Ok, remember how I said my grandmother had gotten sick and taken a turn for the worst in April? (I know, this is a pretty craptastic way to start a blog with 'comedy' in the title, hang in there...) I flew down after Future Husband left town for the second, longer leg of tour. I got to visit my Grandmother for what could have been the last time (it wasn't, thank goodness!) and while I was out there for a long weekend, had Sunday dinner with my Future In-Laws.

Let me just say that both Future Husband and I are incredibly lucky. We both have In-Laws that are easy to get along with and adore us. My parents have been crazy about FH since he beat my mother at Scrabble many, many years ago (she had been undefeated for 30 years previously) and his parents have loved me since they realized I was intelligent and sane. (Which, compared to his previous girlfriends, is a vast improvement.)

So while I was having dinner with them that first Sunday in April, I ran the idea past them of me potentially coming out to Arizona at the end of May/beginning of June to surprise Future Husband. He and I had discussed me flying out for a weekend to visit him, but then when we crunched the numbers, we realized a round trip flight, a few motel rooms and food would end up costing what me being away for a whole month of the next tour would be, and it just didn't seem logical. But it got my wheels turning. I scrimped and saved, and since April was a three pay day month, I was able to buy a one way ticket out to Arizona.

I waited until Mother's Day to bring it up again, and let the In-Laws know I had indeed purchased a ticket, and reminded them of our conversation in early April. They said that of course it would be alright for me to fly out and spend a day or two with them before Future Husband rolled into town.

The surprise is my goal. Yes, we'll be reunited two whole weeks sooner than originally planned. Which is effing fantastic. But it's the element of surprise I'm most excited about. It's so ridiculously hard for me to keep a secret from Future Husband, even with things like Christmas and Birthday presents. So the fact that I've been able to keep my mouth shut this whole time, and not accidentally give him any hints, is well... awesome. I'm very proud of myself.

So since April 19th I've been sitting on this secret visit of mine. Diligently counting down the days with FH until I got to see him again, while all the while keeping a real countdown simultaneously. I was going to fly out to Arizona on May 28th, and made sure my visit was on a need-to-know basis. The cousin that picked me up from the Airport, and the cousin that would drop me off at the In-Laws. A few friends got informed over the weekend, but told to keep it under the strictest of secrets. Mainly, to maintain Facebook and Twitter silence. (Oh, this modern world of ours!)

The day finally came. I woke up at 5:30am after a three and a half hour nap (after a 37 hour day) and caught a bus to the airport. By noon I was landing in Phoenix, and later that night I was staying with a cousin. Doing my best to not let on to Future Husband that I was in Arizona, spinning a web of little whites lies about what I was doing. "Oh, I'm talking to my cousin." Hoping he would assume on the phone or online, and not in her living room.

So Sunday evening I had this cousin drop me off at the In-Laws' house. As we were pulling up and I was giving directions I said, "My sister in law's car should be out front." But it wasn't. I had her drop me off anyway (as I'd talked to my Father in Law on Thursday and reminded him of my secret visit.) No one was home, so I just assumed that they were out at the store, or perhaps some sort of car event, and would be back soon. So I sat down on a seat on the porch, plugged in my laptop, and caught up on some Cracked.com articles.

Then I got a call from Future Husband...

Without a preceding text or two asking what I was up to, if I was available for a call, etc.. We usually check with each other to make sure batteries and surroundings are ready for what might turn into a lengthy call. He began his call with, "So I just got off the phone with my dad..."

My heart sank. I could hear the weirdness in FH's voice. I just knew his dad had let something slip about my presence in Arizona.

"...and he and mom are in San Diego." A mixture of feelings erupted in me. 'Yes! He doesn't know I'm in Arizona!' and very quickly followed by, 'Crap! I'm locked out of the house and I really have to pee!'

I composed myself quickly and said, "Oh, no! I just reminded him earlier this week that you'd be in town!"

While I was talking to Future Husband, I got a text response from his sister, since I'd asked her if she was having dinner with her parents that night. Her text told me the same as FH just had. I shot a text back quickly, "Oh no! I'm on their front porch waiting for them! Don't tell Future Husband!!"

While FH and I discussed how he could get into the house (Sister in Law has a key, and was going to come by Monday evening to take care of the animals) I got another text from her. Luckily, the first band started playing just then, so Future Husband ended his call (after we'd brainstormed that he would have to go pick up the key from her before going back out to his parents' house.) I called her right away.

I quickly explained the situation, and that it was a surprise for Future Husband. She agreed to bring the key out to me, and we schemed about the cover story we'd tell FH. Just as we settled on the idea that we'd tell him there was a key under the mat, when really there was just a future wife in the house to let him in, FH sent me a grumpy text, telling me that G didn't want to make a 40 mile detour.

For a moment I was stuck. I couldn't say anything that might give away my unique position to help him, but I had to depend on Future Sister in Law to not accidentally spill the beans. I told FH to call FSiL and see if she could work something out.

A few moments later, he replied that he'd just spoken to her, and she told him the cover story she and I had discussed earlier. With a triumphant, "Yes! She rules!" text, I was finally able to rest easy.

When FSiL and her boyfriend arrived to let me in, the first thing she said as she got out of the car was, "I called dad and told him what happened, made him feel bad. He thought it was next weekend."

As I was telling my cousin earlier that very day, I was worried about FH's parents accidentally letting him know I was in town. They're both ridiculously intelligent people. Both well read and educated, clever and witty. Their awesome children are a product of their own awesomeness. But they are a little... flighty. I already refer to them as 'Ma and Pa' when I talk to them, and already care for them a great deal. I can honestly see myself growing very close to them over the next few years. Like I said, Future Husband and I really, really lucked out in the In-Law department. But still, I recognize that his parents are not always the most... attentive. That's a nice word for it. Really, it's probably just that they got involved in their own work and social lives and lost track of the dates. Lord knows I'm no stranger to that. Regardless, it makes for a pretty humorous story.

"That's okay!" I laughed. "I hope he doesn't feel too bad. It's actually kind of funny. And it worked out alright."

With a combination of the Future In-Laws losing track of the dates and G's somewhat justifiably douchebaggery; and after a panicky (yet hilarious) twenty minute period, I've come to see the silver lining; Future Husband and I get the whole house all to ourselves for our surprise reunion. I am a very happy Lori.

And now it's just a waiting game. Future Husband is currently somewhere between Albuquerque and Flagstaff, and I'm waiting anxiously, all alone, at his parents' house. Going over how I want to surprise him, trying to think of something clever and romantic to say when he walks in and unexpectedly sees me.

I'll let you know how it goes!

A few weeks ago, I told Future Husband a funny story from my childhood about an incident with an Albino during a school play. He said it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. I immediately pictured what I would draw in MS Paint to accompany the story.

This is not that story.

It is, however, a funny (if not sad) story about my first day of Fourth Grade at a new school. My education has been a source of much frustration, as well as humor. I attended public school for three years; Kindergarten, First and Third. I skipped Second. During the spring of Third Grade I started working on my Fourth grade coursework while the kids that were a year older than me continued on their due course. My teacher (an amazing woman and educator named Mrs. Adams, whom I stayed in touch with for years) approached my parents, and recommended looking into private or charter schooling for me. We couldn't afford tuition on our own, so we went looking for scholarships and advanced charter schools. My Godmother got wind of my giant brain and offered to pay the tuition to send me to a private school, and that is how I ended up at Queen of Peace Catholic School for Fourth grade.

Now, to understand the social suicide I was about to commit, you have to go back a few months. Maybe a little further. Both of my parents are theater geeks. My mom was an actress, and later a director, and my dad is the gayest straight guy I know. Seriously, he loves musical theater. So as I child I was in plays and musical reviews quite frequently. Sometime before I became obsessed with Grease, but after my Peter Pan phase, I went through an Annie period. As a child, I had ridiculously straight, lifeless hair (oh, if I only knew then what puberty would bring) and hated it. After months of obsessively washing my hair with a 'Curly Formula' shampoo and seeing no results, I convinced my parents to let me get a perm. That was during the winter. By August, it had grown out. A lot.


The unfortunate result being my severe resemblance to an overfed poodle. Did I mention that I had started to gain that pre-puberty chub that girls get, right before boobs show up? Also, I'm Italian, so I've always been well fed. Having been somewhat popular at my old school, or at least, never picked on and never short of playmates, I was worried about the kids at my new school liking me, especially since you advanced every year with the same kids. So I would be with this same group of kids up until Eighth(!) grade. That also meant there were going to be kids in my class that had known each other since, *gasp* Kindergarten. That's like, half their lives. (Or so my brain told me.)

So after dinner Sunday night, my parents made me lay out my new school uniform, check my back pack against the list of required school supplies, and hop in the shower. Standing in the bathroom, staring in the mirror, I became highly concerned with what my new classmates would think of one particular feature.




In my infinite wisdom, I decided that the problem with my appearance was my unibrow. So I decided I would just borrow my dad's razor, and trim it down a little. Not in front of the mirror, mind you... but in the shower. Just using my fingertips to feel if they were even.



After my shower I dried off, changed into my pajamas and came back out into the living room to watch TV with my parents. For some reason, I didn't think to check my impromptu eyebrow grooming in the mirror. I sat down next to my dad, who promptly said, "Lori... what happened to your eyebrows?"



Afraid I would get in trouble for using a razor without permission (trying to shave my legs for Easter had resulted in a weekend's worth of grounding), I froze. I replied the only thing my academically super-powered but sense deprived brain could come up with. "What eyebrows?"

"Exactly," my dad said.

I caved a few moments later, and confessed that I had tried to 'trim' my unibrow in the shower, since I was starting a new school and was worried that someone might make fun of my big, Deigo eyebrow.

The next morning my mom woke me a few minutes early, so she could pencil on the rest of my eyebrows. Make up was against the school's uniform code, so to hide the drawn on brow, mom made me wear my glasses. The ones I had outgrown in Kindergarten.


And that's how I started at my new school; 6 inches taller and one year younger than everyone, with missing eyebrows, glasses too small for my face, and a grown out perm.

Needless to say, Junior High was miserable.

Don't worry, I'll tell you the Albino story later.

I know no one else will find this as amusing or adorable as I will, but I had to post it anyway.

Future Husband's throat is sore tonight, which I'm sure is just the result of being dehydrated, playing a show (and therefore, screaming) and drinking beer. So I made him drink a glass of water, and now he's got a mug of hot coffee. I'm sure he'll be fine in no time.

A few minutes ago, I was about to run into the kitchen to top off his mug, but leaned in for a kiss first. But before I got there, he said, "My throat hurts when I talk."

To which I replied, "It's okay, we don't need to talk. We can just point and grunt. We understand each other." And kissed him. Our foreheads were pressed against each others, so I gave him another quick little peck.

Then he whispered back, "No, I'll just whisper"
*kiss*
FH: "Like a dying magician on his deathbed."
*kiss*
Me: "Okay, that'll work too."
*kiss*
FH: "I can finally tell you-"
*kiss*
FH: "-where I've been hiding all of those doves and rabbits."

At this point, I had to lean my face down and try to keep myself from doing that snorty kind of laugh. I looked back up at him, smiled and said, "Oh, I love you."

To which he whispered, still sounding as serious as he possibly could, "I love you so much. My little dove, my little rabbit... meine hossenfeffer."

After that, one of the little snorty laugh escaped.

Okay, after trying to post a blog comment while drunk, and being thwarted by the captcha, I removed the captcha from mine. I kept my comment moderation on, just to filter out spam. However, after reading the hilariousness of these, I'm thinking of taking it off all together, just so everyone can enjoy them.

Part of me has to wonder if what follows is just someone trying to translate their language's idioms into English and it backfired horribly, or if it's just computer generated gibberish. If the first, perhaps I should learn to speak Korean, because it's obvious that they are lacking translators and tutors. If the second, it gave me a good laugh. And a few quotables.

'Making hold down after outside gears to consolidation in expenditure elementary distribute, idiolect included, there is a long-legged high-priority as a running to studying English communication in those parts of the essence story, where English is not a most top-level language. This conclusion leads us that there is brobdingnagian asseveration in do a tons on of English-speaking tutors, who are specializing in teaching English. South Korea is actual of most incontestable countries in terms of union burgeoning, which means teaching English in Korea would be lustily profitable.'

'Lustily profitable' has just got to enter my vocabulary. I'm still trying to figure out what a 'long-legged high-priority' is, but I think we can all agree that English is a most top-level language.

'All in all interminable signal to consolidation in well-grounded all things, vocabulary
included, there is a consequential of the utmost status on studying English blather in those parts of the compulsory set in motion story, where English is not a most eye-catching language. This conclusion leads us that there is brobdingnagian miss in search English-speaking tutors, who are specializing in teaching English. South Korea is fifty-fifty of most encouraging countries in terms of gonorrheic backlash all here the traces, which means teaching English in Korea would be incomparably profitable.'

Honestly, looking through some of my facebook friends list, I sometimes feel like I am studying English blather. I've often thought about becoming an English teacher, and since these spam comments apparently want me to become a tutor in South Korea... wait a minute, South Korea is 'most encouraging country in terms of gonorrheic backlash'!? WTF? Forget that, I'm staying in my cozy, gonorrhea free corner of America. Thanks. I don't care if it is lustily profitable.

Both of the previous tours I've been on, I took a spiral notebook with me and every day would jot down a summary of the day's events. Of course, of the few things we forgot to pack, this notebook was one of them. But since I need to get back in the habit of blogging more often, I figured I'd just use my blog as that tour journal. That'll definitely be more interesting for the various cousins and few friends that read this.

We pulled out of town a little after 1:00pm and hit the road yesterday. Future Husband climbed into the back bench right away and fell asleep. I don't think if you added together the amount of time we slept the night before, you'd have five hours. FH had work the night before we left, and so the little bit of sleep which each got was separate. It sounds silly, but we both sleep better when we sleep next to each other. I was a little too excited by the start of tour, but after about twenty minutes of playing Tetris on my phone, I was ready to sleep, too. I woke up in Portland, when we hit rush hour on the I-5.

Eugene is about an hour and a half south of Portland on the I-5. It's a small college town, and just like all of them, is full of High School students racking up debt and DUIs as they rush between the bar and Pita Pit.

The show was more like a practice session for the guys, but that's how every tour I've been on starts out. The first show is usually like practice, but with a bartender watching them. There were a few of the regulars in the bar, and a few people trickled in and watched them play. They all left right after, however, and no one bought merch. The Bartender really enjoyed them, and comped them a few pitchers. Towards the end of the night we were starting to realize that it was looking like a Walmart parking lot kind of night. Then, at the last minute, the crazy looking middle aged lady with a poodle started talking to D.

After a few minutes, he was able to shove her off on G, since he's the singer. A little bit after that, G announced that Crazy Poodle Lady was going to let us stay with her. Crazy, yes. But she was offering us somewhere warm to sleep indoors. Even then, this didn't seem like Indiacrapolis Guy kind of crazy. Yet.

Her apartment was a bit cluttered, but nothing compared to some of the friends we stay with in other cities, which are actually dirty dirty. Her jittery, nervous looking miniture poodle (with it's little red service dog jacket) never barked at us, but never warmed up to us either. There was a mostly empty bedroom upstairs, where FH and I put our sleeping bags down after we moved the black trash bags full of blankets and old toys out of the way. It was pretty creepy, even for us, but we were so tired we ignored the dead plants on the window sill and the 'this kid left abruptly' vibe we got from the room. G and D slept downstairs in the living room.

We have a friend in Reno that when we first met at the bar, thought was a little nuts. He turned out to be one of the funniest, smartest guys we hang out with on tour. I kept reminding myself of that while we navigated Crazy Poodle Lady's apartment. It doesn't sound so bad, except that everything smelled like my late Grandpa's apartment; dust, medicinal creams, and maple sausage. Then there were the dolls. Cloudy eyed, dusty dolls on most flat surfaces. And the stories she would briefly tell about her family (that didn't live there) as she fluttered from topic to topic. Like the Bi-Polar husband she was divorcing after 21 years. Or the son that pounds on the front door in the middle of the night, shouting expletives.

Future Husband and I were pretty tired, so we hit the hay within fifteen minutes of arriving. Not before I checked out the labels on the numerous prescription bottles in the bathroom. There were things like sleeping pills, asthma medication, muscle relaxers. Nothing too out of the ordinary for a baby boomer. Except for the Antipsychotic. That one was a little jarring. But it's also used to treat depression, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt, considering the divorce story and the Chicken Soup for the Soul type books all over the apartment.

When we woke many, many hours later, FH and I rolled up our sleeping bags and started to take them out to the van. Crazy Poodle Lady followed us out to the van, and explained that her husband was on the way, and she didn't want him to see us. She also told FH that if anyone asked, he was her stepbrother 'Steve' and said, "I don't want them to watch me any more."

Back inside, G and D were visibly agitated and tired still. They had just started to gather their bags and pillows, when there was a knock on the door. The husband, of course. Poodle Lady promised to make us Eggs and Bacon, since that's what the husband was dropping off. But we had to hide. First we stood off to the side, in the living room, but away from the kitchen window. After the first brief argument with the husband, in which she called me over to prove that she had 'a friend' over, and that was why he couldn't come in, she had us hide upstairs in the empty kid's room. After a few minutes of waiting (and G and D looking more and more unsettled) they decided they wanted to just get out of there. Now, a group of musicians declining free bacon and eggs? You know it's serious when musicians turn down free food.

We ran downstairs. I checked the peephole to see that Poodle Lady and her husband were out front talking, and we snuck out the back sliding door. The four of us made a mad dash for the van, and peeled out of the parking lot.

In the van, G and D related the stories of the night they had. Crazy Poodle Lady stayed up all night doing dishes, muttering to herself, calling people 'assholes' and 'bitches' as she talked to herself, repeatedly telephoning a bar that had kicked her out for bringing her Miniture Service Poodle in, and singing along with CMT. D said he kept expecting to wake up and see her standing over him with a cleaver.

On a happier, funnier note, as Future Husband and I were falling asleep, we briefly discussed the wedding planning. I told him I didn't want to exclude him from any of the plans, but he should tell me if I was over-including him. I just want him to be comfortable and have fun at his own wedding. Still a little drunk from the free pitchers at the bar, he said;

"There are three things that I care about, about the wedding. Number one- I'm marrying you. That's the important part. As long as that gets done I don't care about anything else. Number two- No religion stuff. And Number three- Cheesecake."

I have this habit of taking notes in my phone. Funny things that are said (these notes are particularly funny after a night of drinking), to-do lists, my AAA member number, ideas for stories or song lyrics. Recently, when I tried to jot down (and by jot I mean type in) some wedding invitation ideas, my phone told me that the memory card was full. I know this to be perfectly erroneous, as I still have plenty of room for pictures. So the allotted space for notes is full.

So I need to get rid of them.

The Friday before Halloween, Future Husband and I (he was still technically Boyfriend) had an impromptu date night. We went out to run a few errands, and ended up having dinner and going to a movie. We wandered around the mall near our house (neither of us had been there before) and people watched and window shopped, some of our favorite activities. After we stopped at the Halloween Express and Hot Topic for last minute costume supplies, we headed across the parking lot to Olive Garden for a garlicky, seafoody feast. Since there was a movie theater in the mall, we decided to throw financial responsibility to the wind and go see 'Easy A.' (Really good! Totally recommended!)

As we were heading up the first set of escalators to get to the third floor Theater, Future Husband said, "It looks like we could go left or right."

"I think right is shorter." I was observing the food court, and going around to the right was definitely the quicker way to get to the second set of escalators.

FH, in a completely serious, deadpan voice, said, "Probably. But we could go left. If there was a bear, or something. We have that option."

I burst out laughing. I couldn't stop thinking about turning the corner in the super shiny, Ikea furnished food court, and just seeing a giant bear there.



If there had been some sort of terrible, bear-escapes=from-the-zoo-and-takes-a-bus-to-the-mall scenario, I would hope that FH had his Concealed Carry permit by then. Because then I would be safe, for sure.



Ok, well, maybe not. Because as FH explained to me only a few days ago, (while he was explaining why he is terrified of bears) that bears have ridiculously thick skulls that most bullets won't puncture.

Which means that we would have to resort to something one of my recurring dreams has been preparing me for, for decades; hand to hand combat with a giant predator.

My recurring dreams are not like the ones in movies. I don't know how they stack up to everyone else's, but mine are more like recurring themes. They always take place in different locations, with different people, but have the same predicament. There are the natural disaster dreams, where I'm trying to get various loved ones, friends and/or family to safety and they won't heed my warnings. Then the flood/tornado/tsunami strikes and I have to try and save everyone as they're scattered. Then there are my weird high school dreams, where I go back to Xavier to have 'traditional' high school years. I always end up slacking and staying home, and then worry that I'll get kicked out, but I don't really care. The last time I had this dream, one of my teachers asked me how many times I was going to come back and drop out. Or the driving across an insanely high and poorly built bridge, usually in a large vehicle like a van or my old Buick, and usually over water. That one always wakes me with a jolt.

And then... there are the giant predator dreams. Usually it's a lion or a bear. Once or twice it's been a tiger. Once it was an alligator. I haven't had one of these in a while, but what always happens is I end up somehow trapped by some giant, bitey monster that wants to eat/destroy me. I always manage to land a couple of punches, and then I realize that claws and teeth will definitely win out over my weak little arms and clawless hands. Inevitably, I have to trick the beast into losing sight of me, so I can sneak up behind it and strangle it.

Yep - strangle it. In all of my dreams I either hold my own, or defeat the beast by putting it in a choke hold. And since I'm on its back, the damage they're able to inflict with their sharp bits is minimal.

So had there been a bear in the food court, impeding our journey to the movie theater, I totally could have taken it down.

I know I haven't been the greatest blogger this last month (thanks, tour), but I have had time to do a few productive things. Mostly band or novel related, which is good.

The guys have a show next week in Chicago, and a management company is sending someone out to watch them. We're trying to get a lot of people out there to see them, so it looks better to the scout. (So if you live in, or know someone who lives in, Chicago - come to the show!)

In an effort to get people to the show, I decided to post a Craigslist ad. It worked so well finding Boyfriend and I a place to live, I hoped it would work again.

Ch-ch-check it out!


http://chicago.craigslist.org/chc/muc/1935044996.html

In order to understand how a relatively intelligent girl (like myself) could be so ridiculously stupid, there are two things you need to know before proceeding.

1-I love to cook.
2-I hate spicy things.



So when I set about making 30 jalapeno poppers for a BBQ at our new place, I had no idea what I was doing. I bought fresh jalapenos, washed them, set the cream cheese out on the counter to soften, and got to deseeding the peppers. I cut out the middle seedy parts, and sliced them in half. About a third of the way through stuffing the halves with my cream cheese mixture, I felt a burning on my ring finger. I thought maybe I'd just had a paper cut I didn't know about. A la lemon juice paper cut detection.



About ten more poppers down the road, my thumb started to burn as well. I finished putting the cream cheese in the peppers, but paused before wrapping them in bacon to wash my hands. I figured I should get the oil out of the invisible little cuts I had by washing my hands. In hindsight, this was my first mistake.

Within twenty minutes, the heat was spreading to my fingertips and intensifying. I realized something was very wrong. I assumed my allergy to bell peppers might be a factor in my sensitivity to the jalapenos. I googled 'jalapeno burns' and found only other people asking if it was possible to get burned from the oil in the peppers. I tried washing my hands a few more times, finding temporary relief in the cool water.

After another twenty minutes, I realized that it was only going to get worse as time passed. Now all five fingers on my left hand hurt, as well as most of my palm, and the fingertips on my right hand had just started to warm unpleasantly. I grabbed a cold beer from the fridge, and held it in my left hand while I googled again with my right hand. This time 'home remedy jalapeno burn', and came back with pages and pages of results.

It seemed that most people recommended baking soda paste, while some recommended soaking your afflicted areas in vinegar or milk or yogurt. I tried vinegar first, with no relief. I washed my hands again, then tried the baking soda paste. It relieved the burning a little while it was in the paste, but taking it out of the bowl only brought the pain right back. I didn't let it dry into a thicker paste, as it felt like it only trapped the heat in my skin and intensified it.

The catch-22 of this situation is that in order to try some new remedy, I had to wash my hands, which only made the burning worse ten minutes later. I unfortunately lost my appetite (which was terrible, because everything Boyfriend and the new Roomie were cooking smelled amazing), but still forced myself to have a brat, so I could take some pain medication. I took five Advil liqui-gels, with two beers, which shows you how much I was hurting. Two hours in, it felt like I had put my hands on the stove.



There were other things I began to try. Dawn soap: nope. Sugar scrub: nope. Oil absorbing clay facial mask: nope. Soaking in milk: nope. Thicker baking soda paste: nope. I found a bit of relief from hand sanitizer, just enough to finish reading the home remedy search results. I read stories of people that had accidentally touched their eyes or nose, and all I could think was how grateful I was that I hadn't done these things. I would have lost the last little bit of composure that remained and been a whimpering lump on the floor. I would have looked like this;



Finally I stumbled across someone who said the nurse at the hospital she went to for her burns rubbed her hands in hydrogen peroxide, and followed it up with hydro-cortisone cream. A few other people swore by rubbing alcohol. Unfortunately, of the three, I only had hydrogen peroxide. By this point I was so nauseated from the pain (the Advil wasn't touching it) that Boyfriend was starting to notice that this was actually a problem. (That high pain tolerance has always made it difficult for loved ones to realize how badly I'm injured. Like the time I cut off the tip of my thumb, but mom didn't realize she needed to take me to the ER for twenty minutes.) He'd seen me trying different solutions, but I'd been so quiet about it all, and he'd been so preoccupied with manning the grill, that he didn't realize it was causing me actual pain. He took one look at my face, and asked if there was anything he could do. It'd been almost four hours at this point, and I'd already looked up hundreds of comments, and tried most of them. I decided right then I was going to walk to the Walgreen's on the corner and buy myself a damn bottle of rubbing alcohol. Before I left, I gave in and took one more Advil, and one of the Darvocets I had left over from the Kidney Stone incident in April.

On a side note; Poor Boyfriend! Both times I've been 'ill' since we got together, he's been unable to do anything to make me feel better. All he can really offer is comfort, which I appreciate, but I know he wishes he could do more. He got a stomach bug on tour, and it drove me crazy that all I could do was rub his back or hold his hair or offer him Gatorade. Eventually I'll get the Flu (or, knowing me, Bronchitis or Pneumonia) and then he can make me soup and cover me in blankets and bring me hot tea with lemon. You know you've got it bad for someone when getting sick is romanticized. Jeez...

But back to the story... Before I took off for the pharmacy, I grabbed my bottle of hydrogen peroxide, poured a little bit into my cupped palm, and rubbed it all over both hands. Instantly, I felt better. With my hands still damp (and doing that annoying, half itchy, half painful peroxide fizz thing) I held them in front of the fan in the front room. Sweet, sweet relief. I waited, sure it would be just as momentary as the other solutions had been. This one, however, gave me about ten minutes of relief. Just enough time for me to get down to Walgreen's, find the rubbing alcohol and purchase it. The burning was just beginning to return when I tore open the bottle outside the automatic door. I poured a little into my palm, and rubbed it around. Amazing.

I made it all the way home without having to use it again. After five minutes, however, it was coming back. It was greatly lessened, however. So begun the 90 minutes of alternating between peroxide and alcohol, all the while blowing on them or holding them in front of a fan. By this point, Boyfriend and I had been up for almost 24 hours. All that was keeping me awake was the pain, because god knows the chemical cocktail I concocted for myself was designed to take down a barn animal. After the peroxide had made my skin stingy and patchy and white (still preferable to being engulfed by invisible flames) I switched to simply soaking my poor hands in rubbing alcohol.

Finally, after six hours, my hands were cool enough that I could sleep. I had to have Boyfriend help me undress and get into pj's, because my poor little hands were bright pink, with little red sores on the fingers of my left hand. They were completely useless.

I woke about six hours later, when I rolled over in my sleep and put my hand on Boyfriend's bare chest. It felt like he was on fire. While my hands felt fine while they were held useless in front of me, if I touched anything, especially warm things like Boyfriend or my own body, it burned. Still! I was starving, since all I'd had to eat the day before was one damn brat, I decided I deserved a treat. After all I'd been through the day before, it only seemed fitting to reward myself for coming out sane and sans Urgent Care trip.




The weirdest part of the aftermath? My fingernails. The beds of my fingernails were all tender. Each one felt as though I'd smashed the tip with a poorly aimed hammer or a slammed car door. I didn't realize how often I reach over and scratch Boyfriend's back, or how often your fingernails are of use (buttons, zippers, opening anything), until I couldn't do anything with them. The skin on my hands (particularly the left) looked thin and shiny. They also felt ridiculously soft. I don't really want to repeat the chemical peel I gave myself for it, though. My skin looked and felt better after a two days. My fingernails, however, took four. And the moral of the story? Gloves. Gloves, gloves, gloves.

Sometimes my relationship with Boyfriend feels really weird. I've known him for almost six years, so most of the time it feels like we've been together that long. In reality, we've been together romantically for ten months, and only living together for four months. Granted, we lived in a van together for two of those months, so it kinda got fast tracked. Every once and a while, something will happen that reminds me how young the openly romantic aspect of our relationship still is.

Like when he does something ridiculously cute and I giggle more than I should, or find it much more adorable than it actually is. Like when he plays video games and laughs like a ten year old when things blow up. Or when he randomly tackles me in a hug and tickles me.

I got on my computer the other day and found this:

When I asked him what it was, he said, "Oh... that's me doing a handstand."

I laughed appreciatively and said, "I'm saving this."

He protested, "You don't have to, it's just a doodle."

"Nope. It's awesome." And so it's now on the front of my virtual refrigerator.

Started this one in May, just now getting it posted. I know, I know. Welcome to the procrastination packed world of Loriology. Things have been crazy. Anyway, here it is, finally.

Boyfriend and I got lost in downtown Seattle during rush hour.

That is how we found our new place. Not directly, mind you, but that's what started the sequence of events. Chinatown is on the southern side of downtown Seattle, so we got lost in a tangle of one way streets as we tried to leave it that Thursday afternoon. It was about 5:00 when we left. We got home a little past 6:00. Personally, I didn't mind it. Getting lost is one of the best ways for me to learn my way around. And the weather was surprisingly pleasant. All but one day since we've returned from tour has been ridiculously sunny and beautiful. We ended up driving down a street full of historical apartment buildings. Most of them had posh names and sleek, modernized logos and names. Which I've learned in my apartment hunt means they think it's okay to charge $1600 for a mediocre one bedroom apartment.

One, however, looked pretty cool. It was called The Embassy. (Another red brick building with molded plaster trim. I have a type.) Their sign said 'Now Renting Studio Apartments' with a number underneath. So while we were sitting at the red light adjacent, I gave it a call. Since it was after 5:00, the office was closed, but I left a message for Bruce, the Office Manager. "Hi Bruce, my name is Lori, and I drove past your building today and saw the sign about your Studio apartments for lease. I have a few questions about price and parking, utilities and whatnot. If you could give me a call at ###-###-####, it would be much appreciated. Thank you, and have a great evening."

(Seriously, that's what I sound like on the phone. I'm a dork. Thanks, resume full of reception jobs.)

Now, very few of you know what my voicemail message says. It's crucial to the story, so I'll post it here. I swear to god, this is my real outgoing message. I've had unrecognized numbers call me and the only message left is a second or two of laughter. It came about one night a few years ago right after I moved to Oklahoma. I had terrible insomnia, and was in a goofy mood. Anyway, this is it;

"You have reached the voicemail inbox for Lori, Evil Overlord and Aspiring Ruler of the Universe. To receive information on how to apply for Henchmanship, please press 2. For jetpack maintenance, please press 3. For all other inquiries, leave a message including your name, date and time of inquiry, and interesting subject matter. Due to high call volume and time consuming nefarious activities, only entertaining inquiries will receive a return call. Thank you."

Now, Boyfriend and I are practically nocturnal anyway, but we've become day sleepers since we got back from tour because of work. He leaves for work between 9:00 and 9:30, and returns about sunrise, usually. So my schedule is pretty much the same. Being nocturnal can be a right pain in the ass when it comes to dealing with the rest of the world (banks, governments, coffee shops, etc) but there are a few perks, other than saving on sunscreen. One of the many is that I miss pesky collection and telemarketer calls during the day.

So when we woke up Friday afternoon, about 4:30, I had a message waiting for me from Bruce, the property manager; "Hi this is Bruce from the Embassy Apartments, and maybe your new lair... Alright, (chuckle) sorry, doing my best after hearing your message. If you'd like to check out the apartments.... " Then gives me all the contact/website info.

I'd listened to it in 'bed' (a couple of sleeping bags and blankets on the floor in D's room, in G's house) so Boyfriend heard it, too. We both chuckled along with Bruce. I meant to give him a call back, or at the very least, check out the website, but I was still quite sleepy, and at the lay-in-bed-and-do-nothing-but-maybe-grope-my-significant-other stage of waking up. After three days full of being ignored or rejected by housing inquiries, I was considering posting a housing wanted ad, instead of just sifting through them all. I jokingly said, "That's what I should post as our Craigslist ad; Aspiring Super Villain and Sidekick seek new Lair."

To which Boyfriend responded, "Sidekick!?"

I said, "I know, but 'sidekick' sounds catchier than 'Two Aspiring Villains of Equal Importance and Evildoingness."

Boyfriend mumbled into his pillow, "Yeah, you're right." We snuggled up in bags together, but my brain was quite awake. I was doing my writing thing; turning phrases over in my head, crafting and reshaping them for maximum hilarity. After twenty minutes, I knew I had to do it.

I sat up and grabbed my laptop, and went to work. After the first paragraph or so, Boyfriend had woken fully and was looking over my shoulder, suggesting sentences, amendments and additions. After about an hour of typing, giggling maniacally, and having D remind us what dorks/nerds we are every five minutes or so, I had my lovely ad and an accompanying MS Paint drawing.

Aspiring Super Villain and Sidekick Seek New Lair
An aspiring Super Villain and her magnificent Sidekick are seeking a new Lair, preferably in the Northern neighborhoods of Seattle. However, for the right lair, we'll be willing to go as far south as White Center, or as far north as Lynnwood. We're looking for just one room in an established lair, and would prefer our own bathroom, although that is not a necessity (villains on a budget must accept a few inconveniences.) As far as budget goes, we'd like something around $400 if utilities are not included, and something around $500 if they are. We are, however, a little flexible. We recognize the value of a good lair.

We have no pets, do not smoke, are drug free and the alter ego has a steady day job to save up money for a hypno-ray (which let me tell you, does not come cheap these days.) We would need parking for at least one vehicle, but if you can accommodate our hovertank it would be much appreciated. We also recognize that in the world of Super Villainy, flexibility is key. We would be willing to do month to month, or a 6, 9 or 12 month lease for the right lair.

Potential Roommates/Henchmen must have a sense of humor and be almost as awesome as we are. Those are the only requirements, really. Should you meet our qualifications for henchmenship, we will issue you your uniform and jetpack.

We would gladly wring our hands and laugh maniacally if we found a studio apt, a room in your house, abandoned amusement park, haunted castle, or volcano. If you have any of these available, be a good little minion, and contact us immediately.






Yes, that's the real ad. Unfortunately, it's down now, but it was really on Craigslist for the weekend.

And it worked. This was the second email we received in response;
[Title of the e-mail was: The Lair (No really, that is what I call it)]
Little further south than you are looking for as it is in Burien…. BUT…

Ideal parking, brightly lit room and the wifi SSID is “The Lair”. Could work into longer term than the 2 months currently shown in the ad:

(link)

Breathlessly awaiting the monologue before the ax falls!


Boyfriend came over and read over my shoulder when I started making exciting squeally noises. Her ad is down now, too, but the first line of it read, "One bus to rule them all!" and proceeded to use the nearby bus station as a selling point. We chuckled in unison (Boyfriend and I do and say a lot of things in unison. It freaks people out. We delight in those moments.) and Boyfriend said, "She referenced Lord of the Rings in her opening sentence. My kind of nerd."

The ad also said that the room was presently available, and would be available at least through July 31st (which works out perfectly for us, as the next tour starts at the beginning of August.) It also mentioned that if needed, it could be furnished. Also perfect, because we're not moving any of my furniture from Tulsa to Seattle, and Boyfriend doesn't have any. Our potential roommate's ad stated that she was ok with liquor, but absolutely not 420 friendly. Also perfect for us, as Boyfriend and I loathe pot, but love booze (a really strange combination in our creative fields, lemme tell ya.) It only had one bathroom to share, and she had pets, but oh well. (Boyfriend wasn't too keen on the animals, but personally I was excited at the prospect of having pets without actually being their owner. Like the Cool Pet Aunt.)

I was thrilled. I wrote back:
Dear Potential Henchperson,
It seems a further exchange of information is needed. As I am about to retire to my chambers I will wait to hear back from you before contacting you via cell phone, either with a voice or text message.

1-How furnished is furnished? I am hoping this means mattress, because that is much better than loads of comforters and sleeping bags piled on top of each other. It's fun when you're ten years old, but it's just not practical to make a blanket fort every night when you're in your mid-twenties. And I don't know about you, but this Super Villain to be needs some beauty rest every once and a while. If this doesn't mean mattress, I hope you won't mind the aforementioned blanket fort being erected every few nights.

2-We would be looking to occupy our new Lair on June 1st, but may be able to negotiate an earlier occupation... say May 15th? Petty details to be determined at a later date.

3-We survive mostly on a diet of bacon and coffee. Like 'The Oregon Trail', but with less dysentery and fewer snakebites. On the occasion we are not making the kitchen smell like a breakfast oriented greasy spoon, we'll likely be cooking an elaborate family meal. You see, minion, we like to cook. And when we go all out, we go all out. So hopefully you like to eat. It's not every day, but about once a week I fall back on my plan to take over the world by feeding everyone in the vicinity entirely too much delicious food. This plan always backfires, because I too fall prey to the food coma. But I never stop trying. Persistance is the key to World Domination. (Don't worry though, my food coma always drains the villainy out of me long enough to do the dishes.)

4-Google Maps shows us that there is a German deli next door. How is the food?

I will contact you tomorrow evening (later today... did I mention that like all good Villains, we're primarily nocturnal?) to discuss a viewing of the property and perhaps the fitting for your uniform and jetpack.

-Lori
loriology.blogspot.com

When we awoke the next morning (and by that I mean afternoon) I checked my email first thing, and discovered a response that had arrived only four hours later.
Dear Super Villain in Training,

First let me say that I am truly sorry the little toe callus has taken over your existence. It seems that you may not have been nearly as evil previous to its appearance. And interesting to note that any number of small Thai or Vietnamese women could be your kryptonite!

Now on to your pertinent inquiries.
Bed… check
Early check in… check
Bacon & coffee… check and check
Others cooking… check
Me eating…. Check
German Deli…status unknown due to shortness of time at current location

Here is the not so skinny.I moved into this place on the first… furniture, over all, has yet to join me. (Although it may by the 15th) What is here is your bed and a small coffee table in the room.

This having been an office between its last time as a residence and this… closet space is, well nonexistent. To that end there are wardrobes in our futures. Sadly, Ikea does not sell the ones with Narnia inside, despite my continued protests to customer service and the UN.

Feel free to call at any hour, if I answer I am awake, if not my vm is always up for a chat.

I am the founder of Ellipsis Anonymous, by the way… We meet every Tuesday and Thursday in my imagination.

As far as my henchmanship goes, I find that I do better at crafting my own hijinx. I think it best we consider a Super Villain alliance rather than a minion hierarchy. I’m not built for tights and jetpacks inevitably scorch my ass.

Last note as far as drawbacks of the place.. the one thing closet sized in the building is the shower. No tub and a shower that may have come from one of those Japanese coffin hotels. The ones where the bed becomes a shower, becomes a storage unit? Yeah… well... it is upright though so that is a bonus.

I don’t have much in the way of recent blogs to let you know about me, but as you are a writer this may help instead, being a bit more personal than a blog. (Not a bad review site either, btw)
[Then she gave me a link to an uber cool review site called Urbis]

It’s my birthday.. yay me! Rent my place so I can celebrate! LOL

I called immediately, even before I got a cup of coffee, and made an appointment to go see it that night. She and I ended up chatting for ten minutes after we set up our meet time.

We arrived about ten minutes past the time we'd discussed (Lori and Boyfriend standard, unfortunately) and called to let her know we were near. She guided us to the little side street behind that leads to the parking, and we met the dogs. There was a nice sized, fenced in porch, and a massive garage. A little bit of a yard for the dogs to play in. The back of the house holds a decent sized kitchen with a ton of counter space. There are two large living rooms, and the room for rent was the back corner of the house. About 8'x13', which was a massive improvement over the Chinatown closet we looked at. A business is run out of the front of the house, and the living quarters are in the back. Within two blocks there are multiple grocery stores, 24-hour pharmacies, bars, amazing smelling Italian places, the library, the post office, and a police station. Factor in the fact that it was all bills included, (cable and wifi part of that) we got along with the roommate, and there were pets that I got to play with... well. I tried to do the 'let us think about it' thing, but after about fifteen minutes it was obvious that this was the fit for us.

We hung out with our soon to be new roommate for another twenty minutes, then ran to one of the nearby grocery stores to pull out cash from an ATM to make a deposit.

When we left the band house, we told D we'd be back in half an hour or so to make dinner, so told him not to give in to the frozen pizzas calling his name. (All of the guys love when I cook big meals for them. They're musicians. Food is one of the primary ways to earn their affection.) Needless to say, D was happy to see us when we arrived two and a half hours later. I made a greek meatloaf that night, humming to myself, happy with the security of a deposit down and a lease signed, five days before we had to leave town for Tulsa. SUCCESS!!

It's Friday.

I'm on vacation.

I've been drinking.

I'm not fall down drunk. I'm not even time warp drunk. I'm "comment on obscure friend's and relatives' facebook pages" drunk. And apparently, that includes blogging drunk.

So I just commented on a friend's blog. I really like this blog. She was one of the first people to follow me that wasn't related by blood or marriage, and she's doing almost exactly what I'm doing, though hers is a few countries away instead of a few states. I completely admire her bravery, and the fact that she's willing to risk everything, and trade all familiarity, for love. Good for her! What I'm doing is far easier (I don't have to learn a new language), but sometimes when I miss my family, or my friends, or completely feel like a drunken little fish out of water, I check my blogger dashboard to see if she's posted something. She posts nearly every day, which simultaneously makes me feel like an inferior blogger, and makes me ridiculously happy. I love getting little insights on her life by reading her blog. I literally stood up and danced around in a circle when I found out her Boyfriend had become her Husband; I was so happy for her. I feel like if I met her dog, he would jump up on me and smother me in gooey doggy kisses. Such is the world of blogging, I suppose. Making friends around the world that you will never meet.

I'm off on a tangent, however. The point of this blog is not how much I love Sara in Le Petit Village, but how difficult it is to comment on her blog after a couple of beers.

Boyfriend and I are going through the same thing, right now. The reason we are both having so much difficulty/fun doing these things, is because there is simulated inebriation to go with the actual deed. He is trying to play Grand Theft Auto 4 while drunk, while I am trying to be social, via Blogger. It's much the same. Simulated, computer generated drunkeness... processed through actual human drunkeness. Because it's Friday, so why not?

He has taken his character out to socialize with an Irishman (so he took him to a bar), and I have commented on a favorite blog of mine. Why is my activity the same as fictionalized drinking with an Irishman? His is straight forward. Mine is subtly malicious.

I bet you can't do it. I bet you were going about your business, reading your Lori-blog, when you were side-swiped by this strange and unexpected challenge to your theoretical manhood. So go ahead, I'll give you time to look over the materials and chug a few drinks, and then be thwarted by the difficulty. I know I was. I was like, "La-dee-da... I'm, catching up on blogs and commenting on funny things" and then, POW! My friend's blog side-swiped me with a Captcha.

I don't know if you know what a Captcha is, but it's from the Devil. Straight from his horny little red desk. Imagine taking this:


And turning it into this:


It may not seem so daunting sober, but... Holy shit. When you've had three or four beers on a Friday night... yikes. It's undulating and wavey. You're trying to focus on it and, BAM! it's moving. Not only is it hard to read sober, but give it a try with a few in you. I dare you.

It's a normal, every day word (or pair of every day words) distorted far past every terrible imagining. It's some simple vocabulary word skewed until it is no longer recognizable. Sober! Imagine taking a comfortable High School vocabulary word like "intermittent" or "perfunctory" and letting the Devil twist it around until it looks like it's being sucked into a wormhole.

And then imagine trying to make drunk people do it. Take a normal looking word, and put it through your Photoshop's Drunk Filter. I was staring at Sara's captcha, trying to make the words hold still long enough to type them. I remember a 'p', and an 'h' afterwards... but for some inexplicable reason I became hungry for pizza right after that, and everything's been a blur.

Captchas are supposed to stop bots from trolling through the internet universe and dropping ads and stealing precious personal information. Since Blogger has Captchas, all it tells me is that robots are roaming wild throughout our blogs, and that captchas are their only kryptonite. These little word traps, these curvy, tripsy little traps are preventing bots from flooding our blog comments with Viagra selling sites.

Cause, you know, that's the worst the internet has to offer.

Artist's rendering of Boyfriend's murder by my little toe callus.

But then I remember that I've seen what his porn looks like, and I think that I'm too thin and pretty for him anyway, and he'll probably dump me because of that, and not because of the little mutant freak on the side of my foot.

I've also just realized I don't know what his little toes look like. I know what his big toe looks like. While we were watching tv the other day, I was admiring it, and thinking about how his big toe and his thumb are similar enough that you can tell that they're part of a set, but are still very definitely a big toe and a thumb. But I think because of my own little toe phobia, I subconsciously blocked his little toes from my memory.

That's the only possibly explaination.



UPDATE: I wrote this back on February 8th, I just never got around to posting it until now. I don't really feel like writing a blog today, or drawing. But I managed to draw two pictures for you, and I'm putting them up. I hope blogger cooperates.


Since writing this though, I made a point to look at Boyfriend's little toes. But now that I'm reading this I can't remember what they look like! I remember how I felt when I looked at them. It took me a little while to work up the courage to even look at his little toes because I was afraid they might be as gnarly as mine and then a little part of me was worried that maybe I would stop loving him because when we have babies they would have super ugly little toes that might take over the world with their super evil out-of-placeness, but I managed to do it. I remember thinking that it wasn't such a big deal, because his little toes matched the other four, and his toes look different but similar, like they should all be hanging out together. Like those twenty-somethings that play teenagers on TV shows that are supposed to be middle class kids but they all have expensive hair cuts and no acne so they look like a matching set of novelty salt and pepper shakers and cream and sugar bowls. Like that. Boyfriend's toes look like they have expensive TV show haircuts. That's an exaggeration, but I realized I like his toes. Not in a foot fetishy kind of way, but in a normal appreciation for a loved one's body parts. I'm much fonder of his hands (I could look at his hands all day), but his feet weren't horrifying. Like mine.

He's not allowed to read this blog. I don't want him to look down at my toes and be like, "Holy Christ, what is that villianous deformity!?"

I started this blog back in Seattle, before we left for tour. But with intermittent internet access and electrical outlet availability, my posting of some of these blogs is getting quite delayed. This blog was originally started on 3/2/10, just FYI.

Boyfriend and I woke up to a call from G, inviting us over to the band house for Split Pea Soup. It's Boyfriend's recipe, and OMG, is it good. I hate peas (almost as much as I hate Bono), but I love his Split Pea Soup. It has bacon and onions in it, which is probably what makes it so effing awesome. I bet if Bono were made of bacon and onions, I wouldn't hate him so much.... but anyway. We went over early in the evening, and had our soup while we watched Fox (because that's the only channel they get.)





After soup we packed up for practice, and when we got there, the guys went inside to start, while I grabbed Boyfriend's car keys (with the e-key for the practice space) and hiked up the hill to the hotel. I wanted to grab my laptop so I could work on the band's site while they practiced. While I was by myself in the room, I indulged and grabbed one of the oatmeal craisin cookies I had splurged on when I went grocery shopping. (I figured I'd be PMSing and the leaving-the-nest emotions would hit midweek, and I would need cookies.) So with my laptop bag in one hand, and my cookie in the other, I started back down the hill. I got halfway down before I realized I had locked the keys inside the hotel room. Stupid dried cranberries and your delicious mind control powers!

Up the hill I went again. I got the front desk guy (who Boyfriend and I had nicknamed 'Buster' on the birthday visit because of his resemblance to the youngest brother on Arrested Development) to follow me up to the room and open it for me. There sat the keys in their little nook by the door. All ready to be stowed in my pocket. I grabbed them and started back down again. Classic Lori behavior.




After practice we went back to the band house to watch Deadwood and sneak some PDA in while G and D weren't looking. We intended to smoke hookah while we did, but we had to watch it in Boyfriend and D's room, and so didn't want to bring hot coals all the way in there from the kitchen. (For the record, Boyfriend and I are extremely anti-drug [one of the many things we love about each other] and we only smoke sheesha in our hookahs. Don't worry.)

When it was time to leave, we decided to hit Jack in the Box on our way back to the hotel. We stopped to get gas, right next to a Jack in West Seattle, but decided to go to the one nearest the hotel so it wouldn't be cold by the time we got it back to the room. When we finally arrived at the Jack in Ballard, our little fast food craving hearts were crushed. The lights were out at the 24-hour burger joint. Interior, exterior, street sign. All dark. What the hell, Jack!? It's four in the morning and I need a GD Sourdough Jack!

Having lost all faith in humanity and 24-hour fast food chains, we walked back to our hotel, burgerless. We hung our heads and the Charlie Brown theme played.





Instead, I thought of Hyperbole and a Half (which I do far too often), and started appreciating the city. There is something surreal and special about a city in the middle of the night. I've always loved having familiar blocks of city to myself. I know the area around my childhood home like the back of my hand from the nights I would spend wandering around them in the wee hours. I think you truly get to know a city during that time of day. You can really see it. You're not distracted by cars and pedestrians and noisy tenants. It's just you and the city. Which is nice, considering I'm just getting to know Seattle. So far, I love it.

And coinciding with my new romance with Seattle, was a scenario in my head of Boyfriend and I fighting Zombies. We would be really good at that. I'd draw a picture of that, but all I can think of is Allie's drawing of her drop kicking a Zombie in the head. And I know I'd just be posting a poor imitation. So I won't.

But I just want you all to know where my brain went. This is probably what my thoughts sounded like right then; "I love night time. I love this city. I love this city at night time. I love it because it's just me and Boyfriend.... and maybe ZOMBIES!!!??!?!????"

Boyfriend totally saved my life today. He gets Gold Stars everyday for the rest of ever.

Bus: 0, Boyfriend: 1 - Suck it, bus!

Drunk on St. Patty's with Boyfriend, and trying to not let his parents see how inebriated we are... Good times!



UPDATE: I just went upstairs to take off my shoes and one of my layers of shirts. I couldn't find the light switch, so I used my cell phone as a flash light. When I left our guest bedroom (home for this week) I decided I knew it well enough that I didn't need no stinkin' light. On the top step was Boyfriend's long haired family cat, Jack. My first thought was not 'Oh, cat sitting on the top stair in the dark.' it was "Holy shit! DEMOOOON!!!!!"



UPDATE 2: I told Boyfriend this and he only laughed. Then we decided we are definitely not cut out to be alcoholics, cause being drunk for almost 12 hours straight is not so fun after about 8. Especially when you're trying to fake sober for your parents (which is counterproductive for me, cause mine totally read this, but whatev.) But I guess my mom will be happy to know that I don't actually aspire to alcoholism. I don't think it would really help my career, as I can't conjure words of more than three syllables when I'm three sheets.

It's been weird breaking my blogging streak... I got rather used to posting something every day. It was pretty productive of me, even if it was a bit of a time suck. I suppose it's better to dedicate some of that effort towards my novel... but alas. (It looks like the ellipsis take over when I'm lacking sleep.)

I arrived in Seattle on time, even though my plane left Phoenix 45 minutes late. I don't know how planes work. Honestly. It blows my mind. I suppose there's not a speed limit up there, but still. Terrifying. A giant hunk of metal magically hurdling through the sky at hundreds of miles per hour. Bring me rum.




Boyfriend met me at the airport, and the PDA started there at baggage claim. Hooooraaaaay. I told him a few days ago that when I missed him hard, it was like being thirsty. Which is appropriate, given the face that kissing him and having his arms around me after being away from him for weeks feels like a cold glass of water when you're very, very thirsty.

But enough with the mushy stuff. We were both exhausted, and hungry, as neither of us had really gotten any food or sleep in the 24 hours leading up to my arrival. We checked into the hotel, and promptly sought out food. The hotel we usually stay in has roughly two bazillion restaurants nearby, but we settled on a place we hadn't tried yet. Bully for us! Especially since we're creatures of habit. Two spicy, delicious pulled pork sandwiches later, we were back at the hotel, deciding what time to set the alarm for so we knew how much nap we could fit in before Boyfriend had to go to work.

Work was probably the hardest part of the weekend. I got six lovely hours with him, and then BAM! Eight hours of him being away. He called it an appetizer. I told him I wanted to main course. That made me hungry, so I watched Food Network while I ate a peanut butter and banana sandwich. When he finally got back from work, I made a quite spectacular dinner, considering my tools and budget were rather limited (one sauce pan, one skillet, two burners, one Ikea steak knife, no cooking utensils).

Friday night was the first show his band had this weekend. It's at a little bar called Tiger Lounge, and the building totally used to be an old house. There are pinball machines in the basement, and the bar is in the back room. The front rooms have been opened up into one large room with tables and chairs for the pub grub they serve. There's a stage in one corner, zebra print covered speakers, and local art on the walls. It has a local bar/pub/everybody-knows-your-name feel to it. I love it.

The guys were playing second in a show of four bands, so we parked at the bar until it was time to play. Boyfriend got two free drinks since he was playing, so got me a drink with one of his tickets. As we were sipping the finest of the cheap beers, two friendly acquaintances from my last trip recognized me and came up. I got hugs. I felt accomplished. I'd technically lived in Seattle for only a week (and even then, my residency is very loosely defined) and I was getting hugs from two facebook friends.

They're fun to talk to, and fun to be at shows with, since they appreciate live music like I do. They, however, get into it a little more than I do. Maybe because I'm a musician myself, I am a bit of a snob when it comes to watching other bands. These two make me a little sad though, because I know what they do every weekend is what they've been doing since they were teenagers. They're like career band aids. They love a few different bands, and follow them somewhat faithfully. For some reason though, it just rings hollow to me. I don't really know how to go about getting to know them, or if I even want to. Remember that movie with Goldie Hawn and Susan Sarandon, about the groupies that were all grown up? Yeah, most people don't. But I did see it. That's what these women reminded me of. Fun to be around, but still a warning.



After the show the bartender (who reminds me a great deal of my favorite cousin) started giving me free drinks. I started getting free drinks before the guys did, so it was funny. I only had two or three beers, but she gave me some sort of pineapple juice and flavored vodka drink, as well as a shot of whiskey later in the night. I would have been just fine with the whiskey and beer, but the vodka... oh, the vodka. For those of you that don't know me in person, Vodka is my arch nemesis. Vodka lives in an ice castle (very much like the Fortress of Solitude) and plots ways to thwart me. Vodka watches me on monitors and bugs my phone calls, so it can show up on nights I want to have a nice, easy, fun time with my friends. And then he strikes. He swoops in, sneaks some vodka into my stomach, and then laughs maniacally as he poisons me with his subtle strength and ruins my night. Damn you, Vodka! Someday I will exact my revenge!




After the show Boyfriend and I hit Jack in the Box on the way back to the hotel. Sourdough Jacks. Mmmm... how I've missed them living in Tulsa. Then we did lots of things that were amazing and mind blowing and not appropriate to describe in detail, considering half of my followers are related to me. But it was awesome. And we had to sleep for ten hours afterwards.

Saturday we were supposed to meet one of my cousins for sushi, but he got shipped to San Diego for the weekend at the last minute. We'd been looking forward to sushi all week though, so we went to Freemont and loaded up. Spider Rolls, god. So, so tasty. Then he walked me around the neighborhood and showed me the Troll under the bridge. It was spectacular. Someday I wanted something that terrifying/awesome in my yard. The street you have to walk up to get to it is even called 'Troll Ave'. I poked around it for a few minutes, admiring it's general awesomeness and silently scolding myself for forgetting my camera. Then Boyfriend and I kissed for a few minutes in front of the troll. It was spectacular. It was also windy and I had my hair down, so any onlookers would have only seen two Muppets standing quite close to one another, and none of the offensive smooching.



Walking back down the hill to get back to the car was magical. It was a crisp night, but not too cold. And clear, which is unusual for Seattle (in my limited experience). The stars were visible, and coming down the hill you could clearly see the water and the homes on the other side. It was all trees and twinkling lights and the moon and stars reflected off the water. And I had a boy that's crazy in love with me holding my hand. All in all, the moment was pretty serene. And then we started talking about Zombies. It's what we do.

Sunday was their tour kick off show at a place called The Comet. Boyfriend and I had to park about half a mile away (the closest spot we could find) and hike. Which is pretty much what we had to do the other two times they played at The Comet while I was out there. The show went really well (in fact, a photographer came out just to see the guys and shoot them, then left right after they played) and we sold lots of merch. I came to a rather sad realization, and that's that I don't quite fit in with the crowd that comes to Boyfriend's shows. It's fairly obvious that I'm a goody goody. Everyone there was wearing black, and the only hints of color were red accents on guys' shirts and girls' plaid accessories. I, however, was wearing a bright red shirt, a normal shade of blue jeans (instead of black or very dark blue) and had my hair in pigtails. In my defense, the pigtails were there because of the amount of frizz present that day. Braids were the only way to tame them. But still. I felt like friggin' Pollyanna at a Black Mass.



Afterwards we got our standard post show meal of hot dogs with cream cheese (so good, trust me!), then headed back to the hotel to enjoy a bed and warmth and indoor plumbing for the last few days we were guaranteed to have it.