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Saturday, November 27, 2004
Text (bottom): This is a very beautiful area. I wish you were here! This is a very beautiful area.
Text (upper right): I'm so happy, I feel like I could fly.
(Apologies for the bad quality. Hamsters refuse to be captured in all their glory on film.)
Sunday, November 21, 2004
Other pre-teens liked Corey Haim. Sure, I had the Corey Haim posters.
Even if Corey Haim suddenly appeared in the bathtub with ten-year-old me, all I could fantasize was that he would - Good God! I am wrong. I was thirteen at the height of my Corey Haim craze - ten or thirteen, Corey Haim would not have been as compliant as I'd hoped.
Corey Haim was a movie star. Unattainable. He dated other movie stars.
I had to be realistic in my lovin'.
I needed someone my imagination could conjure up in my elementary school fantasies.
So I turned to someone I could seduce in my fantasies. (I am certain I was ten when this happened. Well, ok, eleven. Not twelve.)
But he had to have a bad boy streak. In my seduction fantasies he seduced me. I was a Catholic schoolgirl, after all.
He was Starscream.
Starscream was too wily even for the mean Decepticons. He turned even on the boss of the Decepticons, that old fogey Megatron.
Plus, he was cute*.
I did what all pre-teens do when they have a crush.
I wrote stories about Starscream.
At the height of my Starscream infatuation, I typed up lots of stories about the Transformers, shyly focusing the spotlight on Starscream. My best friend at the time read my stories. I think she had the hots for Soundwave or even that oh-too paternal Optimus Prime. Optimus Prime, he reminded me of the father in the Little House on the Prairie show.
Because my friend read my stories, I couldn't come out and admit that I had a crush for Starscream. Things are just not done that way in elementary school.
The one indicative story is the one where Starscream was humiliated. Because Catholic schoolgirls like to punish their men. In this story, Starscream, after another rival spat with Megatron, goes to sleep with vultures in a tree. The next morning, the vultures discover he's peed the bed. The vultures tattle on him to the other Decepticons. The Decepticons laugh so hard, they don't mind sharing the joke with their enemies, the Autobots. The story ends with all the Transformers laughing at a presumably nude Starscream.
After all these years, which of my teen men do I still fancy?
Consider these quotes about Starscream:
"He is ruthless, cold-blooded and cruel." (Yes!)
"But he has a vain side that clearly distinguishes him [from Megatron]. He considers himself the most sophisticated and handsome of the Decepticons. He exudes a high-class, urbane air that provides a certain irony to his murderous tendencies." (Yum! Yum!)
"He can shoot cluster bombs a distance of 40 miles, each of which can level an area 10,000 feet square." (You go, baby!)
"His nose-dives often overload his gyro-circuitry leaving him disoriented briefly." (Oooo!)
"But, overall, he is a very tough nut to crack." (Oooo, Starscream!)
*The boots and the helmet stay put.
Saturday, November 20, 2004
I am still not even 25% feeling better. My hamster is brain-damaged. Her bites puncture skin.
But I found my collection of Japanese hamster postcards a few days ago. I must put these on my blog, I thought. Then I remembered that I quit the world of blogging. So I hid the postcards away in a box in a dark corner of the basement.
Now that I have work to do, I find the tantalizing pull of procrastination too much. So I dug them up, scanned the first one, played around with the colours and the sizes, struggled to get it online and effectively wasted over an hour.
Friday, November 19, 2004
I am going away for a long time but suddenly I found something happy. There is a small sliver of light at the end of this slimy, dark tunnel.
I dreamt that my coworker was my brother and that my parents took us on a bus tour of Jordan. We stopped at a cave; inside there was a giant room. Coarse desert sand on the ground, with patches of forlorn plants. There were dim lights, perhaps flowing in from the outside. I sank into the sand.
In the far end of the cave, there were shelves. On the shelves were jars of dark amber with seaweed floating in them.
"Cave honey," the attendant told me. "Made by cave-dwelling bees."
I needed to buy some cave honey. For souvenirs. I asked if I could perform a taste test. The first few jars were salty, the sweetness overwhelmed by the seaweed. Not sweet enough. Moving to the next shelf, I was certain that I would find sweet honey.
Just then, the tour guide called us all back to the bus. I hadn't even bought one jar. I think I hastily bought a jar that was lighter in colour - it had to be sweet - and then I woke up.
The Dream Dictionary says this:
Cave: to be in a cave foreshadows change. You will probably be estranged from those who are very dear to you. For a young woman to walk in a cave with her lover or friend, denotes she will fall in love with a villain and will suffer the loss of true friends.
I've fallen in love with plenty o' villains. Next.
Honey: to dream that you see honey, you will be possessed of considerable wealth. (Yes! Money = Happiness.) To dream of eating honey, foretells that you will attain wealth and love. (Yes! Yes! I'll find a use for those toys yet!)
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
So does life ever get better? Will my luck ever improve? Seems unlikely and no one is making me feel better by saying it will. They can't lie to me. Life will only get suckier.
There's just too much nastiness for me to continue. I feel like writing about what a crappy day I've been having but I know you don't come here for that. So I will be leaving Maktaaq. I don't know when I'll be back. When my luck improves, perhaps?
Like Charles, I might experience a huge influx of amusing ideas to share with you and come back sooner.
I am still writing my novel and if anyone cares, just let me know if you want the next chapter sent to you.
Otherwise, goodbye. It's been nice.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
I haven't had computer access for four days. I can't write by hand for reasons that are explained here.
Plus, I fell down the stairs. I had the date from hell on Friday. My bathroom is in shambles. I keep raking the lawn but leaves keep reappearing. I lost one of my best friends. So my problems have multiplied.
That's why I couldn't write. Not to mention, what happened to Chriselda after the chapter I am working on now? I have vague ideas but nothing definite. Chriselda, baby, help me here! You're supposed to jump off the page but you're Pinocchio's half-sister, damn you!
I shouldn't give anything away but any plot twists I could bum off of you?
One thing is for sure. There aren't any geoducks in this story. That will change very, very soon.
And now that I've written it, I am committed to geoducks.
Stupid geoducks. Now look what you've done!
Saturday, November 13, 2004
Monday, November 08, 2004
You didn't ask for this but you get it anyway.
We don't know the story behind the beaver but he's evil. He tortures museum staff at night.* We find dismembered legs all over the place in the morning.
(I don't work night shift any more.)
In this photograph, the Evil Beaver is poised for the kill. I have no idea who took this photo but we can safely assume he or she is dead.
I think museum employees need their own reality tv show.
*Hence the high turnover in museum employees.
Saturday, November 06, 2004
These were my current three dogs:
From left to right, they are
1) Lăurică (named after Laura, his first advocate),
2) Rîngilă (or Smiley, father of the next dog),
3) Flocea (or Pubic Hair).
With the exception of Flocea, they and others before them were all Romanian street dogs. My parents have a habit of adopting any dog that moseys into their yard. They sternly beseech the mangy pup to git along. In the end, they forget to close the kitchen door and leave kitchen scraps in a little pail under the sink. The dogs take this to be an open invitation.
Lăurică and I really hit it off. I turned a blind eye when he wandered into the kitchen and ate the scraps. I broke all the rules and overlooked the fact that he wandered inside and upstairs behind me. Lăurică got baths and he got cardboard boxes for his sleeping spot behind the Coke vending machine.
In seeking pardon for the sin of an enforced bath, Florinel decorated Lăurică's box with posies.
When Lăurică first wandered in circa 2001, his gypsy-cart chasing habit turned deadly. An oncoming car left him with his intestines dragging along the ground. My father slipped them back in before Lăurică very nearly nipped him. Lăurică crawled to the doghouse, attacked anyone - dog or human - who approached him and cloistered himself inside for three days. He never came out for food or drink. My parents expected to find him dead soon.
On the fourth day, Lăurică managed to walk out to his food dish. My parents noticed his wound had begun to heal.
He survived that time.
No one knew his past. He was a nasty enough hermit dog, preferring the company of his canine brethren, the father-and-son dogs.
Lăurică's fur looked so soft and he had short corgi-esque legs. Plus he flew into a rage when the big dogs from the paint and shoe factories trespassed in his territory. I liked him right away.
We became good pals. Lăurică followed me around everywhere. I even thought about bringing him to Canada. But he had his good buddies, the stoic Rîngilă and the nice guy best friend Flocea. And he had a huge backyard filled with field mice ripe for the picking. Canada would be no good for him.
In the end he stayed put and I left. Afterwards he waited faithfully outside my rom for weeks. He partnered up with the profligate folkart vendor Pişta. Then Pişta went to earn money on Hungarian construction sites and Lăurică was alone again.
On Friday September 17 of this year, Flocea implored my parents to follow him. He led them to the road and there was Lăurică. They don't know if someone hit him intentionally. In Romania, it happens. They buried him beside my late grandmother's dog Azorel and Anişoara the puppy (not the hamster).
His is one ghost whose haunting I would welcome.
Friday, November 05, 2004
In the mist of NeoCitran-induced daydreams, I have found a little happiness in the fact that the Na-No-Blog-Mo blog put me on their blog. I feel like a superstar.
The working title for my novel, The Vampire Carnival, has got to go. It seems cheesier by the day. I can't shake the feeling that that editor, with whom I once studied, is shaking her head. She said she hates getting vampire stories.
The other thing I am happy about is the toffee hammer. Having just discovered such things existed, I already included one in me novel. My heroine (who happens to wear this get-up) has a toffee hammer for vampire mice (in tomorrow's chapter five which is already five paragraphs).
Thursday, November 04, 2004
It's true. I am not very maternal. I cheered when the crows attacked the kids.
Maybe I should say I have maternal feelings toward crows? I definitely need some crows in my novel.
Thursday, November 04, 2004
Finally. A Romania-zombie connection.
Thursday, November 04, 2004
My goals for this lifetime include haunted house. This year, I realized that dream. In fact, I created two haunted houses so creepy, even I was creeped out going in there alone.
Well, I should say I was the mastermind behind the haunted houses. I did have my minions do the actual work.
Don't want to give anything away since I might recycle some ideas for next year's haunted houses, but the animal foetus babies might go mouldy, so I can give away that secret.
Inspired in part by my high school in China. The biology room was a little house just off the main campus. Inside - to my delight! - were shelves and shelves of pickling jars. Instead of paying attention in class*, I walked around to look at all the animals. Mouse, cat, dog, snake, baby pig, rat, chicken, human baby, human baby, human baby, human baby. Yes, in China, high schools have aborted human babies on display.
My interest in preserved remains lay dormant until last week.
There was Disembowelled Dino, Brainless Bobby, and Eviscerated Eddie. I took the three dinosaur stuffed animals I was going to give away to charity and ripped out their stuffing.
Dino (of Flintstones fame) simply needed an autopsy snip-snip down his belly. Stuffing comes out and you stick him in a jar, pour water over him, then a bit of tea to get that old formaldehyde look.
Brainless Bobby - a turtle now that I think of it, but a prehistoric turtle - was my coworker's work. An eye came off and the stuffing came out. The disengaged eye still hung on by a thread. Caelan said he couldn't hurt a stuffed animal in a way that was irrepairable. So he left the eye on, so Bobby could be fixed. I poked him eye into the "skull" for further gruesomeness. Then into a jar, with water and tea.
Eviscerated Eddie went much the same way. By this time, I saw a pattern. All stuffed animals are filled with some white stuff that reminds me of fibreglass. Yum!
A label maker spews out the names of the animal foetus babies in old-fashioned font, then out by the trick-or-treaters' candy and we'll see who still has an appetite. My sister said I will cause many children to seek therapy.
I thought about pictures, but that stupid Netscape File Manager is a nasty old goat.
Ah, I am one paragraph into today's NaNoWriMo writing marathon.
*I did fail at the end of the year. So it might seem I got my just desserts. However, through sheer ingenuity and the deaths of thousands, I was able to lie my way back to grade ten.
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
Thank you, all, for your comments. I really appreciate your encouragement, especially now, in sickness, with the five-year Neo Citran doing its job far too fervently (I forgot to check the expiry date).
One of you asked what the hell the inmates are. Vampires? Mummies? Werewolves? Zombies?
They started off as vampires because I am Transylvanian and extremely patriotic. However, I must admit that recently - thanks to Shaun of the Dead and 28 Days Later, I find myself in the zombie loyalty camp.
I have an inkling of an idea as to what the inmates in my vampire carnival will really be when they are exposed. But I haven't written that far yet.
Of course the secret weapon to defeat them are axes and hammers.
Though I would like to write chapter three right now, I think I am currently far too sick to continue for the night. But tomorrow I plan for a grueling session at the computer. Then, hopefully I can catch up with Caelan. Because I don't give up money easily, lad.
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
Trixie Delaney. For one night, that was my name.
After he knew my name, he said, "I'll have more Trixie."
Not "I'll have more, Trixie."
The next time I went by he said he would have to search me.
And the last time I went by he said I was a tart.
A woman at another table said, "Slap him, Trixie!"
I answered, "I would if I weren't carrying so many things."
All the women clapped.