm sorry, I just can't help myself.

I was up an hour and a half early to get ready yesterday morning--my office does Halloween in a BIG way.  (As in, participate or else.) 




Your humble narrator and a coworker with a secret identity


After a full, twelve hour day in this ridiculous getup, I had a few thoughts...

1.  No one got it, and that's okay.  Not everyone is familiar is familiar with Roy Lichtenstein, 1960's pop artist.

2.  Better be confident anyway, if you're going to wear this type of costume--I can't even tell you how many chicken pox/acne/herpes comments I got.

3.  Wigs are itchy and best worn to bars.  Alcohol dulls the crazy urge to scratch.

4.  The expensive facepaint was worth it--it actually dried.  When I finally washed it off, the only issues were that the paint had melted away under the nosepiece of my glasses, and I had smile cracks on either side of my mouth.

5.  Go easy on the painted eyebrows.  Overdo it and you'll look a little like a drag queen.

6.  I would make a damn fine-looking drag queen.


(True:  I'm already plotting for next Halloween.  Is that sad?)

Advice To Live or Die By. Whichever.

I've written before about how I'm a bit clumsy.  Last week I fell off the toilet and nearly brained myself on the sink.  And then the cast iron radiator.  (To be fair, I was standing on the toilet, because...  You know what?  I'm going to just let you wonder.)

Anyway, I know it's really bugging you, not knowing how I actually survive the day-to-day dangers I face.  Well, I've got rules.

1.  When the going gets tough, watch Supernatural for six hours.  Most trouble doesn't last six hours, and if it does, well, at least it's not a brain-eating monster or Apocolypse 6.0.  Probably.

2.  Never wear pants.  Unless you're in public or otherwise likely to be arrested.  If I am going to die young, I don't want to have missed any pantsless opportunities.

3.  If you're going with a group, let someone else drive.  For obvious reasons, most noteably that you're a god-awful terrible driver.

4.  Read every book in one sitting.  When you're reading, you're immobile, and when you're immobile, you're less likely to accidentally throw yourself down the stairs.  So at least you won't die wondering how the book ends.

5.  Try to avoid your neighbors as much as possible.  No one needs to know you were the one who accidentally drop-kicked a heavy houseplant off the third floor fire escape.  (Learned:  Dirt explodes.  Who knew?)

6.  Statistically, more objects likely to fell you are on the ground than in the air.  So stare at the ground whereever you walk.  Just know that once in a while, you are going to bean your head on stop sign/tree/a stretching tall person. 

7.  When purchasing shoes:  Do the hokey pokey.  If the shoes fall off, they will at some point try to kill you.  Probably in some horrifying, public, and grotesque way.  You've got sexy brains, but no one wants to see them splattered in the food court.

8.  If it requires balance, take a deep breath and don't.  This includes riding a bike.  You'd be better off swimming in pirhanna-infested waters with a raw steak strapped to your face than riding a bike.

9.  Keep in stock:  bandaids, triple antibiotic, ace bandages, gauze pads and gauze wraps, moleskin, burn ointment, Visine, aspirin, and vodka.  Keep all these things in the freezer, since that's where you'll head first anyway.


(True:  My next apartment is going to be on the ground floor.)

And That's How I Died.

Luck favors the bold.  And also the uncaffeinated.

As proven this morning when I blythely walked right behind a car going in reverse.  I'm not entirely certain how I managed to not see it--SUVs aren't exactly small.  Or sneaky.

Funny thing about almost being hit by a car:  the drivers always apologize, even when you're the half-asleep moron that just stepped in front of (or behind, in this case) a moving vehicle.  Of course, the fact that the driver is (I almost said "was," but fortunately that's not accurate) a good friend of mine, might have had something to do with it.

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(True:  Aaaaand now I just dribbled ketchup down my shirt.  I'm such a catch.)

It's Official. I'm a Grown-Up.

Hehehehehe.  Snort.

Sorry, I really hope you didn't take that title seriously.  But it is my birthday, and I am officially old, so I've decided to go incognito now, before I start getting (more) wrinkles.

And because I've been in a go big or go home kind of mood, I decided to go incognito as the coolest thing I could think of:

Batman.  Obviously.

Also, I am intrigued by the concept that for the first time in my life, I haven't got stupid hair, and I am still physically incapable of taking a photo without looking like I have a mental disability or the worst facial tic in the history of seizures.

Anyway, happy birthday to me!  And thank you to my parents for having a second child, even though your first one was (and sometimes, still is) called "The Terror."  Let me know sometime how that turned out for you, okay?


(True:  The printables can be found for free here.)

Unforgettable... That's What You Are. (And Also a Bit Weird.)

(Update:  I should tell you, the the compliment I'm about to tell you about is sincere, was meant kindly, and was, frankly, taken in the same vein.  Any assholishness here is all mine.)

I have one of those faces.  Often, when people first meet me, they tell me I look just like their sister/cousin/teacher/sex therapist.  Sometimes, this is uncomfortable.

I've been told I'm almost as hot as my sister.  (Flattered, I'm sure.)
I look like a librarian.  (With the big black glasses, that's not too surprising.)
I look like a math teacher.  (Do math teachers look different than other teachers?)
I remind a friend of Maggie Gyllenhaal.

One of these comparisons is not like the other ones.

Obviously, I was beyond flattered to be compared to an actress I admire, and then...

And then.

And then, my friend continued, "Yeah, you're both manic."


(True:  The best part was when he frantically tried to backtrack:  "And you're both fit!  And brunette!")

What is wrong with me?! (Seriously.)

Walking out of the bathroom just now, I saw two co-workers staring at me, which I thought was rather odd.  Then I realized I had toilet paper stuck to my face.

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