*rawr* ph34r my l33t gamer girl skillz!

But first a laurel and hardy handshake and welcome to the new folks who’ve wandered into my corner of LJ. laurel714 you are apparently my twin from a freak accident involving baby switching, cans of kerosene and trans-continental flight. There is no other way to explain our similarities. Don’t ask me. I just work here.

Gamer Girl Moment O’Doom….

I’d taken C some lunch and we were sitting outside while he ate it. This is mostly because where he works is pretty high security. At any rate, one of his coworkers joined us and we were chatting pretty amiably about world domination. ( I’d mentioned my plans for world conquest.) Coworker asks if he can buy Australia from me for $10.
“Hell, no” I said. “That’s one of the purple countries!”

C was impressed with my gamer-geek reference and glowed for the rest of lunch.

This has been a public service announcement. Thank you.

FanGirl alert


I know this puts me dangerously close to the whole slobbering fangirl persona but I just gotta say this: WTBBQF?

I never, never envisioned Harry & Hermione as a couple. Siblings seperated at birth, yes. But lovers? Holy fuckturds, NO!

It has been patently obvious that Harry & Ginny and Rob & Hermione were the couples as envisioned by Rowling.

As for the drivel on that site about Rob & Hermione sniping – and therefore not being capable of being a couple, I reiterate – HUH?

I can clearly remember being that age and getting into fights with someone because I didn’t have the adult language necessary to explain my feelings.

Sorry for the rant and esp on a stupid subject like this but, sheeesh!

This has been a public announcement from a post by sclerotic_rings. You may return to your RL any minute now.

Any minute…

Heard this on the way in to work this morning…..

And even though, yeah – its a piece of fluff, its also strangely deep.

Unless I’m the only one who hears this song as this guy is doing what he feels he has to – what he thinks he must — in order to get through a trial? *shrug* Could be a meaphor for life, I suppose.

I wanted to thank everyone who responded yesterday with hugs, advice, love. I appreciate it very much. Alot of what I was doing, saying wasn’t …hrm…immediate? I’ve a rotten past. But I’ve got a fantastic present.

Let me repeat that to myself, excuse me. I’ve got a fantastic NOW.

Sometimes the past rears up and just bites me in the ass. And it doesn’t matter what anyone says or does. I feel dirty, used, old and broken. Like a discarded, unwanted toy. Intellectually, I know its not the case. But sometimes I get doubts and don’t feel worthy of the wonderful family; the people, and things that I’ve got in my life.

But eventually, I do get over myself. Purging it out of me where I have to look at it helps. Every time I do that, some of the scarring does fade. I am hopeful (confident?) that I will be able to put this crap behind me permanently someday.

So thank you. Thank you. I am not going to tell you guys that I’m “all better” today ’cause that would be a lie. But I amm not bad. And I’m certainly better than yesterday evening.

Going the Distance
Reluctantly crouched at the starting line,
Engines pumping and thumping in time.
The green light flashes, the flags goes up,
Churning and burning, they yern for the cup.

They deftly manouver and muscle for rank,
Fuel burning fast on an empty tank,
Wreckless and wild they pour thru the turns,
Their prowless is potent and secretly stern.

As they speed thru the finish the flags go down.
The fans get up, and get out of town.
The arena is empty except for one man,
Still driving and striving as fast as he can

The sun has gone down and the moon has come up,
And long ago somebody left with the cup,
But he’s driving and striving and hugging the turns,
And thinking of someone for whom he still burns.

He’s going the distance.
He’s going for speed.
She’s all alone, all alone in her time of need.

Because he’s racing and pacing and plotting the course,
He’s fighting and biting and riding on his horse.
He’s going the distance.


No trophy, no flowers, no flash bulbs, no wine.
He’s haunted by something he cannot define.
Bowel shaking earthquakes of doubt and remorse,
Assail him, impale him with monster truck force.
In his mind he’s still driving, still making the grade.
She’s hoping time that her memories will fade,
Cause he’s racing and pacing and plotting the course,
He’s fighting and biting and riding on his horse.

The sun has gone down and the moon has come up,
And long ago somebody left with the cup.
But he’s striving and driving and hugging the turns,
And thinking of someone for whom he still burns.

Cause he’s going the distance.
He’s going for speed.
She’s all alone, all alone in her time of need.

Because he’s racing and pacing and plotting the course,
He’s figting and biting and riding on his horse,
He’s racing and pacing and plotting the course,
He’s figting and biting and riding on his horse!

He’s going the distance.
He’s going for speed.
He’s going the distance..

Its Spaghetti Night

In which two bulbs of garlic are rendered* unto Casa Steele………

Garlic Spaghetti Sauce is one of the greatest joys of any human’s life. Of course, if you are eating it you’d best make damn sure that your friends and family are eating it too. Otherwise no-one will be able to stand being around you. You will literally ooze garlic smell for a day or so.

But its worth it.

Lightly saute your garlic first in olive oil before mashing the cloves. It gives the garlic a more rounded, less bitter flavor.

* – I like the usage of “rendering unto” as a euphemism for sacrifice. In this case it means to peel, fry in oil, mash and then cook for three hours in a tomato based sauce.

Yeah, she’s a Leo…why’dya ask?

This morning as we were on our way to drop The Girl off at the YMCA I asked her if she had had good dreams last night.

“Oh, yes. I dreamt of bunnies.”
“Oh? Big bunnies?”
“Tiny little bunnies.”
“What color were they? Were they pink? Blue? Orange? Polka dotted?”
“Snow-white bunnies. And they made me their queen. And then, I became the sun.”

After we’d dropped her (with many admonishments to “have a fabu day!”) we continued on to T’s work. Somehow we got into a discussion of Toys That Are Evil and That Shouldn’t Be Given to Children. Ever. A lot of what we talked about had its roots in toys that go bad, esp. in movies. But I got to thinking and I realized that there are many toys that are evil.

Here, for your edification is a partial list:

Teddy Ruxpin: What were these people THINKING? A doll that talks, that you put tapes into? Uh-huh. Every parent knows (as Robin Williams once said) that that thing wakes up at night and says things like “You must kill Mommy and Daddy.”

My Mom once gave Summer a doll that said things like “I love you Mommy” in the most evil, insinuating voice, ever. I swear it rolled its eyes at me every time it said that. As you can imagine, that doll got lost *very* quickly.

Actually, just about any talking toy should be avoided. They’re creepy. What’s worse, is that they have a tendency to go off in the middle of the night while you are checking on your child. Picture this: you’re bending over the bebe, smoothing ruffled hair back off her forehead. Suddenly from underneath the bed comes this bright, perky voice. “Mike Wyzowski…on the job!” it declares. Loudly. Right next to your foot, where its poking under the dust ruffle.
Why do these things go off spontaneously like that? Do the toymakers think its funny? Is there a little extra (a ‘daemon’, if you will) bit of programming included? (Subroutine F93Z, “scare the living shit out of the parents”, enabled….GO!)

Barbie clothes/shoes: Actually its more for two reasons. One – its not like the damn Barbies (at least in our house) *wear* clothes anyway. And two…”Barbie shoes” is actually a Swahili phrase that translates roughly as “Foot Mines”.

Polly Pockets. Anything in this line of toys should also be banned from sane households. They have thirty squillion parts and they’re all TINY. More foot mines and possible animal choking hazards.(*)

Matchbox cars Who besides me thinks these are just a prat fall waiting to happen? Hardware floors, staircases-you name it. Mark my words — one step onto a Matchbox car on a slick surface and you are doing a Three Stooges floordive.

Ello Essentially girl Leggos. These should be banned. Why on earth do we need gender-based leggos? *shakes head in disgust* Besides, they don’t work right. The little connectors fail after about the third time you use them.

* — my cats aren’t the brightest and Macha will try to eat anything that isn’t sealed into lead-lined containers.

Armando says…”Huh?”


To call last night “interesting” would be to also say that the Inquisition lasted a couple of years. Not that I’m comparing the two, cause last night wasn’t bad, per se. Just..not at all what I had expected.

Confused yet?

I’ll ‘splain.
No wait, there is too much. I’ll sum up.

So yesterday evening, I got home from work and as per my usual routine, checked my email. Lo and behold!, there was an email from MOM@ohmygawd.net (not the actual email address) entitled “Your Journal”. Naturally, I panicked. I freaked. I went back through several days worth of journal entries and was more than a little alarmed at what I’d written. Innermost secrets! Stuff that I don’t talk to them about! Yikes! Froth! Dogs and cats living together…mass hysteria!

Wait…perhaps I should, you know…read her email before going into Batshit mode. Hrmm…interesting idea. It would certainly save wear and tear on the carpeting and walls. Alrighty then.
*readreadHEY!readreadI DID NOTreadreadooh,she’sgota pointreadreadhrmm…read…*

Oh, dear. Well. Its not as bad as I thought it was gonna be. And she made a couple of valid points. Maybe I should call her? I screw up my courage (and believe me, it *does* take some courage) and call them at home.

One ringie-dingie. Two ringie-dingies. (bonus points if you know that reference)…Answering machine. Either they’re not home or they saw my name on the caller id and are postponing chatting with me. Fair enough. I leave a bland message and disconnect.

Now some of you may be wondering..why on earth would my Mom reading my journal cause me to go into full fight or flight mode? Well, here neatly bullet-pointed for your convenience are the reasons:

* Parental units and I are JUST now getting over some of the emotional scarring left over from my formative years.
* In spite of … or, hell I don’t know maybe because of our past I *adore* my folks. I don’t always get along with or agree with them but I do love them very much.
* That being said there was LOTs of things that I haven’t been telling them (oh, EVER) because I knew that they would freak out, hire hitmen to come and de-programme me or simply withdraw from my life.

Because I could just imagine *that* scene.

“Hi Mom. I’m bisexual, kinky, waaaaaaaay flirtatious, poly and oh, by the way am raising your grandchild in a non-traditional manner/household.”
“Mom? Do you need help off the floor?”

And as you know Gentle Readers, I have been *very* open about myself here in journal land. Which is at it should be. This is not a fictional space for me. I don’t always post deep, meaningful things but its always me.


She did call back. We talked and talked. I explained my point of view. She explained hers. It wasn’t bad. I came away with a few things from that conversation:

a. They love me very, very much and worry about me
b. No, they do not approve of my lifestyle choices but amazingly DO feel that I am adult enough to MAKE those choices w/out condemnation from them
c. Why aren’t I a full time writer? (*)

All in all, not bad. And mostly, I feel relieved. Relieved that I don’t have to smokescreen my life anymore. Well, at least not with Mom and Dad, et al. Grandma (paternal) is an entirely different story.

“Grandma..I’m poly, kinky, bisexual…”
“Do you need help off the floor?….Grandma! Stop crawling away! And…Put. The. Bible. DOWN!

* — seriously, this was brought up again and again by Mom. She feels that I have “great potential” as an authoress. Dad has always felt that way. I can’t begin to list the times he’s told me that he thought I had several books in me.



I agree wholeheartedly. Let me clarify by saying I *love* grocery shopping…when I have time. But usually, its something else to do on a long list of errands. But even when I am flying in and out of the store, I try to adhere to _some_ sort of courtesy. Staying to the right, letting people with 1-5 items go ahead of me when I’ve a fully loaded cart, shushing my child when she starts whining/shrieking/making that weird kid-noise that is akin to fingernails on a chalkboard.

At any rate, one of Ferret’s readers responded thusly, “

A problem for me is that when I go to the Big Grocery
Store, I have a LONG list, so I have to hit most of the aisles and the
perimeter. And sure enough, there’s an Oblivious right ahead of me.
Every time I pass, she somehow leapfrogs ahead, so over the course of
an hour, I’ll have to move her cart four or five times (HEY, LADY, IF
CHEETOS.) Or I’ll almost run over her kids three separate times. Or, my
favorite, I’ll remind her toddler to sit down in the cart just as she’s
jumping out. Four or five times. Because Mommy is either too enraptured
in reading the shampoo bottle or she doens’t want to stifle the
darling’s creativity by preventing a cracked skull.”

So I felt I had to add my .02 worth. My response (or you can read it there, whichever floats your boat) :

the darling’s creativity by preventing a cracked skull.


The Oblivious…I’ve seen them. They exist in two formats:

Format A – nicely dressed, hair coiffed, children neatly arrayed (usually in
matching outfits). They wander the aisles, ears glued firmly to their
cell-phones, nattering away to someone about what *fucking* cheese to
buy (“Now is that the Kraft American Yellow Individually Wrapped Cheese
Food Slices or the Kraft American Yellow Individually Wrapped Cheese
Slices? Because there’s both.”) Meanwhile their child/ren are busily
pulling random items off the shelves and depositing them in other
people’s carts. (*)

Format B – slack-jawed, Kool-Aid stained,
mouth-breathers with snot-covered, dishevelled children. They wander
the aisles, ears glued to their cell-phones, screeching about so and
so’s private business. (And no, I did NOT need to hear that about
Becky-Sue-Angela, kthx.) Meanwhile, their children wander the aisles at
a dead-run, screeching in imitation of their frosted-blue-eye-shadowed,
Kroger-footed(**) mothers.

(*) Behaviour I have seen with
my own eyes. When you call them on it, they run back to their parents
who give you a Look and an eye roll.

(**) Kroger-feet = the
icky black coating that covers someone’s foot after wandering around
grocery stores/parking lots/malls without shoes.