Supafine!

I'm worldwide.
Heal me. Finally put down my diary. I just couldn't stop reading it. But it made me want to know what happened to all those people I used to be tight with, so I googled them. Then I googled myself [kinky!] and found a German web site featuring flash animation of a marijuana leaf turning into an exploding joint. The site contained the phrase "Wenn hoid into de Ferien well A of sches weda wad wads supa!!!!!!!!!!!!MB July," which is adorable. I don't know what it means, but I like it.

Total exhibitionist.
Nothing is more horrifying and fascinating than reading your old diary.

Oh, dear lord. My God. Heavens have mercy. Jesus, Mary -- and Joseph, too.

Christ on a fucking bicycle.

This is too much.

"19 July, 1998. Had the accident a week ago. Smashed in my maxilla, lost three teeth, squished my septum, banged up my knee. Didn't feel anything at first. Then I got depressed. Now I just hurt ..."

"12 Oct. 1998. This is eight kinds of insane! In a week my life has turned wacky. I've developed a strange fascination with Iain Eastman, down the hall. I think about him all the time ..."

"29 Jan. 2000. I just watched Dead Poets Society. I am filled with -- an appreciation for life, a confusion for who i am, where I'm going, who I will be. I broke up with Iain a month or two ago. ... Soon I'll have new teeth, which, I guess, will close this chapter of my life, in a way ..."

"11 June 2000. Listening to "Car Toons," staring at stale Sanka, sitting on my futon in my new studio apartment in Fort Wayne, Indiana. This is so weird. ... P.S. Dated, and broke up with, Patrick ..."

"12 July 2000. Tango with depression. ... Matt showed me the picture he took with his accordian camera. Drooping eyes, shiny face, flat hair, weak chin. Awful. Not poetically ugly -- just yucky, plain uninspired ugly. ... I thought, If he can see the ugliness, everyone else can. Why haven't they pointed it out? How did they choke back the gorge to talk to me?"

"30 Nov. 2000. Patrick won't talk to me. I feel sick, ulcer-sick. ... I know he needs time. I just hope he doesn't break my heart. I hope England doesn't separate us ..."

"19 Feb. 2001. Ugh. Up too late procrastinating. Think I just made [a couple] dumb move[s]. Told Mr. Man I still had a crush on him. He was 'flattered.' Wrong answer. ... "

"03 April 2001. I smelled it in the air tonight. The scent of humidity, of things growing. This is the first day of Spring."

"22 April 2001. Self-identity. Oh, what a bitch. Who am I? See, I can write an entry that's not about boys. ... D'oh! Three more weeks til Graduation. And then ... settledness. A home, a job, and a new life ... lord help me. The one thing I dread is that New Life, Post-College will mean a narrowing, an end to cool times, self-searching, self-questing, new knowledge, etc. I guess that's where the library card comes in ... "

"11 June 2001. Smoking in my bedroom with moonlight streaming in. Worked at the Times-Dispatch today. Contemplating Iain, Patrick and Mr. Man. None has e-mailed, though I talked to Iain and agreed to meet with him Tuesday ... "

"07 November 2001. Part of me feels really comfy with getting married. The other part feels like, 'What if?' What if I lose all my feminist independent shtuff? What if it all comes to naught? Or is vanquished? Or is just a ruse? I just want to hold on to who I am. I think I can do that, especially with Iain to lean on ... "

And you thought I was writing personal shit before.

This is like a disease, this bizarre desire to share shit with the world. Just -- don't hold it against me.

Oh, by the way.
Case you didn't notice, I made a teeny weeny redesign. There's still a million bugs, but I'll get to that when it's not 5 a.m.

Support our troupes.
You know, I think we, as Amurrricans, should redirect our donations to those truly in need: Tiny stage companies, one-man bands, aging clowns, local musicians, listener-supported radio stations, and unicyclists.

Adventures in health care: I had the cutest doctor today. She was about four and a half feet tall and 10 months pregnant. Her name was Dr. Asra. She stuck a swab down my throat, and I don't even hate her. We'll find out tomorrow what my mystery ailment is.

Anyway, that's all. More web site stuff to do!

Access denied!
Argh! My entire life is one fat error message right now.

Throat: "Agh! Invaders detected."
Work e-mail: "Error. Access denied."
Cell phone: "The line is currently busy."
Calling doctor: "No one is available to take your call."
Calling wedding photographer: "Thanks for calling. Leave a message."
Printer queue: "Post-script error alert."
Quark Xpress: "Error. Please restart your computer."
GoLive: "Files Missing."
Internet connection [just now]: "Connection suddenly terminated."

WTF? It's like Y2K was delayed three years.

Anyway, i'm tired. Time to go to bed. Gotta visit the ol' sawbones tomorrow for some penicillin-substitute. God, I'm so diseased.

Too big for her britches.

So I'm sitting here like a monkey at a typewriter while other people take odds on whether or not I'll produce the HTML equivalent of 'Hamlet.' It doesn't look good.

I'm working on redesigning our little webmag in GoLive. I've only had this for a week, but I'm upset that I'm not proficient at it yet. Things aren't working as they should. Bugs and orphans are appearing. All told, a messy experiment.

But I'm also playing around with Supafine, so mayhaps something cool will come of it. Keep watching.

Bad habit: I really need to stop eating Redi-Wip directly from the can. It's not a satisfactory meal substitute.

From the "Why Me?" files: I think I have contracted a rare and bizarre disease: an interesting variation on the strep throat theme. Something is staging a brand-new and painful attack on my tonsil situation. On the downside, it seems to require antibiotics and a visit to Dr. Silly.* On the upside, it doesn't seem to be fatal nor ridiculously contagious. As such, I will cross 'Panicked Rush to ER' off my to-do list and replace it with 'Sedate Trip To Doctor's Office.'

I've been curled up with a bottle of Alleve watching 'Mallrats' and 'High Fidelity' for the last two days, if anyone's missed me.

*[Dr. Silly = our GP. He is by far the goofiest, laughiest doctor I've ever had.]

I love the smell of commerce in the morning.
Smooth machine: Guess who got her new toys?

Small Dog made my day by delivering my eMac Wednesday evening, after a long and depressing day at work.
Been playing ever since.

The scanner's a bit of a bitch, but we're working around it. Hopefully Photoshop arrives tomorrow. Printer's a doll-baby. iTunes is making Iain happy. Everything's so pretty. And zippy-fast, too.

I'm smiling. Finally.

Not too much else is new. I'd like everyone to congratulate Jen on getting a job in the Windy City! Her unemployment barely lasted a month, the lucky duck.

I'm all bejiggedy.
Oh, this fucking dream, man. I had this dream last night. We're living in California. We have a cute little house. But there's a problem with the house. The old dead lady in our living room is causing problems. Her brain tumor is growing into our sofa and making a mess.

We live in a housing complex that's part mausoleum and part new development. Our dead resident is misbehaving, though. I'm concerned, because I'm thinking she should be in a box, or something, not just laying there with her tumory, twiggy head on the sofa. I'm walking past other houses, I peek in the windows, and I see that their dead residents are contained neatly in metal filing-cabinet coffins, half-in and half-out of the house, installed into the wall. The part that's in the house is serving as a seat for a guy I see through the window. He's sitting astride the coffin, typing on his computer. I think, "See, that guy's got it worked out OK."

We call the housing manager, and he fixes the dead lady.

There was more, but I can't remember it.

Other scariness: So I put through the order [So I says to Mabel]. Seriously, anyway. So I put through the order for the new Mac, printer, scanner, software. Big fat charge on the little bitty card. But I did it, took the plunge, et cetera. Looking forward to playing with it. Hope nothing goes wrong.

Todd, dude, I want a mad lib.

All right. I don't want to go to work. I don't want to get dressed. I don't want to make my lunch, take a shower, leave the apartment. But, I guess I'm going to have to do that. It's easier to collect the paycheck when you actually show up for work.

Here's to hoping they fixed the bug in the database and killed the virus in the printing shop. Otherwise .... it's going to be a very looong week.

Ooops.OK. 'Case you were wondering, you can read the "about me" at left now. Fixed it. Sorry.

Oh, and another thing.
I meant to post about Friday. We drove down to Arlington or Alexandria or some place. D.C., I guess. Saw Jess'n'Greg, Jillian'n'Chris, Daisy'n'Jeff, and Bethany [minus Rob]. The girls were Iain's old high-school friends. The guys are their husbands/fiances/boyfriends, all very cool.

Daisy was cool. It was OK to see her. She lives in LA now, and fits right in, stylish as she is. [She was as impossibly beautiful as I expected, too]. Her boyfriend Jeff is an actor. He just shot a bratwurst commercial. He looks like a common-man's [?] Jimmy Fallon. He was the only other one who smoked.

We all went to The Melting Pot, an exorbitantly-priced restaurant, where, as you would figger, they hand you little bits of food for you to cook in a fondue pot. Our bill hovered near $400.

But we had a good time. Jillian is a whirlwind, a little suburban tornado with unbelievable-but-true stories of her time in LA, bustling into Gwyneth Paltrow's birthday party, buying a Prada bag to match her Maltese, things like that. [I guess her dad played for the Steelers, so it kinda makes sense.] Her fiance, Chris, was like a much-mellower Randy Jackson, if Randy Jackson was in med school. Bethany was as sweet as always, very interested in what was going on. Jessica was also sweet, playing hostess and just being nice. I think this was the first time I met her; I don't know if she was at the wedding [I'm horrible!]. Her husband, Greg, is a real nice guy, in the military, same mind-set as Iain so they got along.

Daisy took pictures, so I'll probably post one one of these days.

But really, it was a good time, which is unusual for me when i hang out with people i don't know very well.

I tend to clam up and do "Quiet Girl In Corner," reminding myself that I'm a very cool person on the inside, even if these schmucks don't bother to find that out. And i get all self-conscious and shit, and don't say much, and force a smile as I listen to strangers talk about whatever, and feel left out.

But this time my insides and my outsides matched, if that makes sense, and I was able to be myself and talk and have a good time. I don't know if it was the fondue, or if it was because I'm Iain's girl now, or just because these guys are so damn friendly and nice. I don't rightly care, anyhow, because it was fun.

When I said "We should all do this again sometime," I meant it. And I hope we do.

What would Scooby do?
Rob!! Dude, guys, say hello to Rob. Everyone wave. Say hello, Rob.

"Hello, Rob." Rob is drinking Miller High Life and, presumably, watching a DVD.

Yay. Anyway. I, too, am watching a DVD -- Notorious C.H.O. I wasn't sure if I would like it, but there was an interview with Margaret Cho in Bitch and I was that mood today so ta-dah. I made sure to watch I'm the One That I Want right before it so's I would be caught up. I laughed. Iain didn't.

There you have it.

Cleaned the house, bought some groceries, did some laundry, called my sister. Recovered from yesterday's full-blown sloth. [The saturday kind, where you don't shower, you don't change out of the clothes you fell asleep in, you smoke as much as possible and eat nothing but convenient goldfish crackers.] Too lazy yesterday to do anything but watch the Lord of the Rings special extended-DVD edition appendices. Mmmm-mmm. Ar-a-gorn. Dude. They should make a movie with Aragorn and Wolverine. It would be called "Bad motherfucking Ass." And I would pay full price to see it.

It's not even "Viggo" and "Hugh," you know? Those guys seem kind of sad and depressed. Give 'em some bad hair and a scowl, though, and I'm all over it.

Mix 'em together, give 'em a guitar, and you've got [my husband -- name removed]. Heh heh heh heh. I mean, minus the bad hair. Of course.

Great, now he's reading over my shoulder.

Uh ... and he says I can't put this in here. He says he has the right of prior restraint. Hargh.

I think he's serious.

I'll think about it. Fuuuuuck.

I don't get censored by nobody.

"Fine, put whatever you want in there."

I'm not trying to be a bitch, marriage is a compromise and all that.

But on my site i write what i want. So if you know who my unnamed husband is, pretend you didn't just read this.

He'll kick my metaphorical ass.

1,008.
Woo hoo! Counter broke a thousand, ladies and gents, this very morning. Someone must be reading! Come on, out with you!

Dude: So i had this dream last night. I'm evidently on an MTV real world/road rules-type endeavor. there's this girl who's my teammate. i'm supposed to slide down a slide on my belly, face-first, and i'm scared. all the other teammates whoosh down. my teammate sits on my back. i slide down at about .0005 miles an hour, with my nose squished in, feeling suffocated. we lose horribly.

WTF? That one's teeming with meaning, but i don't want to know what it is.

Sheeit. I really, really, really have to step away from this machine and go do something. I'm turning green. i'm getting carpal tunnel and hunch-neck. i think my ass is spreading to cover the chair. there's tobacco in the keyboard. i haven't eaten anything. i'm almost out of tobacco. i have to shower. Ew! and i'm drinking last night's pepsi.

This is so wrong.

Overload.
First, I'd like to say Raena is the heroine of the day. She's Dan's girlfriend. She lives in Australia. She's a whiz-kid. She rolls her own cigarettes, just like I do, and rocks the feminism, too. She's gonna be a source for my blog story for 210 West. And she's going to help us out with the site, too. How grand!

Fuckwad. OK. I've been meaning to post on this for a while. The whole Jayson Blair thing has me up in arms. I spent a few minutes looking for news about him yesterday. I'd link, but there's really no need to; type his name in Google and you'll get as info-overloaded as I did. Anyway, lss, he was a reporter for the NYT. He got caught fabricating shit and plagiarizing stories, and they gave him the boot. The problem was that he's been doing it for years. He never even graduated j-school, got hired at the NYT and zoomed right up the ladder to star-reporter status in a heartbeat. He had a history of inaccuracies and problems, yet the big-wigs at NYT just kept pulling him up and up. He was responsible for some fuck-ups with the D.C. sniper-shooting coverage. Basically, he's a shame to the profession.

As is Stephen Glass. He's writing a book about a man named Stephen Glass who makes shit up for his news stories. The real SG was a reporter for the New Republic, another flashy writer who zipped up the ladder without paying his dues. He, too, was caught making shit up for his stories. Now he's writing fiction that's factual about a guy who writes fiction that ought to be factual. And aiming to capitalize on his grievous transgressions, too.

It makes me sick. I spend all my time with the work ethic of a guilty Puritan, paying my dues at papers like the Sandusky Register, and for what? So these guys, who were given every advantage [race aside, gender aside,t he whole affirmative action thing aside, these guys were groomed for success] could blow it all on stupidity.

As the saying goes, it's not fair.

OK. Felt obliged to tell you that I fixed my archives page to look normal. Now if you have any desire to see what I wrote about, say, the War on Iraq, you can do that. You're all breathing a gigunto sigh of relief, I'm sure.

Rapture approaches.
Oh, baby. I'm just days away from computer bliss. Shall order my new Mac tomorrow, along with the Adobe software, possibly a printer or scanner. Bliss in sight.

Geekdom. Watched special-edition DVD of The Fellowship of the Ring today. Had to follow along with our primo hardbound edition of the book to catch discrepancies. I have no life on Thursdays, none. None.

Lifelong learning. Am teaching myself Adobe Illustrator on the sly at work. Fascinating. I think there's a lot of potential there. A new outlet for my artistic expression.

Travelin'. Tomorrow's destination: Washington, D.C. Again. This time with Iain to visit some old school-friends of his. And his inimitable ex-girlfriend, the one, the only Daisy Chen. I've outgrown my irrational detestation of her and realized she's pretty cool, and not some impossibly beautiful girl that I will never live up to. I mean, she is impossibly beautiful, but Iain's wearing my ring on his finger, so no more worries.

Yeah, I like it, it's cute.
Thank goodness for friends who are experts. My buddy Matt helped me work out what computer I want today. He's a computer consultant-type guy, and an absolute whiz with this stuff, specs and everything. He pointed me to Small Dog.com, where I found the refurbished G4 eMac I want. *Drool.*

Family-style, take two: Pictures of the clan, so you can see who all I'm talking about.

Nar! Foiled again.
OK. I realize that yesterday's post was over-sentimental, over-long, and over-personal. I don't apologize ... and I think I'll leave it up, at least for a little while.

The whole point of this thing [or part of it, anyway] is to purge my demons and get my brain sorted out. So there it is.

In other news: Seriously can't stop thinking about a new computer. Priced some eMacs today. With Iain's teacher discount, we could get a new one plus Adobe's Web Collection for a really good price.

That would be ever so loverly. Anyway.

Also been looking at plane tickets to Chicago [no more Renee Zellweger, please] to see Jen, Kris, Dave, and Jeffy. I'm really excited. It'll be like old times all over again.

But -- and here's the rub -- we'll never save up for a house if I keep spending all our money. Boo. So there's got to be a compromise in there somewhere.

The ties that bind.
Regatta was a blast. Matt's team -- the Men's Heavyweight Eight-member crew for the Florida Institute of Technology -- finished last in their heat, unfortunately. But they rowed damn well, in my opinion. [Plus I got to see my brother in a singlet, which was laughs enough to last me a while.]

It was exhilarating to watch. The atmosphere was electric. We got to meet his Florida friends, which was a first. He's a sophomore at FIT, and this is the first I've seen of his gang. They're all monstrous-tall, making Tall Matt look like Munchkin Matt in comparison, and making the rest of the fam look like Mini-Munchkins.

Family-style: Iain and I returned Saturday night, at which time I was overcome by post-traumatic stress syndrome.

I love my family. I will kill or maim any who does them an injury or injustice, and that's no joke. But at times the dramas, the sagas and the bickering are wearying to the point of exhaustion. And that point is when I snap, only to regret it later, through tears and self-loathing.

A bit of background: I'm the oldest of six children, borne by Mom and Dad, who are still married, and happily. I'm 23, Em is 21, Matt is 19, Kel is 15, Kate is almost 13, and Ry is almost 9. Baby Ry was born when I was a freshman in high school.

I suffer from oldest-child paranoia, the pressure to be a shining example, to never fail, to quietly bear the crosses as the family mediator, and to care for every child who came after me. I left home at 19 to escape it, but it follows like my shadow. I still have dreams wherein I must rescue my siblings from a gang of murderers. I manage to get them all to safety, but inevitably I am shot and killed in the raid.

Em, next in line, stepped in at a young age as the Li'l Corporal, commanding everyone younger than she, a slave to the drive of organization, alphabetization, order. Matt was the only son for a long time, subject to fits of rage. He left home and went the farthest, and may not return. Kelly is the prima donna, the Middlest Child, fearful of being lost in the crowd. This is compounded by her Napoleon complex. Katie bears a unique Middle Child syndrome -- The Almost-Youngest. Not quite the baby, and dodging out of the shadow of her charismatic older sisters and absentee eldest sister. Ryan is without doubt The Baby, infrequently punished and often-indulged, never above a well-timed tantrum, indiscriminate with favor, ignorant of the bounds of manners and personal space.

And so, nearly every gathering has an undercurrent of broiling tension, the accumulation of years of misdeeds, grudges, and preconceptions. Eight people pulling in eight separate directions. The tension wins out, I snap with a hurtful word, and the offender removes to a corner to nurse the wound. The guilt doesn't set in until later, when I've arrived at my home, with my husband, to brood over what harm I may have done, the senseless harm in lashing out.

Having a large family is in itself a burden. There are rivalries, alliances, battles; there is the never-ending jockeying for position, for attention, for love. I still feel competitive with my sister. I still feel pressure to lead, to perform, to protect.

But it's that last, the duty to protect, that hits me at the core, and is the base cause of any guilt I harbor. Because I will kill or maim any who does them injury or injustice, and that includes myself. Love and duty wins every time, for better or worse.

Burden though they may be, wearying though they may be, petty and bickering and sniveling and grouchy as they may be, they're mine, the first clan to which I belonged. I'm watching them each, as they grow; shadows of what I am or could have been or might yet be in each of their faces. We're bound together, try as we might to unloose the bonds. For them I cry in the dark, trying to shake what frightens me. For them I try to ease my own guilt.

This has helped.

The Regatta, dahling.
Heading north this afternoon to Philly, to meet up with my family and watch my brother race in the Dad Vail Regatta for Florida Tech.

Oy. It's not that big a deal, but it is that big a deal, because my family's involved, and Iain's involved, so there's bound to be some disagreement as to driving directions, driving time, hotel stay-age, blah blah blah.

Gives me a headache.

Anyway, time to shower and pick up a Mom's Day present before we hit the road, Jack.

Hasta El Domingo.

Can't sleep.I'm having major issues with consistency. For a former editor, this is not a good thing. My text is all over the place, my designs are wonky, and I can't stop dreaming about a new Mac and software. Ppbth.

Was just going to continue reading The Two Towers tonight and cash in at 2-ish, but can't persuade my eyes to shut.

Gotta be up in 5 hours.

Pulled an "old-MB" this morning and stopped at Plato's Closet before work, because I'm out of pants to fit my ass, and didn't want to wear jeans. Emerged wearing a new pair of maroon khakis.

You know, considering all the teeny-bopperdom emanating in waves from that place, I still like it. It's less hunting and more gathering than Goodwill, and it's still thrift. Well, recycled, anyhow.

Bah. Am going to sleep now. Gear up for Hell Day, otherwise known as press day in the weeklies biz.

Gah. Wish me luck.

P.S. Dan? You leaving yet? I haven't had a chance to write ... shall e-mail you, O Traveler ... we'll miss you, Photo Dan.

My superpower would be ...

All righty. Invested $4.99 in a new filter-cigarette rolling machine today. Gonna start rolling my own, but with filters this time, because I can't stand that tobacco-in-the-teeth thing.

Good day yesterday, aside from the redesign bullshit [why, why why?]. Stopped down at the Towsontown Fair, sniffed the pit beef aromas wafting around, made some purchases at the art store -- more turp, more canvas, more Cadmium Yellow. Oh, and an easel, which Iain has propped up on the patio. He's painting a Wyoming scene from the trip two years ago. Looks damn good. I tried a self-portrait yesterday, and came out looking like Monica Lewinsky.

We had dinner with Karen/John and Theresa last night; I had the ass-out seat on the end of the table, just like the kiddies in high chairs. Discussed age; Iain's 25, K's 26, T's 27, and John's looking down the barrel at 30. Makes me feel like I really was a kiddie, at 23.

Then: X2. Fortunately Karen made me watch X1 the night before, so I was primed, storyline-wise. I was pretty impressed. I never figured myself for a sci-fi gal. The story was a bit deeper than i expected [not much, but a bit] and the effects looked smooth. I was taken with the character development this time around. Iain was fascinated with Nightcrawler and Pyro's switch to the dark side in the porch scene -- the moment when teen angst turns destructive. I agree; it was well-done.

Fave character is still Rogue. My bro used to read the comics when we were younger, and I used to draw him pictures of Rogue, slightly manga-style. I loved the white streak and those gloves. I want to know more about the stories behind everything, but don't want to read all the comic books. I want one big fat graphic novel [or several],
Sandman-style.

And I was so excited by the trailer for Matrix: Reloaded. The Matrix holds a very dear place in my heart. Seeing The Matrix was one of the first "date" dates we went on, I think, and it was so good -- we walked out of the theater, smoked a cigarette, discussed the religious and political ramifications, stubbed out the smokes and went right back in to watch it again. And the next autumn, Iain and I went as Neo and Trinity for a Halloween party downtown -- in character. We are such dorks.

So I'm very much looking forward to the second and third installments; I'm not sure if they'll hold up to the deeper meanings gleaned from the first, but I can't wait to find out.

We had to watch Matrix again this morning over breakfast.

Those are the highlights. If anyone knows a good X-Men resource, slide it my way.

OK. Argh. This looks reasonably close to what I intended it should look like ... fucking thing. Agh. Christ. I need a smoke. Agh.

This bitch-ass thing!
OK. Had the bright idea to revamp a few templates. It's now some ungodly a.m. hour, and i'm driving myself crazy. This is what you get until i get my shit together. Christ.

Argh.

OK. Have become consumed with new webmag venture. Do not even want to count the hours I spent designing a new web page for it and working out some cheap-ass jury-rigged system to get us online.

Interestingly, I'm loving nearly every minute of it. And I know there's so much more I could do if I had a bit of start-up capital ...such as updating my poor old Mac from 8.6 to OSX, purchasing a bit of web publishing software, figuring out FTP, getting a faster internet connection ... the usual shit that would make this task a bit easier.

Since that won't happen anytime soon, I'm content with things as they stand.

Not much happening outside of the world of the webmag. Caught a Nada Surf song on HFS yesterday, which was interesting. Jesus. I think that's the only "outside world" thing I can comment on right now ... I need to step away from this machine and go do something fun.