The Daily Blogger (lie)

           back

July 27 — Fun with Photoshop!

June 26 — I'll welcome him in…

I’d like to take a moment to celebrate my oldest and dearest friend, Self Pity. SP and I go waaaay back. As far back as I can recall, he’s been right beside me. Though at times a bit of a nagger, he’s always there to comfort me when things don’t quite go my way, or I’m feeling a bit down and out. 

I’m fortunate to have him, I am. Without him, I’d never be able to cry or feel like the whole world was against me. I’d never be able to have “end it all” fantasies or pray to be struck by lightning or swallowed whole by the earth.

So, with that in mind, I’ll tell you about my evening.

My younger sister turned 21-years-old today. She was married last March; she gave birth to her first baby, Thomas Gregory, a week ago (the day after I got back from Europe). Mum and Dad took us all to dinner to celebrate Lydia’s new “Legally Buy Alcohol” status.

Since the birth of Baby Greg, Lydia’s had an awful lot of people constantly giving her advice. It’s nearly non-stop and driving her insane; and who could blame her? There’s only so much “You shouldn’t hold him so often” and “Why are you breastfeeding again?” that a new mum can take.

More of that advice was going around the dinner table as we ate. I said something to the effect that our Mum knows what she’s talking about, as she’s been a mother a very long time. Lydia replied, “Well, what do I know? I’m just a mother!”

For whatever reason, SP decided at that moment to sit next to me and whisper in my ear his usual sour-nothings. It came out this way, “Yeah, and I’m not. I’m not a mother.” I directed the comment at Lydia, and she shook her head in agreement and grinned a close-lipped smirk. It stung.

It stung more than I realized. Unbelievably, I felt like I could tear up at any moment, so I excused myself and went to the bathroom. I got into the stall, closed and locked the door, and did something I almost never do…

I cried.

I couldn’t believe it. Why the hell was I crying? Old SP reminded me why, subtly but firmly: “You’re not a mother… Hell, you don’t even have a boyfriend! Who would want you? Who will ever want you?”

Tried as I might, I couldn’t rid my mind of his voice. The phrases repeated over and over again in a grotesque dance through my skull. “Who will ever want you?”

I washed my face and tried my best to look normal. I guess it worked because when I got back to the table, no one noticed. I made it through the rest of the meal and kept quiet…what was there to say?

On the drive home, SP just kept whispering, “No one will ever want you!” “You’re not a mother.” And I listened to him. I listened and believed him…I felt it in my bones that he was right. He continued his poisonous mantra: “You don’t have a husband. You don’t have any children. What are you? What do you have? You are nothing…” I didn’t have any good answers for him. I began to cry again, and as the roads were slick and the tears were beginning to blur them further, I realized I had to knock it off. I cranked up the radio and flipped around a bit. The irony that a d-jay chose that exact moment to play “I Will Survive” wasn’t lost on me, but I didn’t have the heart for it. I flipped around until I found something a little sadder, drove the long way home, pulled up to the empty house and parked.

What better way to end my misery than sharing in someone else’s? So I finally started to read Gerald Astor’s “A Blood-Dimmed Tide: The Battle of the Bulge by the Men Who Fought It”, and believe it or not, I felt better. There’s only so long that SP can hang around when discovering what real hardship is.

But not to worry, he’ll be back when I most need him, forever lurking in the corners waiting for a chance to sit next to me and delicately voice venomous sentiments to a wounded pride; and I’ll welcome him in—still unable to answer his questions—and believe everything he tells me.

May 23 — Normandy or Bust

What does $120 and a pair of boots get you? Sore, raw hands, throbbing calves and blistered, raisined feet! But was it worth it? Hell yeah! At least, that’s the lie I’m telling myself to endure breaking in these new boots.

See, I got it in my head that, to go to Normandy for the 60^th anniversary of D-Day (and, specifically, to honor the paratroops of the 101^st and 82^nd Airborne Divisions) I needed a pair of combat boots. Not just any combat boots would do, though. I had to have the brown Corcoran™ Jump Boots (as seen on TV, courtesy of Band of Brothers) with the sexy “C” on the heel.

The cheapest I found them (in my theoretical size) was $120 plus S&H. However, given the quality—and my determination for the anniversary festivities—I decided it was worth the fee (this from the woman who never spent more than $15 on a pair of shoes!).

Figuring out the right size was difficult because they’re men’s shoes (the women’s jump boots only came in black, and I wanted the brown to be more like the 101^st). The boots arrived in the mail, but were too large. I shipped ‘em back and swapped for a theoretically more fitted pair. The new boots finally arrived and they’re still a little too long, but the width is good (and it’s too close to D-Day now to return them yet again).

So, now the really difficult question had to be asked: just how the hell do you break these bitches in?

I asked advice from two combat vets (of more modern wars). One just said, “Wear ‘em a lot.” The other still hasn’t responded, probably because this is one of the dumbest things he’s heard of. I remembered seeing Ron Livingston’s video diary for the BoB boot camp. He said one of the guys played hockey and knew the trick to breaking in leather boots was to soak them in water, then wear them overnight and march in them the next day. Since it’s the only practical solution I’ve been given, I decided to go with it.

I laced them up (with the standard laces, not the leather) and wore them around a bit. That was two days ago, because I wasn’t able to bring myself to shove these gorgeous brown beauties in a tub! However, my D-Day approaches, and drastic measures must be taken. It was time.

I put the boots on again. I went to the bathroom with a book and a chair. I filled up the tub almost to the brim with very warm water (not hot, as the boot instructions said not to…no mention on “water” though), put my chair up against the side, grabbed my book, pulled my track pants up around my thighs and stepped in.

It didn’t take but about 15 seconds for the boots to become completely waterlogged. I suddenly had a new appreciation for the poor bastards who wore these during the war, because despite the sturdy construction, they did not live up to the 3-Inch March Through Bathtub trial.

I plopped down very un-ladylike in the chair and continued my read through of Don Burgett’s “Seven Roads to Hell: A Screaming Eagle at Bastogne.” The warm water felt really nice on the tight boots (my legs and feet still sore from wearing them the other night), and my legs and body relaxed. Then, as I wiggled my toes around and moved my ankles from side to side, the boots did something completely amazing: they farted.

I’m ashamed to admit that I was so fascinated with farting boots, but I moved my ankles around some more to make the noises and bubbles continue. Small joys…

An interesting side note: I noticed (courtesy of the bubbles) where in the boots the leaks were. I know exactly where the water on a long march through mud would seep through to a trooper’s feet. It wasn’t so much the laces at the top (even though the water was up past the top of the boot) as near the bottom — where the curved piece of leather over the bridge of the foot and the leather that holds the laces meet — and from the join of the boot and rubber sole in the curve of the foot.

I enjoyed moving my feet around for a while and making bubbles. When I reached a stopping point in the book, I drained the tub and stood up in it for a bit to try to get the water out. There was still a lot of water in the shoes, so I plopped back down in to the chair, placed my heels on the back wall of the tub, and the water poured out the back of the boot. My method proved to be fairly effective in eliminating the water from the boots. I know this because, as soon as I dried the outsides, I took the boots off. I wanted my socks to be dry before I wore these bitches overnight. I tilted the boots up over the tub, but no water poured out. I then put my socks in the drier, the boots on a towel on top of my ottoman, and the book in it’s usual resting place by the comfy chair. I wanted the boots to air out just a bit (only until the socks were mostly dry).

…btw, did I mention these things weigh a lot? I tested it with my scale. I thought the boots weighed about 2-3 lbs apiece. I weighed myself, then put the boots on and weighed me again. I was 8lbs heavier. I knew that couldn’t be right, so I took a BM, and it settled down to just 5lbs for the pair…

Once the socks were mostly dry I put them back on, then put the boots back on and laced them up tightly… which is why my hands are sore and raw, my calves are throbbing, my feet look like raisins, and I’m out 100 bucks.

The boots are pretty tight and solid. They're also a lot shinier after the wash! And, to be honest, I feel like I could go out and kick someone’s ass right now. I feel emboldened, powerful, strong…most importantly, I feel cool.

Seven Days: Normandy or Bust!

May 5 — The Grudges We Keep

April 7 — Hasselhoffilate!

I desperately need one of these for my work. I got it off Fark.com, and I can't remember who made it, but it absolutely rocks. For those in the photo manipulation industry, I'm sure you can relate:

March 17 — Punk in Drublic

The Irish-American Heritage Society—who runs the SAINT Patrick's Day parade in Augusta, GA—has banned the use of crosses or anything else "controversial" from the parade. They've said they are celebrating the "other things" that SAINT Patrick's Day has come to mean…

…like public urination and vomiting? I’m sure even Saint Patrick loved the gratuitous showing of tits and asses for 50¢ plastic, green beads. You know he’d hit it! No doubt he would’ve approved of pissing over guardrails and waving willies at Budweiser Clydesdales. No, really! 

St. Patrick’s day is an unbelievably tacky public holiday. What used to be the feast for a Catholic bishop has turned into many towns’ “We Don’t Have a Better Reason to Be Drunk Today” celebration. 

I think what’s even more upsetting is the faux religiosity that comes along with it. Here in Savannah, a Mass starts off the morning (attended by local politicians and the Grand Marshal of the current year’s parade). The local bishop (uh…my boss) blesses the parade committee before the start, and then the whole schweineri begins.

But, that’s the extent of it. Honestly, if it’s just an excuse for the town to get blitzed, why bother with the religiosity? OR, if we’re going to call it a true “holy day”, why not skip out on the jealousy little brother routine: Our Version of Mardi Gras Rocks! We’ll Show You, New Orleans! 

Who marches in the parade, you ask? Well, anyone who ponies up the $250 for the great glory of having his or her entire family / flotilla / dune buggy / ’72 Pinto drive or walk a few miles of local roads while being cheered on by thousands of inebriated tourists who heard Savannah has a “bitchin’ party.” 

Originally, the parade was for the predominantly-Protestant Irish families to have a celebration of their heritage. However, with the huge influx of Catholics, we kinda took it over. What you get is this strange hybrid of having Mass and religiosity, coupled with Irish families who just want to march to celebrate themselves…and everybody wants to get sauced.

So it’s not about the families, it’s not terribly religious, and everyone’s heaving…

 Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!

March 11 — UK kids are stoopid

Perusing the web on SomethingAwful.com…lovely little feature about how stupid kids in the UK are. The only reason this is refreshing is because so often the news portrays American kids as being the most hebetudinous — which, they are. However, I maintain that it's endemic throughout the world that youths, specifically between the ages of 12 and 18, are dumb. You need look no further than US and UK online forums and chats!

To quote SA: "Sometimes I think that every post we feature…is some kind of fabrication by a mad genius. At least I hope so. I know I've said it countless times before but I really can’t believe people are this dumb."

I think this stupidity rears its ugly head in what I can only call my own personal version of hell: internet shorthand.

Let me explain something: language devolves as it evolves! It's a proven fact that as languages progress, they simplify. Americans are notorious for giving everything a nickname, shortening words, taking out whole phrases and demonstrative pronouns and articles (look no further than successful ad campaigns like "Think Different").

That's not the issue, however. The issue is laziness — sheer, unadulterated laziness that's fucking our language. Stupid kids are dooming our future newspaper articles to headlines like "U Gt 2 B Kidn"!

(Although the recent [big city news paper] headline "Hix Pick Crucifix Flick" was an outstanding and spectacular example of current newspaper mediocrity.)

For example, this little gem from a 14-year-old in London: hey, im from england lol! but i have abt 10000 relatives in nyc….ok maybe not 10000…lol wanna be ebudz? soz abt dadisappointment..:-( is there any1 else who is really bored on sundyz i av nofink 2 do until i go 2 gym but dats laterz plz sum1 tlk 2 me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I think I just vomited in my mouth a little.

Now, for those of you whose eyes are watering trying to read that, I’ll translate for the girl (I’m guessing, since girls tend to post/chat more online; no sexism here, though — the boys are just as retarded):

"Hello, I’m from England (that’s funny). I have approximately 10,000 relatives in New York City. Maybe not 10,000 (yet again, this is funny). Do you want to be friends online? I’m sorry about the disappointment (presumably that she does not, in fact, have 10,000 relatives in New York City). Is there anyone else who is bored on this Sunday? I have nothing to do until I go to the gym, however I’m going to the gym later. Please, someone, talk to me!" (and for good measure !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!).

Taking out my asides, the above paragraph is 61 words. Her evil version of evil was 50 words. For eleven more words look at the clarity you get! Just eleven!

More, you say? With pleasure: im new 2 dis chat fing so was been goin on anyway im 15 frm london by der way dont u fink peter andre is so fit an buff i luv peter andre ne1 who disses him r jus mental l8rs

Translation: "I’m new to chatting online. What’s going on with you? I’m 15-years-old and from London. By the way, do you think Peter Andre is in good shape physically? I bear strong feelings toward Peter Andre. If you slander him, you are an insane person. Good-bye."

Her version? 41 words. My version? 46.

I think what makes it worse is that English people (with a few Germans, Romans and Celts thrown in) invented the language. It stings more that a youth from England would type it. Really, how much more difficult is it to type "you" rather than "u"? Or "are" as opposed to "R"? Or "be" as opposed to "B"?

If you are too fucking lazy for two letters, than u r teh suX0rs!

P. S. Also got this from SomethingAwful and had to share: Everybody is amazed at how the Japanese are so clean. I bet you when the average Japanese person gets home they rip a huge fart. What an oppressed nation.

March 9 — My Perpetual Problem

Yeah, I know, hard to believe it’s just the one, right? Well, this is one of the big ones.

I love to write. I may be crap at it, or mediocre at it, or hell, maybe I’m freakin’ fantastic at it. But whichever it is, I love to do it. The problem? I don’t have the stick-to-it-iveness to complete these stories circling round in my head. Now, this may sound just a little nuts (but that’s not really any surprise) but I act out every one of my stories/fantasies…in an acting sense. If a love-story is making the rounds at Chateau de Cervelle de AE, I will stand in my room and talk out all of the dialogue. No, I’m not kidding. I’ve acted out stories in this way since I was about 9 years old, and yes, it is terribly sad that I’m still doing it almost 18 years later. But there it is.

In any case, I get the urge to write the stories down every once in a while, except that I tend to only write the last scene or two on which I’d been working. Sure, in my mind the characters have complex histories and scenes and huge back-stories. But, when I write out those one or two episodes from their lives, the stories come out…well, in complete. Or, as a friend has said, “lacking any context”.

(This plays to the very biological fact that a woman’s fantasies are complex and involved, lasting for long periods of time and usually involving people she knows. A man’s fantasy is, “Damn, she’s hot! I’d bang her!” And then it’s on to the next. Voila!)

I know that I could be writing books if I’d put down the entire history of these characters. There’s no question of that, because that’s how involved the storylines are. I understand now why some writers go away to secluded spots to think and to write… It takes that kind of concentration on one story — involvement in the plot and lives of the brain’s very real characters — to write something so entangled.

And, seeing as how the most I’m going to get done is staying up until the ungodly hour of 3 am to hammer out two scenes, I don’t think a book will happen.

And don’t tell anyone, but that’s always been my dream.

Why this all came up is because I did just that…I stayed up to an ungodly hour writing down my latest story (well, the last 3 scenes in it, anyway) and had some friends read it. I got the following exchange:

Friend: questions

ae: answers

Friend: What inspired you to write this story?

ae: Well…that's kind of complicated…ask the next question and I'll think on it.

Friend: How long did it take you - from conception to typing it up? Did you have specific people in mind when you developed the characters?

ae: I've been developing the story in my mind for a long time now…VERY long time. It grows and changes daily. Seriously.

Friend: I liked it.

ae: And to your other question… Yes, I had very specific people in mind. "I liked it." C'mon, get gruesome on me…[you] learned long ago to be truthful, even if it hurts a little.

Friend: I was just beginning. Ok…here's the truth…try to refrain from cuss-words… I liked it. I found it a sweet story with all the emotions adequately conveyed. Felt like there was something missing and I just can't seem to out my finger on it. Also, don't get mad, but it was kinda corny. You know - warm and fuzzy.

Friend: May be if you fleshed it out more, even the secondary characters. Look, I know what it's like when you've been working on something a long time and receive criticism. It's a good story but not perfect and I think subsequent drafts will be great.

Friend: It builds up slowly and then…?

ae: Well, for a start: I didn't ask you to read it hoping you'd kiss my ass. :o) I wanted feedback…constructive criticism is, I believe, a very good, positive thing. Also, keep in mind, this is the end of the story, and maybe that's what's missing. In my mind, the characters are full and real and have this huge history together, which doesn't read well in the last three scenes. But, having to put all that history down is kind of a daunting challenge.

Friend: That's it. I felt like I was missing context. Why'd you start at the end? Will you write the rest?

ae: Well, it's where I was with it in my mind. And I don't know if I will or not…it's a pretty personal story.

Friend: Well I'll be here to read it if you do.

I share that exchange with you not so you’ll pity me, but so you’ll get what I mean. I trust this person’s judgment. If he/she’s saying that, I know it’s true.

I don’t feel down-in-the-dumps about it…more like frustrated because of my inability to finish the damned thing.

…my perpetual problem.

No, that headline doesn't mean anything. It's the random quote that ran through my head while I was trying to think of something clever, and I decided, eh, what the fuck?

Since I've not done my blogging in a while, I have a bunch of random little quotes and tidbits which I've been saving and on which I'd planned to expand. Given my general malaise (and a head cold), I'm just going to post them instead:

Porn Adverts: "The general rule about naughty guards"…got this as a porn advert "Canonic lubricious watchman." You have to admit…the porn spammers are getting smarter. I'm convinced that somewhere between the Boca Java ads, losing fat while gaining muscle, adding inches to my low interest rates while making over $1000 per day and getting a star for my loved one which increases my metabolism… somewhere in all of that happiness must lie. Right? The latest one I received was cryptically titled "turtleback corpulent".

I have a cold: My ears are humming in a weird Indian chant kinda thing…I'm coming down with something; it's getting more and more difficult to breathe through my nose…and the ears have developed this sound that I will give name to as "Chandramutugaluge." It probably means, "Ear Infection" in Indian…but it's the word I'm hearing.

What I want from a relationship: (Got this one from a friend)

Give me a happy-making, swivel-hipped, peachy, perky thing that giggles and laughs, and likes sex. All of it. The sweaty parts. The silly parts. The gentle parts. The frantic parts. The light touching parts. The hard pounding parts. Give me a gal who knows what she wants, isn't afraid to tell you, and asks what you like. (Hoo-ah!)

My impending trip to Normandy: (Tickets are bought now, btw)

My frustrations and tensions over going to Normandy are mounting. I get more afraid of dying in the plane on the way (or the way back) by the day. I really do. I have this terrible feeling I won’t come back…but it’s an irrational fear; not the kind of thing where someone knows their fate and accepts it. And, furthermore, it’s bugging the shit out of me. I’d love to just plan now for the trip and purchase my ticket and be done with it. But nada.

Still paying off Christmas (which was a zoo in itself)…not happy about having to dip into Normandy money to pay for it in the first place, but I am very happy that I got gifts people seemed to genuinely want. Mom loved the album I made of Papa Duewall’s love-letters during WWII to Nana. I think it really impressed her. I think next Christmas I’ll make copies of all the letters I scanned and put them in folders for Mary, Paul, and Lydia. Jeebus, by then Lydia will have Baby Worden! How time does go on…

Compounded by the fact that I’m slacking off with my “lose weight before I embarrass myself as the fat American in France” objective. GOT TO get on the ball. And winter depression has set in. God, this sounds whiny. I’m stopping before I disgust myself. (I did start the gym at the end of January, FYI.)

Actor-fan-secrets relations rant: (I was in a mood that day…ahem)

God, what is it with you people and secrets? I mean, who gives a shit? I mean, fuck…seriously, who cares?! Secret keepers are on such a fuckin’ power trip…they completely get off on having their big damned secrets. They never quite figured out that, even if they didn’t have the connection to “stars” — i.e. phone calls or information they just can't share — they’d still be a special people. They’d still have worth! 

It’s like their whole sense of self-worth is defined by a relationship with a famous person and being able to have some sort of “power” through secrets! Un-fucking-believable! It just doesn’t sink in. I hate that shit! 

It's very sad. And do you know why? Because not ONE of those actors is more important than you, or me, or anyone else! NOT ONE. People might recognize them on the street…if they’re lucky…IF they’re lucky. Does that mean anything they say, or do, or have, or what film they’re in makes them important? Fuck no. And I hate that a level of “importance” is given to people who pretend to be other people for a living. 

I am a star watcher…I admit it wholeheartedly…but fuck-me-Freddy if anyone thinks I’m going to give a shit about someone’s […withheld so that I too can have a power-trip secret], and consider it a “big secret”.

(Incidentally, this is what makes it great to be a fan of Rick Warden. He doesn't give anybody any kind of special information. It's the same to everyone! Sometimes other fans in the YahooGroup will ask me to ask him a question, and I say, "You write him! You're just as likely to get an answer." See there? The same to everyone…how hard is that stars?!) 

Nat's Birthday dedication to me: (Posted the same day as above)

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. It's my birthday. I'm old like you now." Gee thanks. Well, I'm not sure how to honor my friend AE on her birthday (January 16). I figured I'd describe her finer attributes and stuff but that would be boring. I mean, this woman is ALWAYS right. Well, there was this one time she made a mistake but on that same day there was an earthquake in Iran. Coincidence? I think not. 
    
Spoke to AE today and she went on one of her infamous in-your-face, Fuck-me-Freddy rants. She inspired me to list the top 10 things that I think irritate her. So here we go:
   
1. People who use people.
       
2. People who lie.
       
3. The level of importance given to people who pretend to be other people (actors) for a living.
       
4. The fact that cute little kittens grow up and lie around and poop in your favorite pair of sneakers.
       
5. Married people who constantly judge single people as failures in some respect.
       
6. People who take 3 weeks to answer a bleedin' email. Wait, I think I'm projecting.
       
7. Tom Cruise's fake-ass chuckle. Die Tom! Die!!
       
8. Men who can't hold up their end of the conversation. She likes them chatty chatty chatty!
       
9. Bone-thin women who declare that they don't exercise and can eat whatever they want!
       
10. People believing in propaganda, without ever trying to discover the truth on their own.
       
Well there you have it. Happy Birthday Dear AE!!!
    

***

And, there you have it. We're all caught up since the end of December. I give absolutely no reference to what any of this means…I can't anyway because it doesn't mean anything.

March 2004 — Veni, Vini, Vindicti!

As most of you know, my domain www.aesav.com, completely crapped out at the end of December. I'd lost quite a bit of the older stuff on the site—particularly the writing and photo pages.

I was faced with an ugly choice…redesign, or re-upload the old site? I started out with a few ideas and design possibilities, but I still find myself mostly frustrated.

What you see here is a work in progress, and by no means the finished result. I sort of like the switch to brownish-yellowish, though I'm more a "blues&blacks" kinda girl. Still, it leaves a lot to be desired. 

The blog is back in a limited edition. I'm not sure if I'll put the old ones back up or not. The pictures and crap poetry pages are still out of commission. Though, that will change soon because I've been writing again. I had a burst of creativity (file that under "list of things that sound nasty but aren't") and started yet another new story which I will never finish. Joy!

On the upswing, I'm now hosting my site with the same people who host www.rickwardenfans.net, and I've had nothing but reliable service with them for the past year. I'd say at leas 99% uptime, and that's not too shabby. I can't recommend them enough (oh, and did I mention it's also cheap?!) Big props to CheapWebHost.us!

Yes, I've seen The Passion of the Christ (a.k.a. Jesus Chainsaw Massacre), and no, I did not like it. It's amazing that so many Protestants are coming to love what is an essentially Catholic film. Theologically, it's flawed. It's based on the visions of an anti-Semitic nun from the 1900s (and deviates in significant ways from the Gospels).

I have problems with that. Plus, given the gore, Christ would have died long before he ever made it to the cross. Everyone I know that has seen it has had a different experience, so judge for yourself. All I'll say is, I'm glad I've seen it so that I can participate in discussions, but, in all honesty, I don't recommend the film.

Jesus+Passion+Gospels=Good.

Jesus+Passion+Anti-SemiticNun=Bad.