Girl, Tired

Yesterday morning - up at 6am to go to Birmingham to finish my MCLEs.  These are somehow different from CLEs.  MCLEs are mandatory, you see, and therefore VERY VERY IMPORTANT.  Do you think anyone would go to any continuing education class were it not mandatory?  Do you think anyone would go to twelve hours' worth?

I probably would if it were on a topic I liked or featured gory photos.  And I got to experience some of both yesterday, so it wasn't all bad.

Drove home around 3:30, and talked on the phone to Wade and Momma to finalize plans.  The plans were scrapped, but somehow I got to go get Momma's cat to watch while she's out of town.  As I got close enough to her house that I could no longer justify not going, I found out that said cat will be watched by Momma's friend.  At least, when I went by, I got to get my Christmas present from my sister (still haven't opened it!) and Wade's kids' gifts.

Once home, around 6:30 or so, I cleaned like a maniac (again) so the place would be just right for when the boy came over.

Yes, you read that right.  The boy came over.  And it was awesome.  And it was a bit surreal to see him in my place.

Got to bed around 2am, just in time to catch a little bit of sleep before 6am came again and I got up and went to work.

I am exhausted, I can't differentiate between my black eyeliner and the black bags under my eyes.  But I'm quite happy.  And with any luck, the boy will come over again tonight.  (And if I had my way, stay forever...)

I'm bound to get some sleep at some point, right?

Christmas-y, With Pictures!

A few weeks ago, Momma and I went to a Christmas party that one of her former coworkers throws each year.  Now, I know I've missed the past few years, what with my living in a different state and all, but this year was quite interesting.

The hosts lives in a gi-normous house; one that puts my folks' place to shame.  And my folks have almost 5000 square feet of living space.  (Please do not rob them.  I'll need those assets later.)  Also, the hosts' place is built into a steep slope, so when you go a party at their place, they recruit two family members to drive you up the driveway to the back door.  Seriously.  It's got to be at least a 40 percent slope.  (I know nothing about slopes or angles, but trust me, were it to ice, one step outside and you'd be thirty feet down before you knew it.)

The boy didn't believe me, so I took this picture:

This doesn't really show the slope, but isn't the place gorgeous from the outside?  Don't worry; we're going inside next...

The hosts decorate every single room with at least one Christmas tree.  This includes bathrooms, hallways, alcoves, built-in bookshelves, and each of the great rooms.  It's stunning.  Oh, and did I mention that each tree has its own theme?  No?  I should have.  Most are adorable and traditional.  The ones in the kids' rooms are more individualized.

The son is allowed to have the geekiest tree on earth.  Believe me, his tree sings, and I bet, late at night, the characters fight a true battle.

Yeah?  You don't have a Darth Vader ornament?  I bet you're jealous.  And we continue the geeky-McAwesome...

I am not as Awesome McGeeky as I wish I were, for I do not know the name of this character.  Still, I'll try on the next...

(I didn't know) Even I know this is from The Corpse Bride.  (Thanks, Mr. Williams!)

Onward...I went into the daughter's bedroom - believe me, when there's this many trees, no room is off limits.  Yet were I their children, I would have thrown a privacy fit that would have impressed the gods.  To no avail, but still.

Next year, if I don't have a tree like this, I refuse to celebrate Christmas...

And this is the picture using the flash.  Imagine how it'd look with real lighting...

Do you understand the glory?  A tree backlit with red and pink, and decorated with black ornaments?  YES PLEASE!

On the more traditional side, I thought you'd like a look at one of the "adult" trees.  Although it is gorgeous, please see the height differential between my camera angle and the floor.  I believe that in industry terms, this is called "20-foot ceilings".  I may be underestimating.

I mean, how awesome?  I was in the study/overhang over the main family room.  It was warm, there were comfortable couches, built-in bookshelves loaded with books, and a computer.  I damn near settled in, hoping they wouldn't notice for a few days.

One last picture from the party:  This wreath was on the door of the room with the most amazing red Christmas tree.

C'mon now, you know that's pretty.  And how do you clean those feathers each year?

It's a tradition in this town to go to Horseshoe Circle.  This little street is known for the outdoor decorations that so many houses do each year.  Those that don't are polite enough to keep their outdoor lights off.  And the annual visitors, the ones who come each year, know to turn off their headlights and leave only their running lights on.  If you're a new visitor here but you know this town, remember next year to turn off your headlights.  You've been warned.  I might tell your kids my infamous Christmas Monster story through your car window if you don't.  Ask Ryan.  He'll tell you the damage the Christmas Monster story can do.

Idle (HAH!) threats aside, here are the images I was able to gather.

It's over, and we're free!  Let's all plan for a fabulous New Year.  Remind me to tell you about my even-year theory.

Clearly, My Kind Of Christmas

The boy and I are in a fight.  He arrives tomorrow and all I can think is that I'm glad that I turned on the fireplace.  My intent was for us to have romantic evenings curled up near it.  Now I just want to cram his face into it.

On the plus side, I got a good recommendation at work, got a mani/pedi/wax, and am about to make cookies.

Why does drama always seem to happen near occasions?  Nothing can ever be simple.

Which is why I intend to focus on the good things - a roaring fire, fantastic friends, spoiling my family tomorrow, and having some time off from life to enjoy myself.

Plus, really - PRESENTS!  I do love presents.

The Songs

My folks asked me to make them CDs of their favorite songs for Christmas.  So I provide to you, my darlings, their lists.  I do this because it probably explains a lot about my love for overly dramatic music.

Dad

1. Honeycomb – Jimmie Rodgers

2. (Theme from) A Summer Place – Percy Faith

3. Unchained Melody – Righteous Brothers

4. Tennessee Waltz – Patti Page

5. Chances Are – Johnny Mathis

6. I Believe – Frankie Laine

7. Moon River – Andy Williams

8. Wichita Lineman – Glen Campbell

9. Standing On The Corner – Jimmie Rodgers

10. Smoke Gets In Your Eyes – The Platters

11. You Are So Beautiful – Joe Cocker



Momma

1. Three Times A Lady – The Commodores

2. Go Away Little Girl – Steve Lawrence

3. Oh Sherrie – Steve Perry

4. Party Doll – Buddy Knox

5. Too Shy – Kajagoogoo

6. Cum On Feel The Noize – Quiet Riot

7. Gone – Ferlin Huskey

8. Mr. Blue – The Fleetwoods

9. All Night Long – Lionel Richie

10. Two Out Of Three Ain’t Bad – Meatloaf

11. Baby Don’t Get Hooked On Me – Mac Davis

12. Green Green Grass Of Home – Tom Jones

13. Sunday Morning Coming Down – Johnny Cash

14. Windy – The Association

15. My Life – Billy Joel

In Case I've Been Off My Game

Here's excerpts from an email exchange I had yesterday.  It pretty much sums up what's been going on in my life.

From: Christine
To: B
Sent: Thu, Dec 17, 2009 6:39 am
Subject: interesting....

My time spent with [redacted, but not the boy] is officially kaput, and I’m not nearly as upset about it as I thought I would be.

Love,
C

From: B
Sent: Thursday, December 17, 2009 11:14 AM
To: Christine
Subject: Re: interesting....

And you can't just drop a bombshell like that and not explain...you'll have to tell me what happened, if you regret sending him the Christmas card now (I hope you didn't send a present too!), etc. But I'm very glad you're over him. You know my sentiments on him. "So wave your little hand and whisper so long deary, deary, should've said 'so long' so long ago!" Just a little Hello Dolly! for your morning enjoyment.

Love you lots! Hope you're having a fabulous day. Call me if you get a chance. I miss you!

B

From: Christine
Sent: Thursday, December 17, 2009 11:50 AM
To: B
Subject: RE: interesting....

It’s been a long time coming, this end with [redacted, but not the boy]. But you know me, I can’t just let something go. I have to squeeze every little thing out of it first. But we’ve not been communicating for a while, and every time we did, it was because I initiated the call. Missed dates, no talking…could it be more clear? It’d been this way since I got back from Seattle. We last hung out on November 11, that Wednesday after I got back, and then nothing. He tried to blame it on his never-ending illnesses (seriously – he’s been sick for like 3 months now. If he were a horse, he’d be glue already.) and layoffs and transfers at work. And while these are legitimate reasons, if he really wanted to spend time with me, he would’ve found a way and the time.


But he’d been good for me, making me feel beautiful and intelligent and wanted, and that was really hard to give up. So I called him last night, and the conversation was OK, mostly about work politics and career goals. It got quiet toward the end, and I just had to know, so I asked him if he wanted to hang out this weekend, since it’s my last semi-free weekend until at least the new year. He got quiet, and I told him it was OK to say no, and although he didn’t directly say it, I just knew.

And it hurt. Oh, did it hurt last night. I wanted to alternately cry and get really angry with him. This morning I was tempted to text him to say, “Good luck, be well. Goodbye.” But I’ve not done that, because I think it’s a bit petty, and more honestly, because I don’t want to entirely close the door. But it really is closed now. It has to be, because I care about him too much and that gives him the capacity to hurt me over and over when I’m at home, wondering why the phone isn’t ringing. Yet I have to protect myself. And I’m worth much more than someone who can’t decide if he wants me but probably does.

No, I don’t regret sending the card. It was generic anyway. I’m pretty sure he received it (everyone else has) and didn’t even acknowledge it, although we discussed Christmas cards last night.

So goodbye, [redacted, but not the boy].

And there’s the long answer to your question!

I miss you too!


Love,
C

I would love to be honest about my life right now.  I want to tell you about my heartbreaks, about my concerns, about my issues.  I wish that someone else's pain didn't immediately become fodder for others.

But it does.  It does because people need to downgrade others to reinvent themselves.  Were there a way to breed this out of people, I would gladly be the first to be impregnated.

And if there's a way to write freely, please let me know how.

Well, Crumb

Today, as I was riding the elevator at work, it occurred to me that in just over three months, I'll be thirty-seven years old.  And that freaked me out.  I certainly don't feel that old.  How old does thirty-seven feel, anyway?  But it got me thinking about the nature of labels.

I can no longer, even at the younger, thirty-six age, be considered a young lady.  The only reason I get carded anymore is because it's store policy or someone thinks that by doing so, they'll get a bigger tip.  (JSYK:  Doesn't work anymore, but I'll still thank you.)  I guess that I am now a "woman".  Someone to be listened to, if only because the growing lines on my face belie my fervent belief that I am still a silly youngster.

It's not so bad, you know, that initial respect I get because I don't look so young.  But it's strange.  I like to think that I earned it because of my experience and education (and to an extent I did), but I know it's because I'm clearly not a fresh-faced twenty-something anymore.

And you know what else?  There's a peace in it.  For now, anyway.  No guarantees on my reaction when I reach forty.

Someone Swallowed A Thesaurus

Today I was chattering with the boy (like I do) and somehow, the word "stultifying" came out of my mouth.  I stopped, and told him, "Yeah, I went there.  I said 'stultifying'."  He said, "You used a big word the other day as well, do you remember which one?"

No.

No, I do not, as I have the kind of vocabulary that comes from reading voraciously (yup) since before I have any real memories.

Finally, he remembered.  "You said, 'hubris'". 

That's not a big word, is it?  I mean, I assume my big words are those that come from Yiddish more than anything, and I do know the difference between a hijab and a burka, and if you don't, go look it up right now.

No wonder my practicum supervisors told me that I spoke above the kids with which I was working.  I always thought that the difference was that the kids would just ask me what a word meant, while the adults would judge my phrasing.

I might just be right.

It's Cute and Strange

Today at work I officially met someone with whom I'd conversed a few times.  She asked my name, and I told her, "Christine".  She asked for my surname, which I gave.  She then said, "Are you the one who's been referenced in emails lately?"  I am, I told her, and explained that in my department, we're doing this as two people revewing the documents so later, people will know who I am and what I do.

Then I told her that I am an attorney.  Her eyes widened and she said, "Great!"

Impressions:

1.  It amazes me if people are ever impressed with my title.  It's really not that big of a deal, people.  It means I had some very fortunate opportunities and a debt level that would send most people in search of a strong rope.  It doesn't mean that I'm more intelligent or better at any job.  It just is what it is.

2.  It's probably a really good idea that I came into this position when I did, because clearly an attorney has been needed.

Snow

It's a rare happenstance that we get snow that actually sticks.  It flurries here more often than we admit, because if everyone knew how often it happened, we'd totally lose the wow factor.

I awoke Saturday and looked at the local news, and the chick doing the weather (I highly doubt she's a meteorologist) mentioned something about, "It'll be stopping soon".  I got up, looked out the window, saw the snow, and without even brushing my teeth or hair (fellas?) grabbed my cameras and went outside.

Here's Alabama snow.  I could mock, after spending a few years in Ohio and D.C., but why bother?  Snow is pretty no matter where, or how much, it falls.

I thought you'd all enjoy the irony of the pool, crisp and clear, next to the snow.  I surely did.

I love this picture, the play on sharp colors.  I wish I had photo paper, because if I did, I'd be making my own holiday greeting cards this year, using this.

Poor Circe.  She's really not had to handle this since I lived in D.C.  You'll note that the ground snow has already melted away.

Oh my word, was Biggs pissed about this little plan of mine.  I can't remember the last time I subjected him to snow - it was probably in 2006 or so - and he still nips at me.  I made him walk on my car twice.  The first time would've been perfect, but he jumped off Circe and smudged his prints so he had to do it again.  He now has a head cold and I feel quite guilty, but this is still a worth-it image.

The Photos

Hello all.  I'm reeling from a couple of pretty strong body bruises, and while I lick my wounds and recover, I thought you'd like to see some pictures from vacation.  No, nothing identifying, but still pretty.

I like the lights at the bottom - the cars racing by.

This is one of the views from the boy's living room.

This is Pine Street.

It was about to storm something fierce, a storm like you get here in Alabama, which is apparently quite rare in Seattle.

I got pictures of the snow we got yesterday and when I've sorted them out, I'll post those as well.

Pet Peeves

1. Touching the monitor.

2. Licking your fingers in order to separate pages.

3. Whistling.

4. Parking backwards in a parking space.

5. Feeling a need to comment on every little thing.

6. Sighing.

Champagne Tastes

I sent the link to the Christmas list post to my sister, brother, mother, the boy, and I can't remember who else. Apparently my mother and my sister had quite the conversation about my wish list, which can be condensed to one thought: Doesn't she have champagne tastes?

Well, yeah, I do! Momma, never forget who raised me. And sister, haven't you always told me to get the best that I can have in this world? So why are you surprised to find out that I like the finer things in life? Also, please remember, this is a wish list. This is not a list of requirements. It's to assist you in knowing what I'd like to have. It is certainly not all-inclusive, nor is the link exactly what I might want. (Except the knives. I really want that knife set.) Honestly, I'll be happy if you get me anything at all.

But sis? There's something you should know before you decide that I'm too big for my britches. Momma told me about your and her conversation about me while I was helping pick out your present, which is coming from a store that specializes in blue boxes.

Family

Dinner with my parents went better than I expected. There were, of course, a few hiccups, but overall the meal was good and the conversation was fun.

I'll take a bit of credit for the fun conversation.

Which leads me to this thought, which came to me as I was driving home: Why does this have to be so hard? Why is it that we can handle interactions and conversations with people we completely dislike, but spending time with our flesh, blood, or adopted families is so tough?

And herein lies my theory: We put on our masks and good behavior around those to whom we're not related. When we're with family, we let down all our guards and just be ourselves.

So let's try this at the next family gathering: Be on the sort of behavior you expect from yourself and others when you're non-intimates. You might have a much better time, and hopefully, discover a sense of humor (and yourself) that you didn't know you had with those folks.

It might be a beginning.

(If this post annoys you, blame the boy. He's spent a few years trying to convince me to back down, and it seems to be working.)

Word Of The Year

Ah, thank ya, Mrs. Armstrong, for being able to get me out of both a bad mood and a writing slump. And for those of you who read both my site and hers, remember that the word you're looking for is INSPIRATION. Not that other word.

Anyhoo...

The other day I updated my Facebook status, commenting about being unfriended by a person who was subsequently suggested to me as a potential friend by said site. The debate moved from my personal pain to whether the correct terminology was "unfriend" or "defriend". Of course this got my weird little brain working.

To me, unfriending is a rapid process, not unlike ripping off a Band-Aid®. Perhaps the connection wasn't too strong, perhaps you never really liked the person you friended, perhaps you were looking for more entertainment, perhaps you were drunk and hit the wrong button. Doesn't really matter what the reason was; the point is, that person is (mildly) exterminated from your life.

Defriending, however, is a different matter entirely. In my mind, it means a slow, sometimes unnoticed exclusion of a person from your life. Something like the desalination process. You may still talk. You still care. Yet the friendship is ending. Somewhere in your head, you know it's true. You know that part of your intuition that wakes you in the night and says, quite clearly, "This isn't working"? That's the part I'm talking about.

And sometimes it's not that clear-cut. Yet if you pay attention, you see the end. It's sadder during and after the end. The person still remains of interest to you, but not to the extreme that you once cared.

Huh. Wonder if Webster's will pick up my distinction for next year.

A Little Yeats

I read this today and found it lovely:

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

W.B. Yeats (1865–1939)
"He Wishes For the Cloths of Heaven"

I hope you find it lovely as well.

My Christmas List

Here is my Christmas list:

1. Funky picture frames. I've got a lot of prints, reprints, and photos that I'd like to frame. I don't care if they're new - old, antique, whatever...I need them.

2. Towels. I don't have a link, specifically, but let the women in your life choose the colors. I use all sizes. Just be sure they're color-safe, as I have a tendency to destroy them with detergent.

3. Amazon gift card. So I can download more music. Might work well for you; I might make you a CD out of it.

4. Large frying pan. I already own a small and medium, but the way I've been cooking as of late, I need a large one. Not uber-large please.

5. Chef's knives. Mine completely suck, sans the one the boy gave me while I was up there. The rest are stainless steel (hah!) and ready for the recycle bin. (The link is to a set of quite possibly the most awesome set I've ever seen.)

6. Queen-sized bed sheets. I hear that ones made from bamboo are amazing, and I'd love to try them. If not, so long as they're at least 1000-thread count, we'll be golden.

7. Nintendo Wii. Asked for it last year to no avail, and will do the same this year, most likely to the same result. That's cool; this is a wish list.

8. Yankee Candle Club. I love love love their candles. Please?

9. Lady GaGa - The Fame. Judge as I know you will.

10. Digital camera. I saw some great deals leaked before Black Friday. I expect nothing, yet I'd love a new one.

11. Laptop. Again, Black Friday, and again, I expect nothing.

12. Digital photo printer. See the frame entry. I have so many fabulous pictures that really need to be shown.

13. Cordless phone. My home phone sucks beyond the telling of it. I've had to use my cell phone for calls, and we all know I have very few minutes on that account. Imagine the credit ratings I could destroy just talking to the boy!

14. Blackberry phone. Still not sure which one I want, mostly because I can't remember the recommendations given to me by friends. Hopefully it'll be able to transfer over the texts and photos I have on my current phone.

15. Bulgari Extreme. The only other perfume I love. It smells like a rainy forest and matches my body chemistry perfectly.

16. Car tires. Mine are ruined and have dry rot. I prefer safety, both to me and to the others on the road around me.

17. Chef's scoop. Much of what I make requires a ladle/scoop. I've love to have a real tool and not a miscreation of wooden and table-spoons. And unfortunately, I cannot find a link for this.

Remember that the links are suggestions and not requirements.

It's About That Time

I'm working on my Christmas list. I don't do this to harass you regular readers into giving me presents (REALLY!) but to have a place to send my family when they start asking what I want.

The first thing I want is a new copy of Rihanna's Good Girl Gone Bad Reloaded CD. I've played mine so often this year that it's dying a terrible death, a death consisting of songs skipping while I'm in the shower. So clearly you can see the need.

Wade's got this one covered, so the list will expand soon. Again, please don't feel obligated to ask for my address. :)

PS - I found my post office box keys. I don't remember my keys being in the pocket of that jacket, but hey, who ever said I was clever?

PPS - Still working on Seattle stories. I realized that the teasers I mentioned are more inside jokes than anything else. Also, I need to grab my photos off my camera and put them onto this machine to share.

PPPS - Anyone else seen the beginnings of the Black Friday deals? Dude, I'm totally going to be late to work that day.

PPPPS - Rihanna's new single, Russian Roulette, is awesome. I don't care what Perez Hilton says.

A Little Mail Is A Dangerous Thing

Let's start with some truth: I hate to check my mail. Hate it. So I rarely check it more often than once a week, and often it'll be ten days between trips to the mailbox.

So I should have, but I didn't check the mail before vacation. It'd probably been five days prior to departure when I last checked. When I got back I finally dragged myself over to the mail emporium (I don't know what else to call it. Mail kiosk?) to see just how stuffed my box was (hush!).

There was nothing. Not one thing. This was a bit disconcerting, so when I got to work, I called my landlord to see if, just maybe, hoping upon hope, that the postman had gotten frustrated with me and left my mail at the office. "No," the lady said, "But often if you don't check your mail, they'll just take it back to the post office."

Wonderful. This was Monday, and I couldn't get over to the post office until this morning (Saturday). My work hours overlap the post office's hours, and I don't have time during lunch to get that far and back to my scintillating job. Today I asked the nice lady at the post office if she happened to have my mail. She did not. She told me I've have to call the carrier to see if it's with him. Wonderful, I thought. I have to work! And I know I've got some bills coming due! So Monday morning at 7:30 I will be on the phone with my mail carrier.

In the interim, I decided to change my address to have all my mail delivered to my P.O. box. I mean, if the mail's at the physical post office, USPS has to keep it for me, right? (But I will check more regularly, I promise!)

On my way out, I decided to check said P.O. box, because that's where the bar delivers my mail. No keys. My box keys were gone. "Don't panic!" I told myself, since my first instinct always is to panic. I took apart my purse, looking for the keys. I tore through my car, methodically, I swear!, looking for the keys. No keys. I drove home and looked at the basket where I keep my keys. No keys.

I got back into my car. While driving back to the post office, I was imagining the cost of replacing the keys. Replacing the keys to my safety-deposit box is seventy-five dollars, if memory serves. So I was thinking it would be about fifty-ish dollars. Dollars I DO NOT HAVE, incidentally, after a long trip.

Turns out it was six dollars to replace and I had to give a dollar deposit, so a total of seven dollars got me back in business.

But I really am an idiot.

I Know, I Know...

I didn't write while I was away because I had no access to internet that I didn't have to pay outrageously for. I think you'll understand that.

I do intend to tell you about my trip. It's just that right now it all feels so personal, and there's only so much I want to share. Some - OK, a lot - are just for me and the boy.

But there are stories of overpriced cupcakes, overly loud music, pocket monsters, and daily strolls through the city to share.

I did love Seattle, but it's not my home. I still prefer DC.

Forgive my need for time. I also have a story about the perfect crying storm on the flight back that you need to know. For this one, I will blame Augusten Burroughs and his fantastic new book.

Look At What I Can Do!

This week has been a crazy-fest as I get ready to go see the boy. It's strange to know that I'm capable of achieving so many things in so many days. Generally, I'm quite lazy. So here's my recap:

Monday: Had a friend over. At least I managed to clean the common areas and after that, relax and enjoy the evening.

Tuesday: I got my dry cleaning over, learned that my opera dress couldn't be cleaned there, but got a referral, and got a mani-pedi and a wax. Oh, and I downloaded the songs for Momma's birthday CD (and maybe a few for myself). I also arranged a ride to the airport and checked in with some friends.

Wednesday: Picked up said dry cleaning, refilled a script I'll need, along with some other essentials (i.e. batteries), and found my suitcase. Talked with my great aunt and the boy, and got one of my favorite ever text messages from him: P.S. I love you!

Thursday (planned): Get my dress, turn in my paperwork, then pick up Biggs and Momma's presents (tomorrow is her birthday!) and taking them to her place, and then packing. Ugh. I hate packing.

Friday: Friend will take me to the airport, where I will beg him to pick me up on the 8th. Hours later - Seattle! Explorations and fun.

I'll try to update you on my (mis)adventures.

Four Days And Counting...

I'm on my way to Seattle early Friday. I cannot wait! I also really hope I can find someone who's willing to take me to the airport at 7am. Wouldn't be mad if you volunteered!

It's been an up-and-down journey to get on this trip, as you long-time readers know. I've been nervous, happy, overly anticipatory, idiotic, all those things. But I read something good the other day (Yes, yes, it was Cary Tennis...) that said that we should not put expectations on what's to come, but to enjoy the moments. So I'm focused on that. Enjoy the boy. Relax, be silly, watch bad movies, eat unbelievable food, and just don't worry.

Fingers crossed. But I'm going regardless, so fingers even more crossed.

Halloween Movie Reviews

I'm generally not allowed to watch horror movies. This rule was created when I was in seventh grade or so and watched a special on Jack the Ripper and freaked out so badly I had to talk to my best friend until her mother got pissed. Later, it was reinforced when my ninth-grade goth friends and I thought it'd be a great idea to watch all the Halloween movies and then play hide-and-go-seek. In the dark. In a playground. Essentially, my friends have banned me from horror movies because I completely suspend my disbelief and buy in.

This weekend I was in the mood to watch horror movies. Luckily, this story has a happier ending, as these movies weren't enough to set off my fear settings. Yet. Writing about this pretty much ensures that I won't sleep tonight, so if I call you in fear, feel free to mock, but be kind when doing it, OK?

My friend and I first watched the Rob-Zombie-directed version of Halloween. Wow, was that not good. Michael Myers became a serial killer because he had a mean step-daddy? Anyway, my friend and I had a great time determining the reasons why each victim had to die. You know, a la Scream. I only had to cover my eyes twice because of the gore, which means it surely wasn't bloody enough. Best part? The use of Don't Fear The Reaper. Not because it was unexpected, but because of the placement of the song in the movie.

Next, we watched The Mist. Also not good. I did enjoy Marcia Gay Harden's performance though, and seriously, folks? The best part of the movie was the tentacles. My friend and I randomly yelled, "Tentacles!" whenever the mist was featured. This cannot be a good sign. My friend said it was a Lovecraft ripoff, and I'll have to take his word for it, as I have no read any Lovecraft. (Despite the quote of his I use at the top of this blog, I know.)

And that's what I did this weekend.

It's Done

After some time talking with my mother, my sister, and most importantly, the boy, I have bought my tickets to go see him. The boy and I have had some communication difficulties lately, not made easier by his hectic schedule and my competing desires to hide in a corner and go to bed super-early.

But the boy and I had a talk on Sunday. Well, I did most of the talking. He listened (!) and let me ramble on about what's been stewing in my head. And I am about 100% happier than I was last week.

So I now have tickets. And a sense of excitement that I can barely contain. I've been so nervous, as you long-time readers know. Nervous that create neuroses. And I'm sure that I'll have anxiety pangs as it gets closer. But more than anything else, I'm thrilled.

17 days to go.

Fear

Fear entangles me, making me react like a wounded animal. Instead of explaining how I feel and asking for help, I snap and bite and try to wound those around me. How this strategy could possibly get me what I need, I don't know. Maybe I wish my mom could come around, see through the facade, and fix me. She used to be able to. Why can't she do it now?

For that matter, why can't you do it? Why don't you have the skills and insight to see beyond my act? I really wish you did. It would be far easier for me to relax into your knowledge of me than for me to have to show it to you, step by messy step. Could you do that for me please?

Could you assuage my fears? Could you convince me that I'm placing too much import on a short period of time? Could you sift through the layers and confusing emotions that are creating a tidal wave of intertwining scenarios?

I can't seem to do it. I can't seem to speak clearly and simply of what's going through my head. I can suss out small portions and identify them. This is good; it's a first step. But naming the issue offers no solutions. And I sit with these tiny salient details, trying to make sense of them. Yet they cannot exist in a vacuum, and my head can't just take one thing at a time. I continually try to clarify the whole with the little bits of insight. And in doing this, I will fail.

But I will take some solace in the self-examination I've achieved. I will forgive myself the tiny bits - eventually.

And I will listen to these songs on repeat until my center calms a little bit: Fireflies by Owl City and Wonderful by Gary Go.

Birthday

Today is my brother's 45th birthday. I know what you're thinking - heck, you don't look old enough to have a brother that old!

You are correct. I do not look that old.

My brother has always been such an awesome force in my life. He pretty much was my father figure - he fixed my boo-boos, he let me sleep with him when I was little and had nightmares, he listened to me and read me endless stories. He also gave me my love of Rush and a passing appreciation for The Lord of the Rings trilogy. (To be accurate, I've only ever read - ok, skimmed, Bored of the Rings.)

I'm glad to have such a great man in my life. He's accomplished so much. You know what? I already wrote a love letter to my brother last year, and I can't top it. So just check it out already.

Hell Yeah, I've Got A Case Of The Mondays

Occasionally I get the dumbest questions I could possibly imagine. To wit:

Customer: So you'll pull my credit report?

Me: Yes. You need to have a least a score of XXX to qualify. We'll look at all three scores from the three credit reporting agencies.

Customer: You'll use the highest score, right?

Me: No, we use the middle score.

Customer: Which one is that?

Me: ...

Me: The middle score is the one we'll use.

Customer: Well, what will be it?

Me: Are you asking me what your middle score will be?

Customer: Yes, exactly! What's my middle score?

Folks, it took everything I had not to say, when answering "Which one is that?", "The one in the middle."

And it's taking even more not to submit this to Not Always Right.

She's Simply Stunning.

These past couple of days that I've been able to enjoy with Lucy have amazed me. Taken me completely aback. I didn't know I could fall in love so fast.

I mean, really. Look at this creature:



She's stunning. She makes precious baby noises. She curls into me when she's ready for a deep sleep, so I wrap her closer into my body. When she's napping, she does poses while on my lap.

Today we had a long chat about how she'll never make the mistakes I've made, because she won't ever know that love is conditional with some people.

I could cuddle this little girl forever. And, as her parents know, quite possibly devour her.

Best part of tonight: Her dad came back and checked all of her digits to make sure they were still intact. I've been threatening to eat her for days now.

An Open Letter To Lucy

Welcome to the world, little girl! I hope you won't mind that I intend to call you LucyBug. Probably forever, or until you're old enough to threaten me if I do it again.

I cannot think of a child that was more wanted. Lucy, your wonderful parents love you beyond any sense of language. There are not the words for the admiration, joy, inspiration, and love that you generate at a mere glance. You are already an amazing person, and with each tiny new thing that you learn, you will become even more extraordinary to all who get the privilege of knowing you.

I can't tell you how happy I am that you're here. I love you and I've not yet met you (see you tomorrow night!). You've given me a sense of wonder that I've not felt for a while. Something tells me that you'll continue to inspire me.

Lucy, this world is an imperfect place. Luckily, you've got safe haven with your parents. I know beyond knowing that were they able, they would stop time and move heaven and earth to protect you. You will occasionally drive them mad. They will still love you. You will sometimes make them laugh. They will still love you. As they learn your personality and help you navigate the world, your parents will always know awe-inspiring happiness in taking care of you.

Make no mistake, though, LucyBug. You will fall down. You will get hurt, both physically and emotionally. But you'll also have the softest of landings. When you're little, you will cry and your parents won't know why. But trust them, because they put you above everything else they have in their lives. And nothing you could ever do will change that.

Be brave. Be kind. Be honest. Be loving. Sometimes wear your heart on your sleeve. Insist that people treat you with the respect and integrity that you deserve. Know that there are people all around you who love you, simply because you're you. Please know that being exactly who you are is more than enough.

(And if you call me Kisstine, you will own my heart forever. If you don't, well, you'll still have a life estate in it.)

Welcome.

The Social Contract of Driving

On my way home tonight, I noticed that the traffic slowed much earlier along my trek than usual. My first thought was that I'd left earlier than usual so there were more cars on the road. Nope, it was 5:16, which is about normal for me. Finally, I could see that there was a wreck in one of the main lanes. As I approached, I saw another car behind the accident, blinker on, trying to get around the mess. Folks, do you think anyone let this lady in?

No. Of course not. They're all in such a damn rush to get home that they forgot the rules of the road. So I let her in, and I was saddened to see that it took her a minute to realize that I was going to stop and allow her to merge. She was suprised that someone would let a minute of her precious life go by so another person could rejoin the moving traffic.

This is ridiculous. We all have to share the road, and there's an absolute social contract to driving. We all know the basic rules: Stay in your lane, signal your turns, for the love of Pete, don't drive drunk...but you know there are many more subtle rules. You're supposed to pay attention. You're supposed to know that we're all in this gridlocked nightmare together. You're supposed to take turns.

So now, when someone breaks these rules, I yell out the window, "You broke the contract!"

Pretty!

I found this on Discombobulated. Enjoy!

Sonnet 17 by Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I do not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Words Of Wisdom

I was reading Cary Tennis' archives on Salon, and these are my favorite bits. I didn't save the exact pages from which I got these quotes, but that's OK. It's just a sampling...

<- The fact that you are a little crazy doesn't mean you have no rights.

Who is it who decides that our wishes are ridiculous or not ridiculous, anyway?

Our wishes, after all, are very close to feelings. Like feelings, they are not always rational. But they deserve respect.

<- Our churches have become the propaganda wings of political parties.

<- Why not simply accept that death will come to us all, and let it come when it comes? Why not recognize death as the one merciful thing that will bring us finally together. Why not see death as the final antidote to our crippling feeling of insufficiency. Finally, if we feel we have not been good enough for anything in life, at least we are good enough to die. At least death will embrace us as it embraces your mother and my uncle and my father-in-law and every other soul who has ever lived and ever will live.

<-You love each other and love is part madness. You love each other and are caught up in a mad dance of veils. Behind the veils that she waves in the air are her secrets, and thus her secret stories, and thus her sacred story, the one she cannot tell for fear it will lose its power of enchantment.

I suggest we more fully embrace the eros of interaction and the sweet honey of need.

I am trying to signal that at root love is madness; it is a contract not between people but between souls. It is different from your marriage. Your marriage is a contract between two people. But your love is a contract between two souls. Love is crazy because the souls want what they want and you don't have much to say about it.

Apparently in the marriage contract there is a clause in invisible ink that says we must sever all our ties and mute all our needs and close all the windows and become what we are not in order to protect the inviolable envelope of the marriage contract. But that is not always practical. There will be violations because we are who we are.

Many of us need more attention to feel more alive. Some of us need to stand in the spotlight and hear the applause. Some of us need a kind of intimacy we can only find outside the house. There is nothing wrong with wanting a fuller social life. There is nothing wrong with needing to be in the spotlight. There are ways to get that honestly. There are ways to get that by forming open friendships, and by performing, and in the fantasy realm.

What I say, at the risk of sounding like an idiot, is that love is naturally the realm of madness. You, your wife and I are all stark raving mad. Begin in madness. Accept everything. Trudge slowly under your great burdens toward some kind of rationality if you must. But accept that you may never get there. You may be perpetually trudging through madness toward some illusory land of Apollo. That's the way it is.

We are all mostly crazy. It's that simple.

<- It takes courage and strength not to repeat, because repetition feels like repair.

<- Opportunistic religiosity. People who revere authority will often turn to God, but if there is no God present, the doctor might do just fine.

"Opportunistic religiosity." Yeah, I need to give that one a think. Might make a good post.

A Little Rant That Won't Hurt A Bit

One of my biggest pet peeves in the whole entire world is when people screw up my name. It's not a difficult name. It's a classic name, which now has so many permutations that the original is the rare version. It's Christine, but you knew that already.

I mean, I can live with the nicknames from my family, friends, and the one that has stuck since high school. Although, luckily, most of my friends from there now know not to call me that name. If they do, it's in a moment of reminiscing or kindness. So that's not so bad.

Here's what NOT to call me:

1. Chris
2. Kristen
3. Christina
4. Chrissie
5. Christa
6. Christian

I generally don't talk about this because it REALLY, REALLY bothers me to be called anything other than my name. And most people either a) want to dig into the psychology of why it bothers me so much to be addressed incorrectly, or b) thinks it's funny to tease me about it.

So here's some truth: Just don't do it. Don't call me anything other than Christine. It will only serve to royally piss me off and make me wonder if we should even be friends/acquaintances/someone I felt obligated to add on Facebook.

kthxbye.

I'm The Lucky One

The last few days have been tough. I've got some friends dealing with some serious problems, and I've tried to be there for them. Imperfectly, I know, but I've been thinking about them and their worries for a while.

Last night, I finally got a chance to talk with the boy around 10:30. By then I was tired and getting close to weepy. He told me about what's going on with him, and then he said, "So what's going on with you? How's work?" I told him that I didn't want to talk about work because there's so much background information required that it just wasn't worth the effort. "Tell me," he replied softly.

So I tried to talk about two coworkers and how I'm worried for my own position when one returns, and I tried to explain about their personalities, but then I just gave up. It was quiet for a minute, and then the boy spoke.

"Honey," he said sweetly, "When you get up here, let's take one evening and let me wrap you in my favorite blanket and just hold you. Just let me take care of you. You need it too."

Six weeks and counting.

Laughingstock, Once Again

I'll be honest. When this story first broke, I paid it little attention. It just seemed like something that Alabama would absolutely do. Somehow, today, the story caught my interest. I was reading Above The Law and came across this link. Which, of course, led me here.

What really caught my eye were these two quotes: Public morality can still serve as a legitimate rational basis for regulating commercial activity, which is not a private activity, Supreme Court justices wrote in the opinion issued Friday. And, even better: As the Eleventh Circuit in Williams IV pithily and somewhat coarsely stated: There is nothing 'private' or 'consensual' about the advertising and sale of a dildo.

I can't seem to get my head around this. I did search, quite in vain, for the slip copy of the Supreme Court's decision, only to find that for a mere $17 I could have it. That absolutely sucks, but isn't my point. (However, law should not be only for those who can afford it.)

So, is the issue here the commercialization of such shops? In that case, how 'bout we ban gun advertising? Something tells me that a lot more people have been harmed with guns than have with dildoes.

And oh, how I love the ACLU. It fought the law declaring illegal the sale of "any device designed or marketed as useful primarily for the stimulation of human genital organs. And it lost. But at least it tried. And folks, in this story, they quoted the Alabama Attorney General as saying, "a ban on the sale of sexual devices and related orgasm-stimulating paraphernalia is rationally related to a legitimate legislative interest in discouraging prurient interests in autonomous sex."

I would really like to know how. Honestly. If you can explain it to me, please let me know and we'll have a very interesting conversation.

But with things like this happening, how can anyone be worried about sex toys (excuse me, "marital aids")?

Just So You Know

I am thinking, just not writing. I don't know why. Today, though, it's because I'm really, really overtired and anything I write would be even dumber than this post.

Maybe I can get an idea out tomorrow at work. Anything in particular you'd like to know about?

What I Did All Weekend

I know you folks have been waiting with bated breath for a recap of my weekend. Well, lovelies, your hopes are about to come true!

Friday:

It's a surprisingly large state, this here Alabama. I mean, I know it's a long state, but I had no idea how wide it is. It took me about three hours to get to Mississippi (like anyone's in a hurry to get there, but still...). In Mississippi I saw a field of FEMA trailers left over from Katrina. It was a trailer graveyard. Strange. I wished there had been a sign warning me so I could've pulled over and taken pictures.

Finally made it into Louisiana, only to discover that interstate 12 is an absolute abortion. I mean, it was terrible. Bad drivers, bad road...awful. Luckily it was the last thirty miles of my trip, so I managed to make it through unscathed.

I arrived and was a thrilling house guest, what with the alternating yawns and hyperness, brought on by a lot of Red Bull. Oh, did I have wings. But when those wings fell off, I crashed pretty hard...

Saturday:

Wade and I went to the mall and got me the prettiest prettiest dress ever. See, the boy is taking me to he opera next month, so certainly I needed a new dress. It's black jersey on the top and shades of blue on bottom, and the fabric on the bottom is accordion-style...



Saturday night Wade and I went to a casino. I was super excited, as I love to gamble. And by 'gamble', I mean nickel slots. With twenty bucks. Yes, I know what a high-roller I am. No need to be jealous. This casino was pretty bad - it was like Gamblers Anonymous created a place from which to cull new members. Wade's drink was weak, mine was strong, but that only seems fair since she won money and I did not. I lost money and pouted through a smile until we got to go home. Wade's as big a gambling enthusiast as I am.

Sunday:

New Orleans! Wade and I struck out around 1pm and hit French Quarter with the kind of vengeance a stay-at-home mother and underemployed lawyer can. We ate red beans and rice and bread pudding...



Can I just get a Twitter-style NOM NOM NOM?

Next we walked around Jackson Square, looking for someone to read my tarot cards (shut up) and maybe give me a henna tattoo. The psychics all looked pretty non-clairvoyant, so we skipped that plan. Instead, we walked past a street artist and his works, and I saw the most amazing piece of art.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the bestest find I've gotten since the Hell artwork the boy bought for me:

Introducing...Demented Chicken!



I absolutely love this, and it now holds a vaulted space just outside my kitchen. Wade and I then shopping for silliness - t-shirts, other things, and then, just as we were about to have to start kicking tourists, we got out of there.

When we got back, Wade's husband took us out for Mexican food. Can I just tell you that I love Wade's husband? This was the exchange between the waitress and me (mind you, Wade has two small children):

Waitress: Something to drink?
Me: Got any Xanax back there? (Nodding towards kids)
Waitress: ...
Waitress: I don't think so.
Me: Oh, all right. Margarita rocks, please.

5 minutes later.

Waitress: Anything else?
Me: Find any Xanax?
Waitress: Unfortunately, no.
Me: Oh, all right. Another margarita rocks please.

See how clever I am? I'm sure she didn't find me at all annoying.

Monday:

I packed up my goods and got ready to leave. I walked past Wade's husband and said, "If you help me load up, I'll be gone more quickly." That man got up with a speed I hadn't seen all weekend.

It was a lovely trip. I'm looking forward to returning. Thanks Wade, Wade's husband, and Wade's small children!

Placekeeper

I promise to tell you all about my trip to Baton Rouge and New Orleans soon. Right now I'm so wired on caffeine that my thoughts would be more stream-of-consciousness than usual.

Also, I've got a post in the works about how I probably wouldn't be a good parent, in which Wade and her husband look like rock stars and I look like a dope.

You don't want to miss either one! Stay tuned...

I Need The Laugh

It's been a weird twenty-four hours. After some drama last night, I found that I was in pretty good mood today. This surprised me. I thought I'd be anxious and shaky and worried and all those other bad-tummy feelings. Instead, I was busy, cheerful, and productive, and when I got home and GOT ON THE INTERNET (that's directed at someone we shall refer to as 'the boy'. Yeah.) I found a Facebook update referencing despair.com. Folks, this site saved my life when I worked for the software engineering company.

I'm going to share my favorite with you, right here, and hopefully the lovely people at Despair.com will not send me a cease-and-desist letter. If you love these too, go spend your hard-earned cash over at the site. I know I have.









And, finally, a personal favorite. Momma's got this one hanging in her classroom. Good thing she's got tenure, huh?

That's What I Get For Getting The Free One

I had a lovely evening with Cita, and there are pictures to go along with my stories. Unfortunately, my digital camera and my borrowed laptop are having a disagreement, so I can't pull the pictures down and share. This means that this post will have to wait until tomorrow.

Not that I expect them to be friends by tomorrow, but I will get them while I'm at work and then email them to myself then write for you a scintillating post, accesorized by said photos.

Don't ever say that I don't work hard for you.

Ugh!

So, no date for me tonight. I've got a lot of thoughts about this, but they're so jumbled that I don't want to write about them tonight. Well, by tonight, I mean, right now. Maybe later. Maybe never. Maybe it'll all be OK.

But this is what keeps circling my addled brain:

I am neither your Madonna nor your whore.
I am neither the cause of your problems nor the solution to them.

I'm just a girl-person, doing the best she can with her limited resources and capabilities, trying not to cause harm and hopefully spreading some cheer. Perhaps a little grin on occasion.

Because I'm A Complete Dork

This is my new favorite song: Collide, by Howie Day.

The dawn is breaking
A light shining through
You're barely waking
And I'm tangled up in you
Yeah

I'm open, you're closed
Where I follow, you'll go
I worry I won't see your face
Light up again

Even the best fall down sometime
Even the wrong words seem to rhyme
Out of the doubt that fills my mind
I somehow find
You and I collide

I'm quiet you know
You make a first impression
I've found I'm scared to know I'm always on your mind

Even the best fall down sometime
Even the stars refuse to shine
Out of the back you fall in time
I somehow find
You and I collide

Don't stop here
I lost my place
I'm close behind

Even the best fall down sometime
Even the wrong words seem to rhyme
Out of the doubt that fills your mind
You finally find
You and I collide

You finally find
You and I collide
You finally find
You and I collide

And yes, I love my boy, endlessly, forever. And then over again.

I apologize to my friends who are dealing with break-ups.

The Usefulness Of Disagreements

I was thinking today about what could have been a pretty big blow-out between the boy and me last week. Luckily, it didn't become one, mostly because I needed to get to bed and it wasn't worth it. But still...while we agree on most topics, we pretty strongly disagree on the role of religion in people's lives and on the necessity of being right.

I'm sure I drive him crazy in my desire to see all sides to all stories, and my almost pathological need to avoid conflict. Yet he can get my cockles to stand on end, and finally did.

After he was going on about how he knew everything about the Bible and religion (he was raised pretty strictly) and how a friend of mine clearly didn't, I finally just snapped. "Jesus Christ, do you think I'd befriend an idiot?" I said. I know I completely missed the point, but still. I respect this friend's education and his knowledge and I don't appreciate the boy thinking he can denigrate that.

Which leads me to this: Like I said, I'll do almost anything to avoid conflict in my interpersonal life. I think this bothers the boy sometimes. He's alluded to that fact on occasion. Me snapping at him got him to calm down (and back down) and we were able to finish our conversation on a good note.

So, is there a role in relationships for disagreements and the occasional true argument? Does that make the other person realize that there could be an end to the relationship and work harder to stay close?

Maybe. Or maybe it's just true for the boy and me. This doesn't mean I'm suddenly going to pick fights, but it might mean that I don't back down so easily.

Tiptoeing Into The Top Chef Kitchen

In my efforts to save money and keep an eye on my waistline, I've been cooking as of late. While the recipes are all new to me, what I've been making are variations of foods I'm already comfortable with. Plus, they tend to taste better the next day and are readily portable to work. This week, I made jumbo stuffed shells with ricotta and spinach:



While the picture isn't great, it still looks pretty good, no? I'm going to enjoy that tomorrow for lunch.

Next, I decided to make homemade macaroni and cheese. This was my first attempt into making cheese sauce, and let me tell you, it's not as easy as it seems. I had to be super careful not to burn the milk-and-vegetable-broth mixture. And when finally all the ingredients were combined, it would have helped a lot to know that actually creating the sauce would take about three times as long as I anticipated.

Unfortunately, I am impatient, so the sauce isn't as good as it should be (and surprisingly sweeter than I would have imagined):



This picture is not at all good, but it is a decent representation of tonight's snack and Tuesday's lunch. Also, I used whole wheat penne, so it looks even browner than normal mac and cheese would.

Yes, I know that these are not the lowest-fat dishes I could have made, but they're still a whole lot better than what I'd have if I ate out.

Overall, I'm pretty proud of myself.

PS - Do NOT eat the sliders from Applebee's. Trust me on this one. It'll take at least two more days for my stomach to forgive me.

Late...Too Late...

And, of course, I cannot sleep. I was all set to settle in at about 10 or 10:30, but I couldn't keep my eyes closed and when the boy calls me, "Sweetie," I wonder, as this is only the second time he's done it, and the brain won't turn off...

Yes, I'm almost positive that that sentence had no predicate. Or point.

For some reason, I don't want to go to bed. I shouldn't worry. I was able to wake myself before the nightmare I began last night got into full swing. And the name of the "procedure" amused the boy very much. But the visual, and the almost visceral feeling, scared the bejeezus out of me.

I think I know why. One, because the winning designer on Project Runway All-Stars had a dress that looked like a suicide bomber's frock, and two, because I'm afraid that the conversation I need to have is going to sound more like the bomb and less like the dress.

Kisses, all.

My Coworkers Have Confirmation

Today, as I did my very important and serious work, I found another gem on those webs that we call Inter. You see, I follow a pretty nifty group of people on Twitter, and those nifty people have even niftier Tumblrs, and that's where I found this one.

Via, who got it via:

An anonymous customer, unhappy with his in-flight meals on a Virgin Airlines flight, has written a vivid letter of complaint, sending it directly to Virgin CEO and mega-kabillionaire playboy Richard Branson. Via.

Dear Mr Branson:

REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008

I love the Virgin brand, I really do which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit.

Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at the hands of your corporation.

Look at this Richard. Just look at it:



I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, which one is the starter, which one is the desert?

You don’t get to a position like yours Richard with anything less than a generous sprinkling of observational power so I KNOW you will have spotted the tomato next to the two yellow shafts of sponge on the left. Yes, it’s next to the sponge shaft without the green paste. That’s got to be the clue hasn’t it. No sane person would serve a desert with a tomato would they. Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in:



I know it looks like a baaji, but it’s in custard Richard, custard. It must be the pudding. Well you’ll be fascinated to hear that it wasn’t custard. It was a sour gel with a clear oil on top. It’s only redeeming feature was that it managed to be so alien to my palette that it took away the taste of the curry emanating from our miscellaneous central cuboid of beige matter. Perhaps the meal on the left might be the desert after all.

Anyway, this is all irrelevant at the moment. I was raised strictly but neatly by my parents and if they knew I had started desert before the main course, a sponge shaft would be the least of my worries. So lets peel back the tin-foil on the main dish and see what’s on offer.

I’ll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy Richard. Now imagine it’s Christmas morning and you’re sat their with your final present to open. It’s a big one, and you know what it is. It’s that Goodmans stereo you picked out the catalogue and wrote to Santa about.

Only you open the present and it’s not in there. It’s your hamster Richard. It’s your hamster in the box and it’s not breathing. That’s how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this:



Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s more of that Baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It’s mustard Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month. On the left we have a piece of broccoli and some peppers in a brown glue-like oil and on the right the chef had prepared some mashed potato. The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird.

Once it was regurgitated it was clearly then blended and mixed with a bit of mustard. Everybody likes a bit of mustard Richard.

By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycaemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it’s baffling presentation:



It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn’t want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above.

I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was relax but obviously I had to sit with that mess in front of me for half an hour. I swear the sponge shafts moved at one point.

Once cleared, I decided to relax with a bit of your world-famous onboard entertainment. I switched it on:



I apologise for the quality of the photo, it’s just it was incredibly hard to capture Boris Johnson’s face through the flickering white lines running up and down the screen. Perhaps it would be better on another channel:



Is that Ray Liotta? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I’d had enough. I was the hungriest I’d been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen.

My only option was to simply stare at the seat in front and wait for either food, or sleep. Neither came for an incredibly long time. But when it did it surpassed my wildest expectations:



Yes! It’s another crime-scene cookie. Only this time you dunk it in the white stuff.

Richard…. What is that white stuff? It looked like it was going to be yoghurt. It finally dawned on me what it was after staring at it. It was a mixture between the Baaji custard and the Mustard sauce. It reminded me of my first week at university. I had overheard that you could make a drink by mixing vodka and refreshers. I lied to my new friends and told them I’d done it loads of times. When I attempted to make the drink in a big bowl it formed a cheese Richard, a cheese. That cheese looked a lot like your baaji-mustard.

So that was that Richard. I didn’t eat a bloody thing. My only question is: How can you live like this? I can’t imagine what dinner round your house is like, it must be like something out of a nature documentary.

As I said at the start I love your brand, I really do. It’s just a shame such a simple thing could bring it crashing to it’s knees and begging for sustenance.

Yours Sincererly

XXXX

* Paul Charles, Virgin’s Director of Corporate Communications, confirmed that Sir Richard Branson had telephoned the author of the letter and had thanked him for his “constructive if tongue-in-cheek” email. Mr Charles said that Virgin was sorry the passenger had not liked the in-flight meals which he said was “award-winning food which is very popular on our Indian routes.”

I kept the misspellings and like. And really, folks, when I got to the part about the hamster, I laughed so hard my coworkers had to check on me. So now they've got proof of my crazy.