True. Truer. True-est.

http://xkcd.com/448/
I went to bed at about ... 9h45 p.m. Central Standard Tribe.
I woke up at 1:24 a.m. Central Standard Tribe.
Realized some folk prolly hadn't gone to sleep yet, therefore I couldn't use the interants yet. Stumbled about the cabin. Couldn't find my towel to shower. Folded back to bed. Wondered where the flashlight/sanity/sleep was.
Woke again at 5h a.m. Showered, paid rent, tried to pay the water bill, kvetched.
Quit my job at 10 a.m. Central Standard Tribe -- apparently failed to clearly communicate/hide/? Either way, they

a) were paying me about $500 less than I expected
b) I was worried about a friend in Madison in the hospital
c) and they refused to communicate expectations/provide me with a contract to sign
d) and they didn't train me, then were confused that I didn't fulfill unspoken expectations...

Finished packing and entered Bemidji, in search of food. Direct to Co-op, do not pass go. Then, direct to Brigid's Cross, where they had... on tap... omg -- ROGUE HAZELNUT FROM OREGON! It actually didn't taste good at all. But the mock chicken nugget salad made my day. Now I have two shots of espresso in my veins and all is right in the world. Also, a quantity of good sheets/curtains ready to become speed-pseudo-garb, Holy Downtown Goodwill Bemidji!

I will tell my story over beer tonight to a friend, and sleep soundly goodness knows where and then return to home base, maybe, depending on where I want to be next. ADVETURE HO! Actually, I miss my kitty. Also, my kitchen. Prolly towards the real home base...

Piracy Check-Up

Good news: in spite of being a total n00b at this whole "counselor" business, my 1-week and a half review went decently. That and working in an office has taught me a lot about subservience, kissing ass, and good behavior.

"I just want the tools I need to do a great job!"

"If there's a problem with how I'm interacting with the kids I want to know so that I can make active changes before potential problems begin."

"I am concerned that I don't have a staff handbook, even after I asked for one. I'm sure policy has changed since 2005. I would hate to break a rule I don't know exists. Ignorance is no excuse."

bought. sold. priced to the highest bidder. bought. sold.

p.s. If you know someone/business/industry that is vaguely legal and bidding a bit higher, that would be nice. It worked out once that once the math was said and done, counselors made, what, 7c an hour? Admittedly room/board included, but still...

Some mornings it makes me bitter to be an economic chit.

Yesterday I was dressed as a 1940s secretary transferred via punk but then it warmed up (awww, legwarmers...) and I ended up in magic pants (omg great for hot weatherz) (I hear they sell them on the netarwebz?) and an orange shirt, cursing the heat, my weakeness, and our bouleversed schedule.

I managed to tank my immune system by lunch time yesterday, crashed out during sieste, went after dinner to the nurse's, teased them about hippie drugs, swallowed about 10-15 pills, and then proceeded to go to bed at oh, 9h45. Yep. Out like a light. And I cried. I cried because my cabin mate dropped by my bed to ask, "Who do you miss?" (I had mentioned during Bon Chose, Mauvais Chose cabin exercise that I missed a friend.)

I had trouble explaining. It was the nicest thing any one has done for me since I've been here, and after she walked away I burst into awkward tears, facing the wall, balling up the navy-blue comforter so that the campers couldn't here me, incapable of the strength to go hide on the back porch.

My campers even offered up a group apology this afternoon for being so "disrespectful and not listening" etc. -- it was the first day I haven't had the energy to be a SUPER MONO always singing and bouncy and bouncy and singing and -- maybe they thought it was their fault? I don't know where/how/why they thought up that, but they're smart, smart girls. It's an honour to teach them. I know they'll grow up so cool!

In honour of my restored health this morning, it's time to go chainsmoke some sense into this broken heart.

Important, for those of you who don't understand camp policy:

1) I can not leave site; it is against the rules.
2) My cell phone has zero reception on-site. This means, no texting, no voicemail checking, only using my cell phone as a phone-number repository.
3) If you have called, I haven't gotten your message, I don't know you called, and I can't return it.
4) There is wireless DSL. I check my e-mail at least three times a day. If it's important, e-mail me! Please!
5) I will have approximately four hours in town once a week. Every two weeks I may have 24 hours. This means, I will not be calling people when I am in town (unless you are a parent or grandparent, or possibly I owe you money.) It means I will be drinking like something drowned.

Please, do understand. Please, accept an e-mail rather than a phone call.

Left me a voicemail in the past three weeks? If it's important, you better write it down and e-mail me.

kthxbye.

Toujours ici, en larmes, en souris (not the mouse kind)

Good news: While other counselors were engaged in catty jealous backstabbery vis a vis my choice of language with 11 year olds (too much anglais!) I was discussing Berkeley and philosophy with notre chef. I was chatting with the CLV old bloods. I was rockstarring bigmoney luncheons in the kitchen.
"Need my help?"
Of course they did. And of course I did. And of course it was approved by core staff/the chef. Ladies and gents, you have to get up early in the morning to pull that on me. Just so you know.
It's almost time to go braid hair. I have 11 heads at my disposal, and they all want cute hair.

Onward! Pagan hairstylists!

La vie pirate et autres histoires de bretagne...

Day 2 of Piracy arrived with a celebration of DOM-TOM (Territoires et Dominions d'Outre Mer) -- i.e. former French colonies near to New Zealand and in the Caribbean. During a large-group language learning sketch the "Arrrrrr!" jokes came out, in French, and I collapsed to my bench and laughed and laughed and laughed and just couldn't help myself.

That's been happening a lot lately. Laughter from the bottom of my soul that bubbles up and leaves me "broken" and convulsing on the floor. It's a lovely feeling that causes much puzzlement in my campers and my fellow counselors. "Why is this so funny?" they all want to know. Often I can't begin to explain, but just shake my head and say, in the sage words of one Spaniard I know, "I'll tell you when you're older." or "Je te dirai quand tu est plus agee."

One of my campers with 6 years of CLV experience called me a "Swiss Army Mono" yesterday evening. I was styling hair, finding jewelry, applying eyeliner like a pro.

The camp nurse was thrilled to her socks to see me busily styling hair on the lawn during free time. She'd seen me a mere hour before in her office, cursing like a sailor, coated in bleach and shit because I had spent 2 hours with another counselor trying to unblock 4 difficult toilets (oh, septic system, how you cause me tears). She put up bio-hazard signs for me. *grin*

My cabin co-counselors are amazing. One is from West Africa, silent and sweet -- but she loves Amelie Nothomb and is working through my copy of Les Metaphysiques des Tubes (she'd read the inestimable Stupeurs et Tremblements). The other is like a blender version of my previous room mate and my best friend since forever. It's totally uncanny.

I confusedly asked my partner in crime for the day camp why I was a girl. I used to be such a big tomboy, I remarked, and I'd prefer to be in cargos and a t-shirt. We both concurred the the reason for our wardrobe issues (size of wardrobe is perhaps a more accurate way of putting it ... too big) and our copious amount of maquillage and hair styling product was a result of living in France.

I dressed as a post-modern punk goth princess for the dance. A bit of Chapel Perilous but with warm fuzzies. What did my campers call me? Avril Lavigne. There's no escaping that that girl has style BUT SHE TOOK BETSY MILLS AND MY STYLE! We we were wearing ties before she was cool in 1999! in 1998! ARgh! Then I had to stop for five years because every thought I was imitating Avril. *sigh* It was cute that she's the one they associate with a faux-gothique-lolita kind of style, though.

Confidential or not really to Sibyl and Miguel: I totally wore that silver - sequined tube top at the dance (though not to the dinner). Everyone loved it. It was the one you saved me from swap last October. It was perfect.

What did we rock out to for our best-est tekno dansing? Oh, Sandstorm. I knew it as DDR music, the rest of them thought high-euro-clubbing. And so we danced. The counselors have to dance to encourage the campers. Oops, like we need an excuse.

A Simple Day ...

... was a simple three days. The only simple thing about them was the only constant - the fucking heat. Holy mother of all, I have done that much sweating in years. I wasn't even in armor gadding and rampaging about the field of battle, either.

Simple Day was preceded by a former employer ( 6 summers of camp and language fun ) calling and asking if I was available to work, Friday afternoon at about 3 p.m. EST.

Yes, yes I am. They said, get up here as soon as humanly possible. I said, I get my key at 7 p.m. Sunday night. They said, drive safely, and we'll see you when you get here.

Yes, yes I am in Minneapolis-St. Paul right this minute, in a Caribou Coffee. Four more hours and I will be in Bemidji, hopefully in time for dejeuner.

***

Following my return from Simple Day in the sweltering heat (Awesome brunch with folks -- biscuits and gravy holds the key to my heart, even though Cracker Barrel uses artificial gravy *pouts*.)

I continued to pack. I packed I packed I packed. I took a nap. I wrangled sweet hearted and strong armed peeps to carry. 5 car-loads Sunday night. 15 straight hours of work, beginning at 5 a.m. and continuing to 8 p.m. on Monday.

Then fanciful dressing, martini mixing, dancing my heart out in honour of Lord Lothair's birthday bash at Chapel Perilous. Then, sweet, sweet unconscious sleep. I didn't even hear the hail. The hangover after moving all.day. in the heat, and not eating sufficient dinner foods? Exquisite. Couldn't drive my own car or do basic nargile set-up. It was brilliant agony. I did get 7 or 8 hours of sleep though, which was worth its weight in gold.

I started driving at midnight on Monday. I drove all through the night. At 11 a.m. I arrived in Madison and sat with Walker in post-op at the hospital. Then his friends forcibly made me nap (sweet slumber) and I proceeded onward with driving techno beats to fuel me.

Minneapolis St. Paul was achieved around 10h30 ish and I stayed with a Venetian whose hospitality was much appreciated.

NOW! Onward to Bemidji! It can be achieved, if fate is good. Bless all who have helped me; I will ensure that you are fully repaid in any way or fashion I may.

If I haven't answered your voice mail, returned your call or e-mail or message or comment or text, I STILL LOVE YOU I just have been irreparably busy. Please, mark it URGENT if it is, and send it by e-mail or text. Voice mail is a bad idea; and my phone may not work at all in the northwoods.

Boscobel, WI, or Warriors and Warlords...

Xavier wrote this post months ago, titled something like, "How I learned to let go and start loving the SCA". He was explaining about the expansion of his geekery to include the SCA. Xavier writes extensively about geek theory and the geek experience and mass media over at www.geektheory.wordpress.com -- now it is my turn.

Although I have nerd/geek/dork predilections and tastes in media, I've been quite careful. Mainstream folks consider that I am part of the subculture; true members realize I just dabble. I've never been to GenCon, and I haven't rolled my dice in attempts to resurrect dead team-members since I was in high school. I had a dorky reading habit, but that was easy to conceal. I've been even more thrilled with the Xavier-supplied "spec fic" because now when I'm talking about elves, I can sound official and academic. I had a geeky boyfriend habit, because they were so bright and adorable and chivalrous and I just couldn't help myself.

Most of my geekery (okay, so the Xena for President bumper stick isn't enough of a tell?) has been of the readily concealed, leave me appearing mostly-vanilla variety. My family and best friends know better, and nothing pleases me more these days than to hear someone stub a toe and shout, "Frak!" -- because then I can tell them that I am in love with my favorite tormented blond pilot...

As the daughter of a system with as many moves as an army brat, I knew that who I was always needed to be shelved to make new friends; friends who couldn't be trusted to understand. I've never expected my friends to appreciate or enjoy my bad habits. I would pass around great books from my shelves and drop obscure references that only I understood.

Xavier in my social circle led me a lot closer to feeling comfortable defining "geek" as a part of my decriptor set. He's made geekery more fun, more hip, and much more accessible. He's also right in that society is shifting. Geeks have become too important and their culture has been monetized.

Still, he's instilled in me a desire to drop top-secret phrases and search out reactions in faces around me. I love nothing more when struggling with a difficult bit of cookery or food out to say, "This food is problematic," and wait to see a face light up. I still get old-school thrills out of variants upon, "These are not the droids you're looking for," such as "These are not the beers you are not paying me for."

In his love for life and his dirty geek habit Xavier has made it easier for me to look people in the eye and say (I hope this never gets old), "I'm doing x so that I'm ready to go to war," or "I've been doing a lot of sewing for the War Victory effort," or "I'll be camping in Pennsylvania to go to war."

In the SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism) I've found something curiously resonant: there is a concentration of bright, passionate people who love their vices (be they laurel, fighting, or other)and who love to tell you all about what they do. I spent the entire event at WW connecting with people and talking to them about what it is that they do. Be it archery or baking/cooking or pottery or just old school SCA basics I didn't need to waste away, watching and dreaming at being amazing on the rapier field as I had done at so many other events.

The intensity of people who are filled with a desire to share what makes them tick, to teach you their vices of choice -- this past weekend was what I needed to make me feel solid and real in a world that spins under me faster than I can manage. I left a lot of the mundane world at the door and felt Lina Kirkwood slip away like water down a drain. Pasqualina de la Cotes de Rhones is a lot snippier, a lot bitchier, a better heathen-hippie-hedge witch and she is a bit of a trouble maker. I've been asking a lot of questions of long-term and short-term SCAdians about personality fracturing and how they change when they cease being "naked" and wearing "mundanes" and convert into this shiny new person.

I love that going from mundanes to garb changes a human so quickly that one cannot recognize them in the slightest. Seeing that conversion, watching them assume a more comfortable skin? The schtick, the fun, the riotous pleasure in a world they have created. Now I understand Sybil Sevenoke's post-war-hangovers wherein reality weighs heavy and every minute of every day is spent plotting an escape.

Hello, my name is Lina Kirkwood, and I have a wonderful bad habit that I love and that I think you'd love too. Let's talk about swords and food and garb and also -- being a "grown-up" that twelve-year-old Lina would be thrilled to meet. I can dress like a princess and coquettishly request that men carry heavy things for me, and it's o-kay. It doesn't make me less of a feminist or less of a woman -- it just means that I'm not always able to do everything I wish I could do, and that's o-kay.

Herein lies a place where I'm not judged; there's so little shame and guilt that I almost couldn't begin to comprehend the culture. There's a lot of knowledge and a lot of passion and a lot of love -- a love for something greater than self, or family, or mundane-world-job.

Yours in service to the dream,

Pasqualina de la Cotes de Rhones

P.S. Je vous vois a Pennsic. Je serai chez Terrafini. J'espere que vous venez me voir.

KWACS. Say it "Kaaaaay-wacks"

You've used it. If you haven't, you wish you did. If you ignored it, you've come to regret it.

KWACS.

Kitty Early Warning and Control.

See the military version here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/AWACS

If you chose to not pay attention when your kitteh tells you, "don't date this guy/girl" -- you will, oh you will come to regret it.

Kitteh knows best. Bettah than momma.

Maureen Dowd, from the NY Times

An Ideal Husband


By MAUREEN DOWD
Published: July 6, 2008

.... excerpted ...

“Hollywood says you can be deeply in love with someone and then your marriage will work,” the twinkly eyed, white-haired priest says. “But you can be deeply in love with someone to whom you cannot be successfully married.”

For 40 years, he has been giving a lecture — “Whom Not to Marry” — to high school seniors, mostly girls because they’re more interested.

“It’s important to do it before they fall seriously in love, because then it will be too late,” he explains. “Infatuation trumps judgment.”

I asked him to summarize his talk:

“Never marry a man who has no friends,” he starts. “This usually means that he will be incapable of the intimacy that marriage demands. I am always amazed at the number of men I have counseled who have no friends. Since, as the Hebrew Scriptures say, ‘Iron shapes iron and friend shapes friend,’ what are his friends like? What do your friends and family members think of him? Sometimes, your friends can’t render an impartial judgment because they are envious that you are beating them in the race to the altar. Envy beclouds judgment.

“Does he use money responsibly? Is he stingy? Most marriages that founder do so because of money — she’s thrifty, he’s on his 10th credit card.

“Steer clear of someone whose life you can run, who never makes demands counter to yours. It’s good to have a doormat in the home, but not if it’s your husband.

“Is he overly attached to his mother and her mythical apron strings? When he wants to make a decision, say, about where you should go on your honeymoon, he doesn’t consult you, he consults his mother. (I’ve known cases where the mother accompanies the couple on their honeymoon!)

“Does he have a sense of humor? That covers a multitude of sins. My mother was once asked how she managed to live harmoniously with three men — my father, brother and me. Her answer, delivered with awesome arrogance, was: ‘You simply operate on the assumption that no man matures after the age of 11.’ My father fell about laughing.

“A therapist friend insists that ‘more marriages are killed by silence than by violence.’ The strong, silent type can be charming but ultimately destructive. That world-class misogynist, Paul of Tarsus, got it right when he said, ‘In all your dealings with one another, speak the truth to one another in love that you may grow up.’

“Don’t marry a problem character thinking you will change him. He’s a heavy drinker, or some other kind of addict, but if he marries a good woman, he’ll settle down. People are the same after marriage as before, only more so.

“Take a good, unsentimental look at his family — you’ll learn a lot about him and his attitude towards women. Kay made a monstrous mistake marrying Michael Corleone! Is there a history of divorce in the family? An atmosphere of racism, sexism or prejudice in his home? Are his goals and deepest beliefs worthy and similar to yours? I remember counseling a pious Catholic woman that it might not be prudent to marry a pious Muslim, whose attitude about women was very different. Love trumped prudence; the annulment process was instigated by her six months later.

“Imagine a religious fundamentalist married to an agnostic. One would have to pray that the fundamentalist doesn’t open the Bible and hit the page in which Abraham is willing to obey God and slit his son’s throat.

“Finally: Does he possess those character traits that add up to a good human being — the willingness to forgive, praise, be courteous? Or is he inclined to be a fibber, to fits of rage, to be a control freak, to be envious of you, to be secretive?

“After I regale a group with this talk, the despairing cry goes up: ‘But you’ve eliminated everyone!’ Life is unfair.”

*****

I wish a priest would have told me that when I was 18. Shit, man, some girls get all the breaks.

La Casa di Oakenfold is Operational

La Casa di Oakenfold is unfolding and unveiling!

I am rather excited at the wonderful people I will be renting with, the subletters I will have until official room mates move in, and the opportunity to truly have a space that permits me to hold the kind of salon/hookah bar/exotic noms food parties I've been dying to have. It's a great summer space, it's a great winter space. The kitchen is squee-tastic and the neighborhood is perfectly not-quite-never-will-be-posh.

La Casa di Oakenfold features a vegetarian/vegan/exotic foods profile, along with gardening of medicinal herbs and a fellowship with the brewer next door (who makes the most elegant cherry mead I have ever consumed). I have much plotting for my limoncello and my raspberry liquer. I will be brewing absinthe

(Yes, legal. No, not a hallucinogen unless you're doing opiates. No, *I* won't be doing opiates. Yes, real absinthe with real wormwood based on a period recipe.) and he will distill it not ONCE but TWICE for me. Amazing neighbor.

Also, the neighbor let me sleep in his backyard, brought out a mummy bag base and a wool army blanket and wrapped me up. It was beautiful; star-filled and just the right amount of cold. He also rebuilds bikes. Most importantly, he knew I needed to sleep under the stars to be happy and brought me warm, scritchy blankets.

There are possibilities of other members of the Bloomington branch of the food service mafia joining me to broaden the spectrum of the hippie food collective and martini club. Oh, the martinis. Vodka martinis. In broad daylight. Yes, yes we did. Yes, we can and did. They were crisp and refreshing. Then we moved on to Bear's place and gimlets. Oh, tasty gimlets. Then we stopped drinking for a while? I'm not sure why we thought this was a good idea, having been continuously consuming vodka since noon...

It wasn't our fault that we couldn't buy bubbles for mimosa, or that Runcible was over-charging, or that tutto bene was closed, and then it was just too much effort. The vodka martinis were closer and easier, and my porch was built for lounging. The landlord found us, and only a sense of deep personal guilt kept her from drinking martinis all afternoon with us.

We're assembling a guide to days of the week and Bloomington drink specials. This is important for our impoverished pseudo-alcoholism problem. If you know something or someone I don't know, please e-mail or leave in the comments your favorite Btown drink special night or day.

La Casa di Oakenfold: lease signing will occur as soon as my landlord and I are both awake. I'm handing over checks and watching my bank account cry. That's o-kay. Crycrycry. I have my first shift in years at the illustrious mystery pizza joint. Those of you who know where to find me, I'm waiting tables noon-till. Then I'm behind the anti-bar as a barista at Chez Raquel's. Come visit me at one or the other. Both serve decent beer/wine and quite tasty food.

One is greasy, the other is nutritious. Nom.

I was handed my operations card as a renewed member of the food service mafia, Bloomington chapter. I'm so glad to be a card-carrying, government sanctioned drug dealer (again). Hello, Liquor License of goodness!

I spent my Sunday with a gentleman who turns into Mick Jagger when he drinks too much. I apparently asked him out on a date; I just wanted someone to have good conversation with over brunch (and as I had slept outdoors) I didn't have a previously installed one. I called him and told him to haul his sorry self to Runcible, and to do it posthaste. We split some tasty food, had a beautiful server who was perfect as a wait staff professional, so good I wanted to pinch her cheeks and buy her vodka.

Then we started drinking. Not like we'd stopped that long ago (sometime around 3 a.m.?). He was a great partner in debauched good times. He let me feed him, many foods. So if you can accidentally go on a brunch date with a boy, and then just happen to enjoy his company all day, that is what I did. Hi Mick!

debauched. sunday.

vodka martinis at 2 p.m. broad daylight. on the porch.

hellllooooo VACATION!

productivity... storytime with Valeria

"I love the staff; the 3rd&Jordan mafia is secretly an artists and writers collective. But since they're artists and writers, most of them dropped out of school. They're waiting tables to have money to pay off student loans, to move to New York or the Bay area or Chicago, to pay for art school."

"I stopped hanging out with them hanging out because they were stoned and drunk all the time. I was done with being stoned; and I had to stop drinking. That and stoned people are only funny to themselves."

"So I started hanging out with SCAdians instead. Well, they're not stoned all the time. But the drinking? At least they get drunk and then build armor."

...

[describing the policy]
"I drank. I went to work. Then I threw a fabulous party and many people came. And I drank. Is this what being a grown up is like, Valeria? I think I like being a grown up. Why didn't they tell me it was so much fun?"

Chez Debauchery v3.0

The drinking will continue until conditions improve.

THEY ARE NOT YET IMPROVED.

Drinking, chez la maison jaune. All weekend long.
We starting early, and we're ending late.

Ending? Ending?


hahahahhahahahahahaha.

Previous post brought to you by...

Sailor, Cassanova, Shepherd Buch (like in Firefly), and ????xxx? [we're working on her name as we speak).

They wrote the post, and they published it.

TRANSLATE.

/////cccivvv ofdppppp [[[[[[[[[[[[vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvhhhhhhhhhh'ccccccccccc.;pppppppphv

slip of the freud...

me: I know! and I can pro-rate the rent by helping install floors and pain.
win.
...
*paint

Theory experiment in tomatillo salsa

I understand the concepts of how salsas are made. The ingredients, even some idea of the ratios. I was under the mistaken impression that a salsa fresca could be made with tomatillos -- after slicing into my first several, that question was resolved.

The looked like faeries' parachutes, littering my counter, their husks peeled up and back to reveal the sticky, glossy fruit. I felt as though I was revealing their secrets.

2-3 pounds of tomatillos, in chunks
1-2 bunches of cilantro
1 onion
6-to-taste cloves of garlic
3 jalapenos, quartered, seeds removed

Saute the onion until translucent, then toss in garlic.
Meanwhile, pulse a batch of the tomatillo chunks until desired consistency -- for first batch I did a chunkier, coarser versions.
Add to the onions/garlic. (Burner heat should be medium)
Pulse the next batch of tomatillos. Toss in the cilantro and the jalapenos. Pulse until much sloppier in consistency.
Add to the pot.

I think this recipe also needs 1-2 chiles as well, it arrived flavorful but mild.

Cook over medium heat for 20 minutes, then drop flame to low or lowest (my burner has a "warm" setting). Cook for 2 hours until flavors are blended and you can no longer resist dipping tortilla chips into the cooking pot.

I don't doubt that a more careful, artful recipe could be crafted with internet and book research. However, this is how it made sense to me to assemble the salsa, and if its reception was any indicator, it was right - enough.