Virtual Friends, Meatspace Strangers

In high school, most of nearly every girl's time is either spent thinking about, talking about, or scheming up ways to best subtly approach boys.

I was no exception.

Well...except that I never could work up the courage to subtly approach anyone resembling a boy and, instead, used the not so successful tactic of pining away silently and hoping the object of my affection would notice.

 

It shouldn't surprise you then to learn my first serious boyfriend didn't come along until the year after I left high school.

But this story isn't about that first boyfriend.

There was a boy I liked - let's call him The Honorable Lord Vigo, Scourge of Carpathia and Sorrow of Moldavia¹ - Vigo for short. I really only saw him a handful of times. We didn't attend the same school. Hell! By the time I met him, I lived in another town. So it wasn't one of those angsty, heart-wrenching, watching-him-lean-on-his-locker-and-slowly-dying-inside-day-after-day sort of crushes. It was simply one of those crushes where, from the moment I met him, I just really liked being near him. It felt good to be near him. He was adorable and funny. So, whenever I was in his town visiting, I was always super happy when our paths crossed.

Me, of course, being the shy, tongue-tied, type didn't ever hope to make an impression. If I recall correctly, I may have said all of 10 words to him during that time and likely they were monosyllabic. And, as one-by-one my closest friends from that town - Beasley, Brad, Nykki - moved up and out of it, I didn't see Vigo again...Not for nearly 25 years.

Eventually, the crush floated away on the winds of Wyoming as it blew in other boys who would become men.

Still...every once in awhile, I'd wonder what happened to him.

I would, rarely, get updates through the Beasley-Brad-Nykki vine. Eventually, they too lost touch with him. For many years there was nothing.

And then? Facebook happened. I think it was Brad's 40th birthday party invitation when I became aware of Vigo's online existence and knew he was physically present here, in Denver. He had a new last name and only recent pictures but it couldn't possibly be anyone but him. It was him. That was in 2010.

You have to understand...I wanted to send him a friend request back then. I really did! But! There are many people who date back from that time in my life - people I thought quite highly of - who, I fear, wouldn't even remember me. It was a time in my life I spent mostly in the corner, smoking, writing bad poetry, fearing rejection, deflecting attention. I didn't want anyone to see me...except that I really did...unless I knew they would like me. I was convinced no one actually liked me...except Beasley, Brad, Nykki.

Finally, at Beasley's insistence, near my birthday in 2013, I sent Vigo a friend request. It was weird. I felt weird. But he accepted right away.

Turns out? He did remember me.

Turns out? I intimidated him back then.

I blame it on resting bitch face.

Still got it.

And the fact that, since I couldn't actually formulate full sentences in the presence of testosterone then, I likely just grunted and growled and, occasionally, squeaked which probably made me seem a little whacko.

Anyway!

He accepted my friend request. Subsequently, I learned more about him and the man he's become through Facebook than I ever knew about the boy he was then.

But, even though he was here, in Denver, my adopted city, we weren't compelled to hang out until last week. We'd exchanged a few private messages prior to last week. Mostly about my dad, last summer, when I was looking for an elder care facility for him...something Vigo knows a lot about.

But then, last week, I was thinking a lot about being an empath. I stumbled across an article and, in reading the comments, I developed a theory about empaths. A theory that suggested empaths, including me, feel lonely, even in the presence of fellow empaths, because, in social situations, we are so used to feeling the feels of others and giving away our energy that it's all but impossible for us to know how to receive it. I wanted to test my theory - or discuss it with a fellow empath. So I posted something about it. Asked my friends on Facebook if they identified as an empath.Vigo said yes.

That's what started it. The conversation.

I think I started it - the private conversation - after he commented that he was an empath. We talked. A lot. We shared a lot via email. Not just about being empaths. About lots of things. And then he asked me to meet him on Friday for supper.

So...Friday night, we met, for the first time since 1989.

I was nervous. I was shaking as he approached. The high school crush thing wasn't the issue. It felt as though I was meeting him for the very first time. Virtual friends, meatspace strangers. What would he think of me? Would we have anything to say? Would we argue? Would we meet each other's expectations? Would we run out of conversation before we'd reviewed the menu? Would I forget my words and resort to prehistoric grunts and growls and squeaks?

 

I worry too much.

He got to the table, I stood up, and we hugged long and hard and then we both just started laughing.

The moment we sat down, we were on.

Words, his, mine, tumbling over the top of one another. Tell me this story, that story, OMG! That really happened?!

There were tears. There was laughter. There were stories galore!

Five hours we sat there asking, answering - empath to empath - about everything under the sun. We shared secrets. I told him things I haven't shared with anyone. It was a gloriously stimulating energy exchange the likes of which are exceedingly rare in my experience.

By the time I got home, there was an e-mail from him. We talked via e-mail for a couple more hours. I was so energized, I was practically giddy. I stayed up past 3, writing for the first time in months.

 

My theory was thoroughly debunked and in the best way possible. It would also seem that whatever that exchange was cured me of the constipation of the writing kind from which I'd been suffering since January. Pretty cool, huh?

 

So...that's the story. It's better than the first serious boyfriend one anyway. Trust me.

 

Thanks, Vigo. That was rad. Let's do it again soon.

 

 

1. I asked him how he'd like to be known for this entry. That's what he selected.

Proof of THE JANE

If you read the entry I posted last night about The Monstrosity of Wonder lovingly nicknamed *THEJANE* and were disappointed that there was nary a picture to be had of it, I present to you photographic evidence of what faeries wear...

Naked Jen last night at the SLC airport baggage claim

Now do y'all understand the sheer scope of this thing? The magic and love in that skirt is greater than all of us combined.

XO!

THE JANE

We hadn't been in the thrift store for 5 minutes before Naked Jen came skipping down an aisle toward Asphodel and me grinning ear to ear and carrying what we immediately began lovingly referring to as The Monstrosity. Clearly, she was going to need a cart as The Monstrosity - a full length skirt in faerie size 2 made out of an eleventy-billion yards of silver lamé and tulle ruffles - was bigger than she is.

The Facts:

• Naked Jen truly is faerie size.
• The Monstrosity had so much tulle sewed into it that it could stand fully erect on its own with no body in it - faerie or no - to support it.

I'm fairly certain that skirt has a mind of its own, knows precisely to whom it belongs, and hitched a ride to the ARC donation center at exactly the right moment when it knew Naked Jen was on her way to fetch it. Because the moment Asphodel and I saw Naked Jen lugging that skirt in both arms we both squeed in delight.

I was a little surprised her name wasn't already sewn into it.

After we'd cruised the racks and shelves for awhile, Jen scoring, in addition to The Monstrosity, a bright orange, soul-colored shift, and a Professor's Work Function Appropriate dress, we approached the check out counter in jubilation.

And then, and only then, we realized there was no price tag pinned onto The Monstrosity.

After a bit of searching, one of the store clerks discovered the skirt was part of a 2-piece set - the top a corset-type thing - and the price was marked $25.

I saw Jen hesitate. Too much for a thrift store find when the second piece was unwanted and unnecessary.

"Oh no," I said. "You are not leaving this store without that skirt. It belongs to you and I'm buying it for you as a gift."

There was no argument. It simply was hers. She knew it. I knew it. There was magic in it...naked magic. I couldn't let her leave the store...leave Denver...without proof that she'd been here loving it out with us in all that sparkly glory.

She wore it - and little else - that night to the Amanda Palmer and the Grand Theft Orchestra show and, when Hardy and Brad arrived to escort Jen, Asphodel, The Monstrosity, and me to the concert, our moment of reckoning regarding the sheer size of the thing came as we all shoved Jen and the skirt into the back seat of the SUV - Asphodel and Brad flanking Jen in her fine feathers to prevent escape - giggling and cursing at the ridiculousness of it all...The Monstrosity, of love, of chosen family, of Life.

The bottom ruffle tore almost immediately. Someone carelessly stepped on it...it might have been Hardy, apologizing profusely in his soft, southern lilt. No matter. The skirt, like life, was meant to be worn, lived in, and loved to the hilt - trodden upon, glorified, revered, torn, tousled, cherished until it's left in tatters at which point it gets sewn as patches in a love quilt to wrap one's self in on a chilly autumn night. 

We - the five of us - joked around at the venue...

Make way for the skirt! was the proclamation. Most obliged. Compliment after compliment was paid.

I love your outfit! heard again and again.

The Monstrosity would not - could not - be ignored.

But...

In some ways it was. 

Nary a picture was taken of The Monstrosity that night. Instead, picture upon picture of me got snapped - my outfit (inspired by The Monstrosity, I dressed up as outrageously as I could on short notice), my hair, my face - by a handful of people who, for whatever reason, thought me and my feathers were photo worthy. It felt great. Even when the paranoia and anxiety set in, wondering if those pictures were going to show up on the internet somewhere as a vehicle of hilarity, I pushed those feelings aside and enjoyed feeling beautiful. Unique. Larger than life.

It was a damn fine night.

The Monstrosity didn't make its way back to Salt Lake City with Naked Jen when she left. Deemed too large to fit in her already filled-to-bursting-with-glitter suitcase and, frankly, too ridiculous - even for a naked faerie - to wear on the airplane, she left it here in my care with instructions to send it on the slow boat from China at my leisure.

And so it laid for the next 3 weeks, just as she left it, draped over my Great-Aunt Lue's steamer trunk in the living room of The Grotto, waiting for her to return to retrieve it or waiting for me to get off my duff and send it on to whom it belonged.

And then...an e-mail...

Sweet Jane,

Is there any possible way that you can shove that monstrosity of wonder in a box and mail it to me before November 1? I am going to Florida and need it for a PARADE. Yes, a parade. On the beach. With flags. I KNOW!!

Of course this means I have to carry it some how on a plane to FLORIDA, but you know, I'll work out the transport.

It would just be the perfect thing to wear. Of course if it is too much bother, do not bother. I mean it. I'll figure something out. I have no shortage of things in the box. As we know.

I love you. More.

xo

Jen

Are you kidding? Say no? Say it's a bother?! How could I possibly say no? A parade?! On The Beach?! WITH FLAGS?!?!?! Of course I couldn't say no to THAT!

Last weekend then, Acr0nym and I shoved The Monstrosity into a box that, at first glance, wouldn't seem to have the capacity to bear such glittery tidings. And yet, with the help of a third set of hands - two pair to squeeze together and hold the box flaps closed and one pair to tape the box shut - we managed to contain all the magnificence of The Monstrosity of Wonder into a plain cardboard box that belied its contents for shipping to an especially extraordinary woman.

I forgot to warn her that contents would explode upon opening. *laughing* And it did explode upon opening in a shower of glittery shrapnel. The only kind of bomb debris that ought to be.

But when Jen tweeted tonight, "what constitutes a true *fairy* skirt? one that requires handlers in order for you to actually wear it. am dubbing this thing *THEJANE*", I might have cried.

Because it's kinda apt.

I am a monstrosity. I am a ticking time bomb...waiting to explode. I do, occasionally, require handlers...4 of them + a work spouse. I do, sometimes, appear ridiculous, out of place, and over-the-top. I, at times, do feel trodden upon, glorified, revered, torn, tousled, cherished until I'm left in tatters and discarded into a cardboard box waiting to be sewn into a patchwork quilt...or until the box is opened and I explode out of it again.

I am, at my best, a spectacular thrift store find...a vision of silver lamé and tulle. At my worst, I am the same, but with a torn ruffle (or 3) around the bottom. Filthy from having been dragged carelessly along the curb and in  the street - when the curb wouldn't have me.

And yet...I am still parade and flag worthy. Right? RIGHT?!

I think.

I hope.

I believe.

That's All

It's been a day of twos.

- Two narrow escapes at highway creamery during my commute.

- Two trips to the grocery store.

- Two seriously delinquent clients at work sent in checks received in today's mail that marked them paid in full.

- Two long overdue e-mail responses sent.

- Two loads of laundry washed, folded, and stored.

- Two beautiful pies baked for trade to take to a DIY homemade food exchange event at denhac on Saturday. (I'll bake two more tomorrow.)

- Two sinkfuls of dishes hand washed, dried, and put away.

And now me and my two tired feet are sitting down to rest, finally, after a long, full, happily productive day.

It feels as though it's been forever since I baked anything. Well...OK...I baked a blueberry-pineapple cobblery thing a couple of weeks ago (another 2!) to take to a gathering but I don't count that as there was very little to it.  Sincerely, one would have to be massively challenged both mentally and physically not to be able to pull it off.

But I'm not talking about bakery fluff. I'm talking about the kind of baking that requires me to pull out and dust off the Kitchen Aid and plan ahead for timing and ingredients. Anyone who has ever tried to work homemade pie crust dough before it's properly chilled knows precisely what I mean. 

However, having just experienced the hottest summer on record here in Denver, turning the oven on at all, much less to 425º, seemed ridiculous...quite possibly certifiably crazy. And I'm not really certifiable. At least, not yet. So I haven't baked anything in what feels like forever until tonight.

And it felt really great! There's something about baking...especially pie...that feels like pouring love into a delectable crust and serving it up to people I adore. It's a way of giving some small token of myself, of my affection, my appreciation. To share a particular comfort I do well. I'm so very glad to be back at it. I suspect Lex, in addition to a number of my friends, will be tired of weekly treats before the cold months are through.

Speaking of friends...so Acr0nym flew out to San Francisco last week for a job interview. I knew it was happening of course...knew it was a possibility after the first couple rounds of phone interviews. But, since I found out about the face time interviews, I've been transparently angsty and worried. Today he had another follow up call with the hiring director who told him if he wanted an offer, all he had to do was say, "make me an offer". 

And I'm devastated at the possibility of him leaving.

Like no really. I cannot even begin to imagine what life would be like without him here with me. And not just because he drives my ass around. But because...jeebus...because he's my best friend. He takes care of me in ways no one ever has and, as it stands now, never will. He loves me. I love him. What can I say? I have deeply seeded abandonment issues.

I had an epiphany today though. I'm being horrendously selfish by expressing my displeasure at this opportunity. While I do not, under any circumstances, want him to leave, I do not want to, under any circumstances, hold him back. I want him to be happy. I want him to have adventures. I want him to have a chance to leave what has always been home - something he's never done - so that he can either find out this was never home and create home somewhere new or discover 303 will always be home and come back on his own volition. 

So I told him to tell this potential employer to make him an offer. 

Even if he doesn't take the offer, not asking to find out what they think he's worth to them is begging for a what if. And I refuse to play a part in his what if down the line. Not in this instance at least. 

And if he goes? I'll cry. Buckets. And I'll probably ask many of you to provide me with any number of distractions to get by. I'll likely ask for rides and increase my taxi budget so I don't have to drive much more than I already do. And I'll make a special budgetary line item for San Francisco travel so that I can go see him as much as possible. And I will force him under duress to promise to visit me as often as possible.

But I will not stand in his way.

Not now. Not ever.

If he goes, it just means I'll spend my free time baking even more love and tears into things that can be shipped UPS.

That's all.

Faeries Really Do Exist

I suspect I'm about to bungle this up pretty badly. Just know there is eloquence in my heart even if my words don't reflect it.

I knew it was her the moment I saw her standing at the curb of the east terminal passenger pickup area. The tiny dynamo with platinum and pink hair, dressed in all black, could be no one else but Naked Jen. Never mind the fact that she was the only faerie standing there - let alone the only faerie chattering away on her cell phone (to me) - one can't help but know Naked Jen on sight. I'm not sure either of us remembered to hang up our call before I was out of the car and hugging her with all my might.

From that moment on Thursday until just a few hours ago when Acr0nym and I deposited her nearly where I found her, I was spellbound...suspended in liminal time, immersed in love and glitter.

She says she flew in from Salt Lake on an airplane but, right now, I cannot confirm this. A wee small part of me thinks perhaps she actually came in on her own faerie wings. She is just that magical.

She came here on the premise of going to the Amanda Palmer & the Grand Theft Orchestra concert with me. Me. Someone she knew, through our respective blogs, but had never met. She left with both of us feeling as though the concert - that extraordinary and wonderful concert, worth every penny - was secondary to what transpired. Not just between us but...but...but...

But let me back up.

When Jen and I were first talking about going to the concert via a thread on Facebook, Dayna, that beloved friend of mine I've known since I was 16...the one who will, when you're on a crying jag, "bring you a nice cheese and a Bota Box full of wine and drink it with you glass for glass til it's gone or until you're both passed out cold and covered in cats" piped up and asked, since she was hoping to be here on a visit from Seattle then anyway, if she might join us. And I, of course, said, "YES!!!!!"

So Dayna was here this weekend too.

And, from the moment I thrust these two upon each other on Friday morning - because I wasn't about to forsake one for the other, magic happened. Not only did they like each other and make pleasantries, there was an immediate, beautiful connection between them. One that, if I were someone entirely different, I would feel threatened by...I would covet. As it is, I am beyond thrilled that they found each other and already love each other as much as they do. 

And they do love each other. Of this, I am certain. I am so glad.

Jane, Brad, Dayna, and Faerie Jen at Amanda Fucking Palmer (not pictured beloved Hardy)

The rest of the extended weekend was a whirlwind of nearly that kind of love. I introduced Jen to just a few folks I love and, of course, she fit right in while standing out. Every time I told her she was about to meet another friend of mine, I would preface the introduction privately to her like this..."You're going to get to meet [insert name here]! And this person sparkles. They are extraordinary and I love them! I'm so excited to introduce you!"

Each one she embraced and loved and recognized as kindred.

Friday night, I laughed, quietly, shoulders shaking, to myself as I laid in bed. I was, even then, starting to remember that which I'd taken for granted and something Jen already knew. My community - my family - is extraordinary. My community is unspeakably gorgeous, talented, delightful, lovable...even to those we've just met.

It's rare, you know. To invite someone you've never met face to face (no matter how well you think you might know them) into your life, your home, your being...to introduce them - a person you've never met - and have them take a look around and then just settle in, make themselves comfortable, like Naked Jen did in mine, and find a family...love...home. A home she wants to visit again and again. The home I've created for myself because I so desperately needed a home.

But that's precisely what she did.

She immersed herself in my life for just a few days, met just a handful of people I am so grateful for, and then, having recognized their immeasurable value said, "You do know that your friends and their glitter are a testament to you and YOUR love?"

Um...no?

I love each of them because they are so very beautiful. I'd never given any consideration at all to the fact they might love me back. I just thought I was lucky that they tolerate me, touch me appropriately...I thought that sometimes I was a fraud.

Because why would they love me? I'm just...me...Just Jane...in my infinite wisdom.

But Naked Jen? She kinda set me straight.

As an outside observer, an objective third party, a radical faerie, she saw what I can't usually see.

I am loved. Immeasurably. And this community that surrounds me? Embraces me? Loves me (sometimes just as fiercely) back? Is mine because I am me...just me...in my infinite wisdom.

And that is powerful magic.

Magic I, without even realizing it, needed. I'd tried to take care of everyone else without knowing I needed care too. Until she came. And now, even though a piece of my heart flew back with Jen this afternoon, my heart is full to brimming with that magic and love. 

I selfishly wish she was still here.

I am unselfishly glad she is home with her Salty Cyclist and her 'lil salty.

And I am selfishly glad she'll be back.

Old Friends and Lost Loves

1) I unfriended someone on Facebook today.

This is a man I've been friends with since we were in high school. My mother and his parents are friends. We go way back. But you know? Politics make people crazy. They certainly make me crazy. Just ask my livejournal circa 2008 when I was so over-the-top angsty over the very idea of Sarah Palin, I was spewing crazy talk night after night and getting my much needed daily dose of sanity from Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert. Frankly, those two are quite possibly the only reason I'm not dead or in jail over that election.

And when I woke up this morning to find several vitriolic posts in a row from someone I've always been fond of spewing political hatred and making sure I, and everyone else on his friend list, knew removing "under God" from the pledge of allegiance was despicable and unacceptable, I decided, spur of the moment, I'm done.

Unfriend.

That's the first time I've ever unfriended someone over politics. I don't feel good about it. But I don't feel good about being called despicable for believing his god doesn't belong in my government (or my vagina for that matter) either.

2) Tomorrow is the 3rd anniversary of Andy's death. I'm not coping so well this year. Privately, I'm kind of a mess. I just had this realization about it though...

Over the last three years, this sad anniversary has been counter-balanced with other, extraordinary memories of travel with some of the people I love the best...

Sunset over Orcas Island, San Juan Islands, WA 2009

In 2009, just after he died, I spent 8 incredible days with the Drs. Conroy in Seattle and the San Juans.

Sunrise on South Miami Beach, FL 2010

In 2010, it was a trip to Miami and a cruise to the Bahamas with Blind Betsy.

Sunset somewhere in Iowa 2011

And last year, it was the American Gods and Roadside Attractions Tour with the BFF.

This year, I've got nothin'. No sunrises or sunsets over unfamiliar waters or unseen byways. I'd say I regret the decision not to make travel/vacation plans but, in all honesty, with the hullabaloo getting ready for DEFCON, it never occurred to me. So, instead, I'm going to try and sit quietly with the knowledge of this anniversary, allow the waves of guilt and grief to wash over me in waves...like the waves of the Atlantic did when I stood in the salt water of that sea 2 years ago, and just breathe into it. It's all I can do. What's past is past and all I can do to honor him is to live and love...here...now.

3) This morning, as I was just coming out of sleep, it occurred to me Beas's eldest daughter - Beas is one of my oldest friends (blog post about her coming soon) - is 15 now. 15. The age she and I were when we first met and became friends. At 15, Beas was dealing with the too early death of her mother. At 15, I was dealing with the repercussions of an unsuccessful suicide attempt. Beas and I, we found each other, clung to each other for years, out of adversity, and still love each other, even though we've grown apart, because of the common ground we found, and still maintain, back then. My mind is blown to know her daughter is the age we were when we first discovered each other, assigned lab partners in Mr. Eldridge's Biology class, realizing too late we'd just mooshed, with a straight pin, the brains out of the worm we were supposed to dissect. Her daughter is so much happier and healthier than either of us were at her age. This fills me with such gladness...and nostalgia.

4) Also, please note, according to Facebook, Beas has hives. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Not that I think it's funny that she has hives for real but because of the pun. Oh. Shuddup. That shit is funny.

Listing List of Listless

Listless tonight.

So I'm making another of my seemingly infinite lists of things on my mind.

1) Last week was especially angsty, anxious, stressful, busy. I have to confess I did not handle it well. If you've got me fed to a reader of some sort, you may already know this as I posted about it and then retracted the post after thinking better of it but feeds don't always automatically delete deleted posts. If that's the case, and you read it, I apologize. I sort of went off the rails about...

2) The third anniversary of Andy's death is rapidly approaching. I didn't consciously realize it last week until late in the week when the knowledge of it caught me off guard and landed a punch below the belt. Luckily, I'm surrounded by compassion, sometimes in unlikely places, and this weekend helped. A lot. When I received much needed compassion, tenderness, and loving kindness from those who care about me most...whether they knew that's what they were giving me or not.

3) I'm not sure, even at the very beginning of this blog when he first died, that I ever told you how Andy died. So here it is in a nutshell. He was giving blood and, at some point, a blood clot traveled into his brain and he had a stroke, then a heart attack, then another stroke. By the time they got him to the hospital, he was, in effect, already dead although his body lived on life support for a couple more days. He would have several more strokes and heart attacks and then, eventually, his vital organs began shutting down one by one.  He was 34 when he died. 

4) We've raised a needy cat. Vinny was a particularly social guy when we first adopted him and we certainly did not discourage that behavior at all. He's always had as much human interaction as he could possibly desire - especially since Lex's employment got cut back to half time - but now we pay for that during the rare occasion when both Lex and I are gone at the same time for more than an hour or two. Case in point, this evening, I arrived home after spending much of the afternoon in the company of Acr0nym followed by a 303 food and drink outing in Golden. Lex was also gone from the Grotto for most of the afternoon and evening. I got home first and Vinny would not let me out of his sight. He sat next to my feet, followed me from room to room when I got up, and cried almost incessantly when I wasn't paying some kind of attention to him. Poor bastard. It must suck to have Naked Vinny time when he has no opposable thumbs or the ability to read.

5) Speaking of Vinny...animals should be a great reminder to us all about the power of loving touch. The needs of domesticated animals are relatively few...food, shelter, touch. Much like humans. Abraham Maslow in his Hierarchy of Needs believed sex to be a basic physiological need along with food, breathing, and homeostasis  While I disagree that sex itself is a basic need - certainly many of us live without it for long stretches of time - sex, touch, belonging are all decidedly important to our sense of well-being. I know what it is to have voluntarily suffered its starvation and to know, first hand, that it's insidious in its cruelty. Animals, generally, don't understand the psychological aspects of denial of touch. They want it. Need it. They not only ask for it but demand it. If they don't get it from one, their allegiances are easily turned to someone who will give it to them. Humans seem to have a much greater capacity for self-denial over the long term. But what are the irreparable effects of denying ourselves of loving touch? What damage do we do by withholding loving touch from our partners? I want to know.

6)  Acr0nym and I recorded the latest episode of Sharp Pointy Objects this afternoon...the first time we've recorded anything for several months. We're trying to get back into the groove of things now that we are post-defcon and decided it was most easy to record an episode about DEF CON itself - just a conversation between the two of us. Hopefully, we'll be able to get that episode (minimally) edited and uploaded in the next few days. It felt good to record. I'm not gonna lie. I'm looking forward to recording more.

7) Just in case you don't feed my infinite wisdoms via RSS and missed my derailing, I'm going to state this again for the record...

We are never quite as self-aware as we believe ourselves to be.

Last week, over a cuppa joe, I sat reading a blog entry written by someone I used to know and found myself chuckling to myself over an obvious case of blindness by perceived self-enlightenment. And I thought to myself, "Huh. I don't think he's quite as self-aware as he thinks he is."

And then I laughed, heartily, at myself.

Because none of us are as self-aware as we believe ourselves to be. No one. Certainly not me.

However, in his case - as it is in so very many, it's more a case of mistaking self-absorption for self-awareness.

We are never quite as self-aware as we believe ourselves to be. [say it with me now...] Not even me.

8) Let's end on an especially light note, shall we? I don't know if this is embarrassing or awesome but a few of us are fans of the hacker karaoke on Friday nights. The following is becoming somewhat of a signature song for me. Hee hee.

That's a Wrap

DEFCON XX is over.

Acr0nym, TC, and I rolled back into Denver just after 11 p.m. Monday night worn out and quiet - each of us keeping our own thoughts, mulling over what we'd just experienced, savoring our memories, and, for my part, wishing it hadn't ended quite yet.

It was...I don't know that I can tell you what or how it was. 

Insane. Hectic. Poignant. Glorious. Hysterical. Maddening. Bacchanalian. Exhausting in the end.

I'd gone with no expectations. 

Oh sure, I'd heard the stories...mostly of the Alexis Park shenanigans but I've learned that the best way to get the most out of an event like this is to just simply go and be prepared for anything and everything. So I didn't dwell too much on what might happen or what should happen and just let myself be in every moment as it came without worrying about past or future.

I could try to give you a blow by blow of all I did, what I saw, who I met and developed instant crushes on...but that is decidedly boring. It would be reporting and I'm not a reporter. Instead, I thought I would weave together some of my most favorite highlights without attempting to get mired down in too much context or describe in too much detail.

1. Hanging out with Stringer, Drunkwell, Th3 D0n, and Acr0nym (the badge heroes) as we made a mad scramble to assemble the Skytalks and the rest of the 303 badges - badges, I might add, that were interactive and chock full o' badassery.

2. Getting introduced to the delights of Yacht Rock and thinking I'll never be able to hear Hall and Oats ever again without thinking to myself, "What are you going to do, Sara? Smile?"

3. Watching Jason Scott zoom around continuously on his Segway as he tried to capture all the debauchery on camera for his documentary. I'm firmly convinced the only time he slept during con was when the battery was charging on his mode of transportation and even then he, in my opinion, must have slept standing up on the Segway ready to go at a moment's notice.

4. Speaking of transportation, seeing Coleslaw roll up on the Hoveround he'd rented for a mere $30 a day, slouching to the side, steering with one hand while holding a cocktail in the other, and hearing him say, "I am a lazy genius." Affirmative.

5. Hugging and hugging and hugging a bunch of my favorite folks.

6. Hearing the legendary line "Do you know Pyr0?" as a silly boy tried to pick up on the prettiest girl at con...a girl I not only adore but who actually does know Pyr0...hard not to when she's been a part of 303 longer than he has.

7. Telling a newb that DEFCON XXI has been canceled and watching his face fall.

8. Walking into the con area for the first time after open and seeing Spux's art literally everywhere...the Goon shirts, the Welcome banner, all the signage, one of the floor pieces, the sticker pack. She'd made herself so sick getting everything ready for con, she missed half of it.

9. Speaking of Spux...getting the word that, at the last minute, she was on her way and then running into her  tired, sick but happy ass as I walked down to my shift at the Info Booth on Saturday.

10 And speaking of last minute and unexpected "en route" messages...finding out that TC was able to catch an early flight out on Friday so he got to come after all.

11. Grilling TC for history lesson after history lesson of the 303 after meeting new-to-me faces with old names.

12. Knowing TC had my back when I unleashed at a well-deserving chump.

13. Getting red-carded by dis.

14. "SQUIRREL"ing everyone who fingered an attrition.org sticker or wristband on my last Info Booth shift.

15. And finally (at least for tonight), gathering most of the 303 family present in the rotunda just before opening the doors of the 303 party Saturday night and getting a family picture taken. 64 faces dating back to the beginning...some I don't know, some I likely won't ever really know, and some I love beyond all reason. It was a powerful and poignant moment in time to feel that kind of love and loyalty among so many. A degenerate family reunion indeed.

And that was my DEFCON.

I can't wait to go back.

What did you do this weekend?

PS Here's the documentary trailer Jason Scott showed at his talk on the first day of con. Many of the faces you'll see toward the end are faces of those I love best. 

PPS I have a couple more stories to share that I'll try to get up in the next couple of days. Namely, they are stories I've been told I have to write up before they are forgotten. Otherwise, this will be my official DEFCON post. The rest is stuff I don't want to share or really can't share. 

The Nakedness That is Naked Jen

I don't remember now where I found her.

Perhaps someone shared a link to her on Facebook or in an article I read or in a comment on my blog. I know I'd been reading her for awhile though before Dr. Jenni suggested I add her blog to my reading list. Regardless, Naked Jen has been appropriately touching my heart for several years. 

I can't even begin to describe her. Glitter faerie? Check. Naked in every way? Check. Lover of everyone in spite of themselves? Check. Check. Check. She's just...Naked Jen, spreading her love and her glitter and her spirit with such ferociousness one cannot help but fall helplessly in love with her. Mainly, because every bit of her - from the loving gorgeousness to the occasional messness - is so vulnerably and beautifully exposed, knocking and kicking at your door demanding you to love her.

I triple dog dare you not to.

It took me a long time to work up the courage to "speak" to her via commenting on her blog. I don't remember what I said but it's possible I told her I loved her...which is kinda stalkery and weird. Yet, true. It was the first time but certainly not the last time I would tell her so. So there. When she posted and invited people to follow her on Twitter and/or friend her on Facebook, I took advantage and did just that. I might have squee'd just a little when she accepted my friend request.

And then I discovered she was also reading my blog.

All of a sudden, I wasn't just lurking and stalking her anymore. All of a sudden, we were two women, reading each other, loving each other, appreciating the nakedness of one another in all of our hot, glorious messiness. We casually mentioned several times how we needed to meet and hug and throw glitter at each other but it's not ever happened.

Enter Amanda Palmer.

You may or may not know just how much I love Amanda Fucking Palmer. Unless, of course, you've been around awhile. I don't talk about it much here. But I do...love her, I mean. Probably because, in the scheme of nakedness she's right up there with Naked Jen. 

I've loved Amanda Palmer with the debut of The Dresden Dolls:

Followed by Who Killed Amanda Palmer, her solo project:

Then Amanda Palmer and the Grand Theft Orchestra put out this a couple of months ago (my all-time favorite Nirvana song, FYI):

And, finally, this yesterday just as tickets for their fall tour went up for sale (NSFW because Amanda Palmer is naked - awesomely so - at the beginning and end...because, you know, nipples and body hair hurt people in bad, bad ways):

I'd posted the Polly video to Facebook just after AFP announced her tour dates that would include Denver, mentioning I'd probably cry but I'd be there, and before the announcement that pre-sale tickets would go on sale yesterday. In response, Naked Jen posted her own love for Amanda Palmer (SURPRISE!), and then mentioned she'd probably have to come to Denver to see the show and sleep on my couch, and then posted on my wall about the pre-sale tickets.

So...yesterday, as soon as the pre-sale tickets were released, I bought two. One for me. One, hopefully, for Naked Jen.

Because what better way for Naked Jen and Just Jane (which is just another way of saying Naked Jane) to meet than reveling in the nakedness of Amanda Palmer? Someone who is as naked as we are?

Naked Jen confirmed, after I'd told her she had a ticket, she would do whatever she could, with all her naked might, to make the show (from SLC) and to meet me. And I'm so glad! I cannot even tell you how glad...you wouldn't believe me.

Rarely in real life do we get to meet someone who's mere existence has played such an important part to our own growth, our own loving spirit, our very own nakedness as Naked Jen has played in mine. And yet, I think it's going to happen for me.

If I know Jen - and I think I do - she may cringe at that responsibility, that expectation. 

All I have to say to her is "Jen? Get over here. I need to hug you in all your naked, imperfect glory. I love you...just as you are. You're so beautiful, it hurts to look at you."

YAY!

Sharp Pointy Objects: Episode 5...It's Live

I've often talked about my friend, Bomb Betsy, charter member of the Ducks 'n Puppies.

Bomb Betsy, Sufi Mag-to-the-Pie PIE, and Devo Was Right at Thanksgiving 2011

But I haven't told you much about the circumstances surrounding just how she ended up in Denver, how she and I met, and how we became friends.

That just changed.

On April 8, Betsy sat down with me to record an episode of Sharp Pointy Objects.

I am touched and honored that she would come talk with me about her story because her story is so amazing...and sad...and scary...and hopeful.

I love Betsy. Everyone who meets Betsy loves Betsy. I suspect, if you'll take a listen, that you'll love Betsy too.

Part 1: Taking the Girl Out of Wyoming

Part 2: Taking the Shrapnel Out of the Girl

I hope you'll honor Betsy by listening to her story. It's worth every life-affirming moment. I promise.

Variety Pack

I sat down on Sunday with three extraordinary women to record the 4th episode of Sharp Pointy Objects. This time, the panel was selected because all three are or were sex workers - phone sex workers, escorts, domatrix. I didn't really go in with an agenda. During the recording we touched briefly on what's been going on politically with women and our bodies but mostly I let the conversation flow in the direction they took it - and, trust me, they took it to some places I'd never considered. Afterward, exhausted and, yet, exhilarated, I drove home and thought to myself how fortunate I am to have such a diverse group of friends and resources in my life. I know geeks, hackers, sex workers, politicians, lobbyists, reporters, baristas, conspiracy theorists, stand up comics, artists, musicians, holistic food educators, mathematicians, poets, photographers, therapists, DIY experts, cartoonists, cheese specialists, DJs, engineers, geologists, sociologists, and every other -ologist you can think of. I know day sleepers, night sleepers, and weekend warriors. I know CLOWNS. I know gay people, straight people, queer people, ambiguous people, and transgender people. I don't even know all the titles and distinctions of everyone I know.

How in the world did I get so lucky to know and love so many amazing, smart, interesting, strange, gorgeous people? How? Especially when I don't think I'm particularly interesting. These fascinating people chose me as a friend. That's...wow. Extremely flattering.

Buckle up and stay tuned. Wow. Because wow. Just...wow!!!

Put the Lime In the Coconut

*giggling*

Spux e-mailed me last weekend while vacationing in Florida. He wanted my snail mail address so he could "send me a postcard". He figured it wouldn't get to me before he got back but he wanted to send it anyway.

True enough.

When I saw him Friday night he asked quietly, "You get your postcard yet?"

I hadn't.

I should have checked my mail yesterday but I didn't.

So, this afternoon, while I was out of the house and unavailable, a strange thread started by my upstairs neighbors appeared on my Facebook page...something about coconuts...I was perplexed. What in tarnation are they talking about?!

It went a little something like this...

#himself: Jane, do you know about the coconut?
#himself: The coconut, Jane. Do you know?
#himself: Because it knows. And it's waiting for you.
modchen: It's waiting.
modchen: It's patient.
#himself: It's watching.
#himself: It's listening.
modchen: the coconut.
#himself: Through the floor.
modchen: it's got three eyes.
#himself: Blank timeless face like Easter Island visages. The coconut.
modchen: It's waiting for Jane.
#himself: It unnerves me.
modchen: It's listening. Don't anger it.
#himself: It lived in a black metal box. But then it got out.
#himself: Now it's on the floor. Now it wants more.

This went on. And on. And on.

Frankly, it started to creep me out a little.

I had NO idea what they were talking about and I was kinda afraid to go look outside my front door...especially when #himself pulled this little number out from his beatnik beret:


Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a coconut who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
I wish, I wish he’d go away...


When I came home last night at three
The coconut was waiting there for me
But when I looked around the hall
I couldn’t see him there at all!
Go away, go away, don’t you come back any more!
Go away, go away, and please don’t slam the door... (slam!)


Last night I saw upon the stair
A little coconut who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
Oh, how I wish he’d go away

Some days I can be so dense.

Finally it occurred to me...they were talking about my mailbox. I had new [snail] mail.

SPUX!

I hurried up the stairs, still a little tingling lingering about my spine, and found, resting on the floor underneath my box, this:

Spux's idea of a postcard.

Somehow he knew I not only needed a coconut bra but an entire coconut to feel better. I'm also fairly certain Spux is the only person on the planet who would think to slap a postage stamp on an unwrapped coconut and send it knowing the presentation would be just that much better.

Thanks, Spux. It worked. I <3 your face.

Coconut Bra

Just weeks before my mom, Blind Betsy, was diagnosed with breast cancer in the fall of 2002, a work friend, Tim, went to Hawaii on vacation and brought me back the best vacation present. Of. All. Time.

He brought me a coconut bra.

This had nothing to do with any kind of fixation he had on my breasts (which I assume there was none) and, instead, was namely because, when he asked me what I wanted from Hawaii I said, "You know, I'd really like a coconut bra."

I was tickled pink when he handed it over - but not in a Susan G. Komen Foundation sort of way...then.

Soon after, the call came. Cancer. Breast cancer. Lumpectomy. Radiation. Blessedly, no mastectomy and no chemo. Still...breast cancer. Ouch. Terror.

Even though it was the worst possible time of year for me to take time off from my job, my boss - herself a breast cancer survivor - said, "Go."

And I did. For a week. About 3 weeks into the 10-week course of radiation.

Prior to my stay with my mom, I talked to her on the phone one night and asked her, "How are you doing?"

The one thing I remember her saying was, "You know, I'm doing OK but I feel really really protective of myself...of my breasts. I don't want anyone to touch me and all anyone wants to do is give me a hug. I wish I had a set of armor so no one could touch me."

I had no armor. I couldn't afford any armor. But I did have something that might suffice as armor for a woman I'd give anything to help...

A coconut bra.

So...armed with a sense of humor, a coconut bra, and fear of my mother's mortality, I arrived at her doorstep and presented her with the "authentic" Hawaiian vacation gift. Hell, it's not like it would have fit me anyway.

She laughed.

Long and loud.

It was the best medicine I could have presented her.

In my defense, in her defense, this is the same woman who, when nearly killed when she was side-swiped by a dump truck in 1985, thought it hysterical when a dear friend had flowers delivered to her...flowers arranged in a Tonka Toy dump truck.

We are sick, sick people, y'all.

Anyway!

The gift of a useless coconut bra and an invaluable laugh were enough to make her feel good - if only for a moment. It helped her to laugh when she didn't know what she needed. It helped me to hear her laugh when I didn't know how to help. It was only for a moment but it was something in a sea of nothing good.

I tell you this because...

A dear friend of ours - my mom's and mine - is in the hospital currently. She has been there for more than a week. It's cancer. It's scary.

I talked to my mom about it tonight. She's beside herself in wanting to help and not knowing just how she can. When she said she didn't know what to do, I didn't know what to tell her.

After we hung up, I remembered the coconut bra.

And so I say...

Mommy? Keep an eye out for your opportunity. It may not be a coconut bra. It may not be a laugh. But you won't have to physically see the opportunity to know it when it presents itself. You only have to keep yourself open to however the opportunity manifests itself. Remember. You're open to possibility (isn't that what you said to me just tonight?). She (they) aren't going to know to ask for it but they will be grateful when you trip over it and then offer it - no matter what it is - in all its glory.

The littlest things mean a lot. Remember.

Much love, peace, health and happiness to you all.

But for the grace of...go I.

Vacation Station Identification

I'm having one of those awesome fantasy housewife vacations, yo (why I just said yo, I cannot say).

You know that one where I get to sit around in my pajamas all day, snacking on Dove dark chocolate, and playing on the computer and then the non-husband comes home after working all day, cooks supper and does the dishes? Don't hate me because I'm beautiful. I'm fairly certain Acr0nym doesn't realize I'm here...yet...

Mostly because I'm staying extra specially quiet (no small feat) while attempting to pretend I'm not actually here. If Acr0nym notices I'm here, he may tell me to leave.

Besides, there's no tiara in this fantasy and you can't really hate me if I don't have a tiara, right?

Heh. Now he's getting ready to start laundry! Can this get any more awesome?! OK, well it'd probably be particularly awesome if he was doing my laundry but since I don't let anyone handle my underthings, it would be hard for him to do my laundry so I'll just relish the fact that he's doing his own laundry as I sit here...quietly.

[later]

He noticed me. It was likely all the hummus I ate for lunch. You know how that goes:

Beans, beans
The magical fruit.
The more you eat,
The more you toot.

Mental note: Next time you stay at someone's house as a guest, Jane - particularly one who will wait on you - refrain from the offer of the bean dip. It's a trap. A little like a bell around a cat's neck.

Anyway!

How I've thus far spent my Birthday Vacation:

I arrived at Acr0nym's safe and sound Sunday afternoon at which point we shopped for my vacation snax and wine and all manner of thrift store goodies because we could. Before you yell at me, yes, I know I have spelled snax incorrectly. However, you should also understand, sometimes words need to be misspelled for emphasis. Don't argue. Save your breath. I'm not listening. La-la-la-la I can't hear you!

Anyway!

The rest of Sunday and all day Monday was spent catching up with all my blogging friends. I laughed. I grimaced. I guffawed. And sometimes I cried...for the deaths of loved ones, for the death of a beloved cat, for the death of relationships. Emotions were all over the map and I was simply along for whatever ride came next chronologically. It was a trip well-worth taking but, I must confess, I'm glad the roller-coaster cars have come to a complete stop and the safety bars raised because by the time I went to bed (or the couch as it were) last night, I was exhausted.

Of note, this falling into slumber was precluded by Whirley Pop popcorn and two blissfully intense episodes of Game of Thrones. I've read the book, I just hadn't seen all the episodes yet.

Today was spent working in earnest on the new podcast.

Photo and mics provided by Acr0nym. Mosaic skull provided by Jive Turkey

We have a name! And a domain! And a logo in progress! And topics for the first half dozen episodes! We have original theme music and enthusiastic guests and snax! We have snax, by gum! We've tested audio and re-tested audio and tested audio some more (thank you, Jive Turkey, for braving the microphone for said tests) and then tested compression.

We have the first recording with guests scheduled for this coming Saturday. One guest informed me she's already picked out her outfit and "hawt" shoes for said recording. I said, "Honey, you know no one is going to see your shoes, right?"

Her response was the best ever! She said, "You know how you're supposed to put a smile in your voice when you're being recorded? Hawt shoes put a smile in my voice. So does talking about food while naked."

Thankfully, we won't be talking about food for the inaugural episode...uh...I don't think. For the record, naked food talk isn't a bad thing in my book. I just want to keep my audio engineer, Acr0nym, focused on the task at hand and I'm not sure he can stay focused if we're talking about food. Especially if Alton Brown gets mentioned.

Tomorrow is even more work on the podcast. I need to do some work deciding on format and more work on the initial scripting - not for the panel discussion but for the introduction and credits. We've also concluded I ought to do an episode zero to introduce the podcast and what kind of content I intend to include rather than try to do all that in episode one so I need to come up with something for that.

And then! Tomorrow night, we'll be heading down to a local pub where Devo Was Right spins each Wednesday night. This isn't something I can normally do during my work week since a 5 a.m. rise time is not conducive to staying out past 9 p.m. Thus, I'm taking full advantage of my ability to stay up late and go gallivanting about town to see my friends do what it is THEY love for once.

w00t!

Additional events scheduled: my weekly coffee klatch date with Spux, a comedy club adventure, a night out with geekery friends, the podcast recording and subsequent dance club fun (maybe...we'll see if I'm up to it), and a birthday gathering for Devo Was Right.

Somewhere in there, I hope, there will be cake. Just for me. Because mmmmm...cake.

Jane In Her Infinite Jerkdom

I feel like such a big, fat, juicy jerk face.

Jerky. Jerkmeister. Jerkster. Jerk-a-licious. Her Highness the Jerk Face Supreme (hold the mushrooms).

Why?

Because long after I'd posted last night's blog entry about all my wonderfully talented friends and family - slept soundly and then worked all day today - it dawned on me that, if I'm going to give special shout outs to a number of my lovelies, especially those who are quite possibly literally starving artists, I might not want to forget one in particular.

Jane, you ignorant slut.

So!

In order to (hopefully) redeem myself, I'd like to take a special opportunity to tell you about Zero Hour! - the infamous Patty Leidy.

Patty as drawn by Patty and shamelessly stolen from her blog. Hopefully this isn't the face she was making after reading last night's post.

Patty is a cartoonist, painter, all-around artist, and collector of fabulously retro toys (y'all should see her PEZ collection!). Her work is fun, whimsical, and, of late, liberally peppered with nipples of the female variety (if paintings of women and their nipples offend you, you probably can just stop right here). She is the featured cartoonist at We Be Girls - an online rag for women. She does commissioned pieces and also draws cartoons as a favor to her friends (*sigh*).

Jane as drawn by Patty

She's also unemployed - one of the first victims of this lousy economy three years ago and hindered by a back injury that doesn't allow her to stand on her feet for long periods. She depends on income from her art to see her through month after month while filling out application after application to try and find a job.

So, you see? That's why I'm a Jerk Face Galore.

While Patty would live the dream of Full-Time Artist - and sort of is without choice - right now, until the economy picks up or she miraculously finds a job - art is her only choice.

It's either that or sell off the PEZ collection. And no one wants to read about that (except she totally is selling it off *double sigh*).

To learn more about Patty:

Visit her blog (there are nipples)
Visit We Be Girls
Visit her Tumblr site - Patty Leidy Paints! (and other stuff) - where she lists art for sale (there are nipples)

The Cake Is a Lie

When a friend of mine asked me a few weeks ago to make his birthday cake for him for his birthday celebration this weekend, I didn't hesitate. I do, after all, fancy myself a bit of a baker (not so much a butcher or candlestick maker).

So, when I set out this afternoon, mis en place assembled, to create the finest in black forest cakes, I was fully confident in my abilities.

The layers rose to perfection, the extraction from 9" rounds flawless, the dark chocolate ganache and tart raspberry sauce that would snuggle up with one another to become the delectable center came together with nary a hitch.

And then?

Assembly line failure.

Sincerely.

I think my kitchen was too warm, frankly. While the cake rounds were cooled appropriately, the ganache didn't set quite right and the raspberry sauce didn't thicken just enough. The cream cheese frosting moat I created along the edges of the bottom layer warmed too quickly and couldn't contain the squishy, squashy mess of the filling. So, when I attempted to frost the outer shell, the layers shifted, the filling squelched and belched out of its keep and, in the end, what I had was a gooey, gross, vomitous mess of chocolate, raspberry, and cream cheesy sugar that resembled a bleeding Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Just like this except bleeding gallons of blood from the deaths of a gazillion raspberries (photo credit)

It was not pretty, no.

In fact, it was hilariously warranting a crime scene investigation.

Or, I suppose, it would have been hilarious except for my tears.

By then, it was a quarter of four, too late to run to the grocery for more ingredients - particularly as the snow had begun to dump an hour before and would slow down traffic to a crawl. There was nothing to do but call him and explain the cake had been a lie...or, at the very least, delayed since the cake itself, for all intents and purposes, had been beheaded.

He was very sweet about it all (but shhhhh...don't tell. He has a rep to protect). Especially after I promised him a new cake later in the week.

As I got ready to throw the entire endeavor in the trash though, Lex stopped me, perhaps because he knew, even if it didn't look appetizing, the pieces and parts would be stupendous. Or maybe it's just because he has a sweet tooth and can't stand to see all that refined sugar go directly to the dump for the rats to chew.

Regardless, after eating two generous portions, Lex said, "Why don't you just cut it up into great hunks and take it to Mr. S just like that? It tastes fabulous...once you get past its appearance. Besides, no one would say a word about its appearance if you took it to him in its original state. It's the thought and taste that count and you've got both in spades."

So...

I did.

I cut the rest of the cake up into great hunks of goo, placed them in as many plastic bowls as I had, and wrapped them tightly in cling wrap.

When I arrived at the restaurant, I checked my pride at the door, shrugged, and unceremoniously handed the bowls of hideously malformed cake to the birthday boy with a, "Here's your fucked up cake."

"Hooray!" he said.

And the party commenced.

At the end of the evening, as we were saying goodbye, I assured him the cake was still delicious even if it looked decomposed.

He said, "Duh, Infinitely Wise Jane! You made it. Of course it tastes great."

And I am, once again, reminded that it is not only acceptable but preferred that I am perfectly imperfect.

And now I know he'll love his cake - even if it looks like something my cat coughed up.

High Maintenance

Yesterday morning, New Year's Day, I was rudely awakened - by complete and utter silence - well before I should have had my eyes open.

It may seem strange that I should be awakened by silence but, technically, it wasn't the silence that woke me. It was the winding down of the fan I keep running 24/7 for white noise that brought me swimming up toward consciousness.

It only took me a moment to realize it wasn't just a dying fan motor. We'd lost power.

Which, in my bleary-eyed state, didn't compute given that I could see from my bed the glow of overhead kitchen lights, signifying both power to the kitchen and the awake state of Lex.

I fumbled for eyeglasses, pulled on pajama pants, and stumbled out to the middle of the kitchen.

No comprende.

"Lex?"
"Yeah?"
"Um...could please come help me?

Pointing toward my room, I mumbled, "Um, no power there. Here, there's power. No power in there."

He investigated thoroughly and then nodded, "Right. No power."

I blinked at him blankly.

Luckily, he'd already brewed the coffee and had ingested some so his ability to make deductions and draw conclusions was far beyond mine.

I sat down on the couch in the living room and watched him as he systematically made the rounds, room to room, until he'd confirmed we'd lost power in the entire front half of the house save the bathroom.

I fixed myself a cup of coffee and went back and sat on the couch.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

He said, "Huh. Well, I'll run upstairs and see if Abram's got power."

"Great! Good idea. I'll wait here."

He went through the front door, closed it, and in 10 seconds was back through it in a flash.

"You need to call maintenance. There's a leak and flood in the laundry room. Power's out in there too. It looks bad. I'll go tell Abram."

Blink. Blink. Blink.

No comprende.

I went out to look in the laundry myself. Yep. That seems to be water on the floor. Yep. That's definitely the sound of water spraying from a pipe in the ceiling.

OK! I started to understand the gravity of the situation.

A) There was a burst hot water pipe, B) there was a leak, C) there was no power to the laundry room or the front half of our home, D) it was New Year's Day. *sigh*

So...I called the emergency maintenance number. No answer, of course. Only a stern message warning me not to even think about leaving a message unless this was a true, unavoidable emergency maintenance problem, the resolution of which could not be delayed until business hours. Then I was assured a prompt return call.

Burst hot water pipe, leak, possible related power outage...seemed like a reasonable problem about which to leave a message. Yeah?

So I did.

That was at 9:53.

Lex returned from upstairs. He'd passed along the message about the leak to Abram's obviously half-asleep (and possibly naked) roommate who finally poked one eye and half his nose out the door at Lex's persistent, insistent knocking.

We checked our water pressure. We checked both cold and hot water. Both pressure and temperature were working as they should. The power outage was a relatively minor inconvenience and only for me once Lex got the wireless router moved from an electricity-devoid zone and into a position of power (heh). Our main concern was that leak. And we were pretty worried about it.

By 10:30, there had not been a return call so I called again and left another, longer, more detailed message regarding the problem. I specifically stated, "Please call me to acknowledge receipt of this message asap."

11 a.m., still no return call. Lex went back upstairs to find an awake Abram who was unaware of any problem. He came down, surveyed the chaos, and promptly went to call the property management company's owner on his private number.

Sweet! Handled. I went off to the grocery store.

I returned about an hour or so later. The leak had been stopped. The laundry room was still dark. There appeared to be no one about still working. Problem solved?

Uh...no.

Lex was unaware that anyone had worked on the leak. Still no power. To make matters worse, he informed me, he'd just washed all the dishes in cold water. Seems we'd lost hot water now too.

By then, it was well afternoon, I'd not had a shower, nor had I gotten a chance to do any of the several hours' worth of writing I'd intended for the day. I called Acr0nym. I was instructed to come up to his house - what we're now referring to as The Grotto North.

I packed up a few belongings and my laptop, explained what I was doing to Lex who was cool getting some Naked Lex time before his date later in the night, and went about my merry way - but not before Lex and I stopped back by Abram's to try and get a repair update.

When we told Abram we were still without power and now had no hot water, he got back on the phone. I figured it was all under control and went traipsing out, happy to have gotten a productive start to the day (since I couldn't get on the computer, we picked up the house a bit, got the trash and recycling taken out, swept up the back steps, and done the week's grocery shopping), and glad to have a fabulous second (non)husband I was going to get to spend the rest of the day and night with.

Poor Lex.

I talked with him about 6 p.m. The power had finally been restored but there was still no hot water and he was furiously boiling water in every large pot and kettle we had in order to be able to fill a bath to a somewhat tolerable temperature so he wouldn't smell on this first date.

At least maintenance had been back and seemed to still be trying to figure out why we had no hot water.

I spent the night at Acr0's where we threw an impromptu, scrumptious supper party to greet the New Year in style, laughed late into the night, and then slept soundly.

NY strip steak covered in Acr0's homemade compound bleu cheese and herb butter and then grilled to perfection, broiled asparagus in olive oil and balsamic, french baguette, and homemade sorbet for dessert followed by homemade limoncello.

When I got home this afternoon, Lex was in a Very. Bad. Mood. We had hot water, we had power, the laundry room appeared to be functioning. I thought perhaps he was angry with me for leaving for greener pastures overnight while he had to boil his own bath water, but knew not to jump to conclusions or press for information. I knew, from experience, to wait until he was ready to talk.

It didn't take long.

What it boiled down to is that it took us 2 initial phone calls - which still have yet to be returned - from me, 2 phone calls from Abram, 3 e-mails from Lex to the maintenance e-mail address, and 2 additional phone calls on Lex's part throughout the rest of the evening to get this issue completely resolved.

Then Lex, because he was feeling grateful for the extra effort on a holiday, sent a lovely and gracious e-mail to say thank you for resolving the problems so quickly.

In response? He got a rather snide e-mail from our property management company implying we'd been alarmist by suggesting there was a "MAJOR" leak when it was just a pin hole leak that had been easily fixed and there was "no evidence to suggest a major leak or flooding". There was no mention of the power outage or the loss of hot water. Never mind that it was our onsite manager who made the decision to call the property management company's owner when he understood the scope of the flooding. The whole tone of the e-mail was rather rude and thankless - as though we had cried Wolf...

As though we were terrible people.

When I read the e-mail, I was seething mad.

I raised my right eyebrow and simply stated, "Let me handle this."

I sat right down and wrote the most politely scathing e-mail in my arsenal. Polite because it won't accomplish anything good to threaten or come across angry and I certainly don't do passive-aggressive (at least, consciously). Scathing was appropriate though as we were both inflicted with steam coming out of our ears. It was quite well written, if I do say so myself. I'd post it here but I'm apparently longwinded when I'm being politely scathing and I don't want to get any tl:dr comments - especially since this is longer than it should be.

And then?

Then, I took several deep, cleansing breaths, took a hot shower (thank you for fixing our hot water, Maintenance People), ate a huge salad, drank two cups of Sleepy Time tea, and let it go.

So...that's where I was yesterday. That's why I got even further behind on reading about the comings and goings of my blog community. It's why I was late posting my year-end wrap ups and it's why I have yet to greet the New Year in writing with the joy I've got in my heart.

Joy I continue to have in spite of this pittance of a snag.

I had a great time yesterday and I got a lot accomplished outside of writing! Plus, I got to spend the evening with Acr0nym, Bomb Betsy, Spux, Kelli, and Jive Turkey. Who WOULDN'T want to spend the first day of a new year surrounded by awesome people? Even if it meant you were the unshowered one?


2012, two days in, is still shaping up to be a wonderful year!