"..and the prince and the drummer and the fire girls
Couldn't get our guitars in tune
And I knew it was over when the sound man said
"I wish we were still in ..."

June.

Every now and then, it's fun to reconnect with someone who has been out of the loop for a few weeks, just for the sheer fun of surprising them with what's been going on in your life.

me: hey, stranger!
Jody: wasabi
me: heh. I have some news for you :)
me: 1) I no longer wear glasses
2) I have short hair
Jody: WOW
Jody: what happened?

June?

That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

June: another relative diagnosed with cancer; this time my grandmother. If you want to feel sorry for someone, feel sorry for the friends who had to listen to me while we were waiting on the results to get back. My reaction is best understood in context of my father's cancer. It's difficult to describe with any flippancy how I felt when I realized that the death rate of the cancer my father died from - 95-97% - was equivalent to the survival rate of the cancer my grandmother was diagnosed with.

Since domesticat's raison d'être is to force myself to sneak past the crunchy, sarcastic exterior shell (think nougat, only with a better sense of humor) of my life, maybe I should say that my grandmother's cancer diagnosis is why I cut my hair.

It would have happened anyway, and it would have happened before heading off to work this year's dragon*con, but I can't deny that the timing of my action marks it as a purely reactionary gesture. Think of it as my way of flipping fate and destiny the bird. I might not be able to control fates, the elements, or anything much that won't fit in my hands, but I am capable of deciding whether or not to cut my hair.

Old friends have seen this haircut before. My tradition of growing my hair long and then, without telling anyone of my intentions, showing up one day with drastically-shortened hair, is well documented. (Monica, how many times did you see me do this in college?)

I came home Saturday afternoon with a 15-inch ponytail that gave Jeff the creeps every time he looked at it. One day this week when my portion of the planet is not getting the remnants of Tropical Storm Bill force-fed into the ground, I'll mail the ponytail off to Locks of Love.

The contacts, though, have been a lot longer in coming. I wore rigid gas-permeables in the latter part of my high school days and the early part of my college years, but gave them up due to frustrations with taking care of them. At the time, I was told that there were no soft lenses that could correct my nasty little case of astigmatism.

Eight years later, that's no longer the case. My optometrist confirmed that while my options weren't exactly unlimited, I could conceivably be fitted for contact lenses that would correct my prescription:

right eye: -3.75 sphere, -1.25 cylinder, axis 003
left eye: -3.25 sphere, -2.5 cylinder, axis 149

While the locals have known about the change for some time (what with seeing me in person and all), I've held off mentioning it here until I was certain that I'd found a pair of contacts that worked well with my eyes. The first brand was a bust, but the second brand was a definite winner. I've since discovered a side benefit of the lenses; the +1.5 for reading correction that my eyes required in glasses doesn't seem to be necessary in contact lenses.

For now, I think these changes have done the trick. In some small way I've reasserted control of my life.

Not to mention my shampoo usage.

Current music: Spock's Beard, 'June'

Those of us who read entertainment news with any degree of amusement, skepticism, or fascination have probably greeted the idea of Spike TV with either a waggle of eyebrow (or at least a waggle of tentacle). "Television for men," they say.

"So," you say (if you're me), "what portions of the male television need have not been met? What heretofore-undiscovered niche of male television programming has not already been exploited for its inherent commercial breaks?"

Read the rest »

I will have more coherent thoughts on this subject later, but I wanted to share this photo with the world sooner, rather than later. This is a real billboard. It is currently in place near the junction of I-565 and Memorial Parkway. Kat and Sean spotted it first, and told us about it last night. I'd planned to wait a few days to photograph it, but when Jeff and I went for lunch today, we saw a camera crew from a local TV station taking footage of the sign. Read the rest »

"Utterly meaningless!

Everything is meaningless!"

Read the rest »

Be vewwy vewwy qwiet. I'm hunting endorphins.

Hour eight of headache. Die, headache, die. Lovely evening consisting mostly of staring at computer, trying very hard to move nothing more than my fingers and my eyes. A still head is a head that hurts less.The battle was lost in hour five, when thirty minutes after taking the first aspirin + acetaminophen + caffeine combo, I was whispering to friends, "When can I take another? I think the first one skipped town before doing anything useful..."

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I've been pondering the idea of adding pull quotes on this site for quite some time. I'm aware that many of the pieces I make available on here for reading are quite long, and I've often wondered if I should treat them as they would be treated if they were in print. (Obviously, I'd need to turn them off for the lynx/PDA versions of this site.)

I'd welcome opinions on this subject. You can email them or place them in comments.

(Longer post forthcoming, hopefully today, if I can edit it into a shape I like.)

Total spams received in absence: 163.

Two hours into the drive home. Silence. After so few hours in the car, have we managed to say everything there is to say?

Three dragon*con staff meetings down, none to go. Last night, everyone marveled that dragon*con was already upon us, a sentiment made even more absurd by the frequent follow-up: "It's been so long since I've seen you!"

The battle lines at 'con are always so simple at the third and penultimate meeting. Us against them. 'They' are the attendees, other staffers, and guests - anyone who doesn't know who we are, what we do, or manages to keep us from doing what needs doing at that particular moment.

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Misty's getting a little annoyed with us; her recipes that take much time and effort to prepare never manage to win her quite the rapturous accolades that her (as she puts it) utterly brainless recipes get her.

This cake is possibly the best example. I do not like the idea of standing between Jeff and this cake. I suspect the results would be quite detrimental to both me and the cake. Stake your cake claims early, or my spouse will stake his in your stead.

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Pesto Orzo with Pine Nuts

1 package Orzo (1 lb usually)

2 packages Knorr Pesto Sauce mix (green package, they finally have it at Target, YES!)

1 package pine nuts (approx. size on this, Misty?)

2-3 broiled chicken breasts, cut up (optional)

Much freshly ground black pepper

A white cheese (Romano, mozzarella, etc.) of your choice to taste

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Packing list? This got far beyond a packing list at least a year ago.

Year one of dragon*con: toss your toothbrush, toothpaste, and a spare pair of underwear into your backpack, while keeping your camera in your hand. Six days later, acknowledge the clothes that you're wearing are disgusting, and cannot be saved. Burn them. Vow to do better next year.

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On the final ten minutes of the drive, I explained to the mp3 player that its 'random' choice highly amused me. Sure, of the hundred-plus songs it had at its disposal, its only option was to play 'Time Stand Still' as I crossed into terra familiara.

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The lead singer, Cara, likes to photograph her audience. I've learned to avoid the feedback loop by picking a nice side spot at the bar. Here, I'm just another shadowy face, a friend who hangs out with Colter between sets once a year, contributing surprisingly good gig photos for the band's website. Read the rest »

Perhaps, as said to Colter, I did get up on the bitchy side of the bed this morning. Blame it a misbehaving Gallery install - no. I'm not playing that game. I blame the inane conversation provided to me by the person who can't even find the time for a two-second check of the profile of the person he's pestering.

Friends? No, I think not, sir; in my world, friends have something in common aside from the ability to spell the word "hello." I realize my standards are just impossibly high, but I like my men to have a touch of the conversationalist; merely substituting 'u' for 'you' just isn't enough to catch my eye.

So, mr_xotic_danzr, that makes you our loser of the day.

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Already?

Website as excavation project: 2000, 2001. Skip ahead a bit, and here we are again, well past the no-longer-newlywed stage and into the haze of The Early Years. Five years, come and gone, and right now, we are gone, holed up and quiet, in a bed not our own in a weekend that wholly is.

When I was in Arkansas this past weekend, my grandmother was surprised when I told her that it was our anniversary this week. "Five years already?"

"In the grand scheme of things, it's not many."

I make no secret that domesticat.net isn't an open book, despite the regularity and honesty of my words here. Certain subjects are off-limits by choice; my friends may learn many things about me by what I publish here, but the overwhelming majority of my relationship with my spouse remains a subject not for public consumption.

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"So few people come here and really make themselves at home. You went out there and slept like a baby." I'll say. Read the rest »

We twisted our way through downtown, into the appropriate parking lot, and signed in. Brian was in the green room, and after a few minutes of discussion, we headed for the studio. For some reason, I expected quiet, but then I remembered that this was a live show, and that my expectation was - insane.

On the other side of the door, I found myself facing an older gentleman with a wide smile and a strong Caribbean accent. "Dey's no accidents in TV. You's here, you have to contribute. You gonna help on camera?"

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My book lies on the bed, vanquished. It was finished only with the literary assistance of two very large, purring cats who could find nowhere else in the house to sleep but next to me. (A house full of cat-friendly napping places, and Tenzing couldn't find anywhere to sleep except draped over my right arm.)

I am now on the wrong side of one-thirty in the morning, waiting for a cup of rosehip tea to finish steeping, and pondering yet again the question that's been foremost in my mind: stay, or go?

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Even though I'm fascinated by the concept of wall paint, I'm still a little afraid of it. Even after years in stark-white dormitory housing, my mind is still shaped by the sixteen years spent in a house whose walls consisted of wood paneling.

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