irobot - feralkiwi

Mom, Denver Art Museum, I Licked the Plate.

Man, remember when Livejournal just used to be thoughtsinks of people's days, fanfic, and quizz results? Me, too. I miss those. When I didn't feel like I was writing "for an audience" (or trying to), or like every post had to be vaguely "on topic." When I just got today out of my brain and in to the pensieve, to make room for other shit. Today was good enough to make it feel like a good time to bring thouse back.

So.

My mom's in town! She came out for my youngest cousin's 4th birthday party, up in Vail, then drove down to Boulder with me afterwards on Saturday. Long story short, I spent like 5 hours in a car yesterday, driving all over the mountains, then passed out at 1am and slept for 10 hours, counting the time change. For those of you keeping score, that is not only the most sleep I've gotten in a month, but also the first time in that same month that I've fallen asleep before the sun rose. And when I say rose, I mean was significantly in the sky. Insert commentary on the joys of insomnia and mental health disorder byproducts.

Anyway. I slept! Then headed to the Boulderado a little late, after scouring the internet for a good place to take her to dinner. My go-to, Root Down, was full up on reservations for the ENTIRE NITGHT, so I needed a plan B. Problem is, there is no plan B. Let's be honest, I don't eat at $30/plate restaurants very often (basically, unless my parents are in town), so I had a pretty small personal sample size to choose from. My friends on the intertubes had some pretty great suggestions, but they weren't quite what I was looking for. (And it seemed rude to go back and explain, a little bit more and more, after every suggestion, about my mom's personal tastes. But really, internet, your suggestions were what led me to the RIGHT place, so they really were sincerely appreciated.) It took me about 40 minutes to paw through everything the internet could teach me about every 3 star restaurant downtown (along the way, I got a refersher course in Things I Hate About Food Industry Websites - you're lucky I closed all the tabs, place that had an automatic audioplayer start up, otherwise I'd be calling you right the fuck out.) before I found what I was looking for.

My mom, to her credit, is pretty good at food. Better, at least, than the rest of my family, who could honestly live on McDonalds, teriyaki chicken, and pizza, if the so chose. And they often do. I broke out of that, after years of my own peanut butter and jelly, turkey hoagie, and pasta diet, when I went to college and realized that if I didn't start being adventerous, cafeteria food and ramen might actually kill me. So mom is up for SOME shenanigans, but not many. She's still a little squirmy about international foods, and anything too high concept - molecular gastronomy, weird portion sizes, etc - won't fly. At a base level, I personally object to any place that puts a $20 hamburger on the menu with a straight face, so there was a LOT of stuff downtown that got ruled out. Not to spoil the dinner recap portion of this entry, but we ended up at Beast and Bramble, which was a total home run.

I felt bad - I was running late and so engrossed in my restaurant research that I forgot to call and let Mom know, so she was standing outside the hotel for like 20 minutes. Rude. Do better next time, M'ris.

Drive down was sunny and uneventful. Mom made a last minute clutchtime decision to go to the Denver Art Museum instead of the Denver Botanic Gardens, so I pulled right at the split and headed thataways. (I wasn't too excited about the Botanic Gardens anyway, so I may have stacked the deck a little. Subtley.) I missed the turnoff for Speer, because Holy Fuck, that section of 25 has been under construction FOREVER, WHY CAN'T YOU GET MORE FUCKING SIGNAGE FOR THE SPEER EXIT, YOU GITS???

Parking, line, museum. Hooray for endless emails from endless Denver websites paying off, I remembered that Denver Arts Week is happening and saved $3 on admission. Sure, it's only $3, but hey. I like how every dollar saved via couponing feels like a tiny victory. Like the real life equivalent of finding items in a video game.

We had about 90 minutes before our timeslot for the audio tour of Passport to Paris, the rotating exhibit currently on display at DAM, which actually gave us just enough time to check out the adjoining sections. (There are 3 - Nature As Muse, a collection of Impressionst paintings, Drawing Room, an intimate room full of works-on-paper from the Esmond Bradley Martin Collection, and the main event, Court to Cafe, which features three centuries of masterworks. I totally cribbed most of that from the DAM website.)

I'd actually suggested the DAM exhibit without really looking in to it, and it wasn't til we actually got inside Nature As Muse that I remembered - Mom loves the Impressionists. They are, in fact, her favouite period, with Monet topping that list out by - well, as much as Root Down tops out my Denver Restaurant List. (Her second pick is Van Gogh, also applicable here, and then a very distant Georgia O'Keefe.)

The thing I always hate about crowded art museum isn't so much the crowding, or the other people stadning around staring at the pictures, but the way I feel like I can feel all those other people's eyes booring in to my back when I move up to the picture to look at it in more detail, even thought they've all just done the exact same thing. Because, y'know, it's what you do. But I'm just a casual tourist, I'm definitely not a zillionaire art snob, so what right do I have to be taking up that time and space? I know, I know. That part is just in my head. Still. Makes me nervous, don't like it. The consequence of that is that I always feel rushed, and the consequence of THAT is that I always end up feeling like I've missed some ephemeral something.

They had one of Monet's Water Lilies paintings on display, along with several other works, plus some Pisarro, Renoir, and a lot of Sisley. Though I definitely had a moment where I really missed Dad, where the caption next to the Renoir went on and on about his masterful use of (pretentious yet basic type of brushstroke), (pretentious yet basic type of brushstroke), exposed canvas, and squiggles. I then spent several minutes counting the squiggles.

In case you were wondering, there was one singular squiggle. A squig, if you would. In the river, in the lower left corner. Look for it, if you get the chance. It's pretty expressive. (It's a squiggle.)

I think the exhibit made Mom a little heartsick, because as we walked out, she told me how she remembered giving all of Grandma's art books away to one of the Hartford museums, after she died. Grandma would have really liked the exhibit, too.

Upstairs was the Drawing Room, which, while impressive in its own right, I wasn't super in to. Mostly I was getting hungry, trying to figure out if I should change the time of the reservation, and making What Does the Fox Say jokes in my head. See, like I said, Drawing Room is this collection of paper works, which is basically just sketchbook pages or simple pen/ink/watercolor drawings. (Not always, but usually.) The first display are some pages from a menu that Paul Gauguin did for a dinner party in Tahiti. They're actually some of my favourite pieces from the show, but they definitely involve a cartoon fox dancing around.

By the time Mom was done in there, we were right on time for our timeslot for Court to Cafe. Which, sorry, I really don't have a lot to say about. It's a very well put together collection, a selection that shows the progress and evolution from pre-Louis XIV up through the impressionists, in a variety of media (including music and video), which is cool. But, ugh, I cannot stop being bored  - bored is the wrong word. Fatigued, irritated, put out by - a lot of the Baroque oil paintings. I understand its place and relevance, historiologically, but man. Something about it just grates on me. Like, on a really fundamental level, the gloss of the paints and the finish of many of the works, makes me want to complain about it, a lot. Distaste for the subject matter, the focus on the ornate, lush lives of the nobility... blahhhh. Want to stab things. This collection did include a few more "subversive" (by which I mean "normal") works, (and I am a git b/c I forgot to write down names), but the guy who explicitly set out to paint normal people as snapshots from their normal lives, warts and all. The one they had on display was of a woman painted while she was suffering from some sort of head cold. Her hair is mussed, her nose is red, and she looks exhausted, not porcelain perfect and demure. That's the stuff I appreciate from that era. Oh, and the Rococo inlayed furniture. That shit's bonkers, yo.

Actually lost Mom in the exhibit - I didn't remember passing her, but when I turned in my headset, she wasn't outside the exhibit hall. So I snuck back in (literally, past one of the guards who was giving people a hard time for reentry), found her, and told her to text me when she was done. In the meantime, I wandered over to the Nick Cave exhibition (ok, really just a video with some bad audio of some of the soundsuits in motion. Could've been really cool, but they'd clearly done it up as a kid's exhibit, not a for serious one), then headed up to the 3rd floor for some of their more modern art, which is much more my speed.

I was thrilled to walk in and find a whole exhibit full of Vance Kirkland's up (on loan from The Kirkland, obvs, which Mom had nixed because she's not really in to Modern/Pop/Bauhaus/Etc.) I really like Kirkland - he hits this note with me that's somewhere between Dali and Barbarella, or Ken Kelly (you know him by all the Manowar album covers.), and the stuff my dad used to paint when he was in college. Then I turned the corner and came face to face with an Barbara Kruger's It's Our Pleasure to Disgust, which, hi, I can't tell you how long I spent in undergrad dissecting her stuff (to a bunch of other comm majors who I'm sure were sick to death of me.)

Some requisite sunset shots from the Sculpture Deck, which I had completely to myself that afternoon, then up to the 4th floor to flop around in this womb/uvula/squishy bean bag floor/interactive art thing. Mom got a hold of me as I was done flopping, then humored me as a excitedly showed her a rug portrait that Chuck Close has spent 4 years learning how to create, and some sculptures made out of mylar tape. I may have also done a lot of cartwheels in Annica Cuppetelli and Cristobal Mendoza's interactive a/v exhibit, Transposition. Mom never openly approves of such shennanigans, but I always catch her smiling at me when she thinks I'm not looking. She secretly loves it.

We got out of there right at closing time, and I stalled on the street for a minute while I called Beast and Bramble to change our 6.30 reservation to 5.30. Mom was getting a little hungry-cranky and I - well, in typical fashion, I hadn't actually eaten all day. I detoured us around the Convention Center/Performing Arts Complex, to show Mom the giant blue bear, then headed over to food.

Sometimes Mom is really easy to make happy, when sightseeing - all she really wants to see is "old buildings," quote unquote. I tried to explain to her that Denver isn't really old, so there isn't a whole lot of that around, but she was actually pretty thrilled with the Franklin & Studebaker building, and the Jonas Bros Furs sign.

Beast and Bramble, to lead with the punchline (again) was a total hit. They were super amenable to us changing the reservation (even though, I know, earlier is always easier. And it was almost empty in there when we got there at 5.25), happy to switch us to a different table with better lighting, etc. Our server knew the menu really well, and was happy to offer any and all advice to Mom, who isn't really familiar with the whole "farm to table" thing.

And the food. Oh, man. If I were a food blogger of any capacity at all, I'd stop right now and let this be its own glorious, indulgent entry. But I'm not, so really, what you get is a whole bunch of "holy shit this was so good," which I will probably just copypasta to Yelp anyway.

We skipped the Chef's Course or whatever it was called (1 app & 1 entree of your choosing, plus an intermezzo course of the chef's choosing/creation), though the horseradish braised beef something something sounded pretty awesome. I'd already kind of drooled over some stuff on the main menu, so Mom just said I should order as many apps as I wanted, and we'd share. Fun fact: my mother is a filthy liar.

We put in for their pumpkin flan, some roasted parsnips, and a lamb cheeks with gnocci thing. While it was all wonderful (the pumpkin flan was like eating a pumpkin flavored cloud,) the lamb. Holy crap, the lamb. Again: not a food blogger, so I can't actually describe a damn thing - but here's this instead:

There is a very short list of dishes that I would (and have) thrown caution to the wind for, and literally licked the plate. There was a garlic butter escargot in Ghent, Belgium that I actually picked up and drank the snail-butter-garlic sauce out of the pockets of the snail-plate. There was a lamb at Dish, in Edwards, CO, that I actually picked up and licked. Christophe has photos. And there were the lamb cheeks at Beast and Bramble, where I sheepishly asked for a spoon when the waitress came to clear our plates, so I could drink the au jus at the bottom of the dish in a manner that wouldn't make me lok like a total three year old. I don't know what was in there. Mushrooms and lamb and gnocchi and salt and pixie dust, or something. It could have been a meal unto itself, and I would have been happy.

Oh, and the part I didn't mention: Mom didn't share, so much as she made me eat both the parsnips and the lamb on my own, then guilted me in to finishing her flan. Because mothers.

Obviously, by the time the main course came, I was too full to eat my quail. Quail! I love quail. It was good, and is half sitting in my fridge right now (half of the dish. It is not half in, half out of my refridgerator.), while Mom finished all of her mint fettucini with chicken liver. I love some really weird stuff  - Ankimo (Monkfish liver) is actually one of my favourite foods - but man, I cannot get behind chicken liver. I always think I can, and then as just as soon as I'm about to make my peace with it, bam, there is is, that awful coppery aftertaste that makes me want to gargle with saltwater forever.

Not to be forgotten in all of this lamb jus drinking awesomeness, is the fact that Mom and I had really good dinner conversation, too.

Mom: I wonder if there's a way to tell paint apart, like from the composition of it.
Me: Of couse there is. It's pretty easy, really. That's a really common way of dating paintings, actually - a spectranalysis of the chemicals in the paint.
Mom: Really? Like what?
Me: Like lead. Lead makes some really vibrant colors. That's why you don't lick the Van Goghs.

Mom: Oh, this {her clutch}? I got it in Venice {where she just was with my dad in the spring}. Just feel how soft it is!
Me: Oh, wow. Yeah, that's pretty nic - WHOA. Mom, this zipper is SO SMOOTH! {I proceed to zip and unzip the zipper on the clutch about 20 times, because seriously, it was a really smooth moving zipper. No resistance at all. Just glide. STOP JUDGING ME.}
Mom: Marissa! Stop playing with my zipper!

We debated over dessert a little too long while I simultaneously looked up movie times, eventually ordering a marscapone mousse that I was expecting, for some reason, to be kind of mediocre and uninteresting (why, M'ris? Everything else you had tonite has been amazing! Why would dessert be any different??), but turned out to be, obviously, awesome. I forgot to ask if they sell their rooftop honey, but man, I hope they do.

Dessert somehow took 40 minutes, and by the time we got out of there, we were running late to the movie at The Pavillions. Per usual, I got lost on my way to 16th street from Broadway, because that deke on to Tremont makes NO SENSE AT ALL. Luckily, there were about a thousand previews, so even though we kind of got lost in the theatre (and almost had a fight, thank god that was narrowly avoided), we made it to Last Vegas in plenty of time.

I'd actually wanted to take Mom to the Sie FilmCenter - she became a member of the local arthouse theatre back home a few years ago, and has really been enjoying the classes there. My mom now loves Fellini! She saw 8 1/2! Twice! But the only thing playing there that I thought she might be interested in was 12 Years a Slave, which I suggested, bought thought might be a little heavy for the night. Then Last Vegas came up, and when I suggested it, she totally lit up. I should've known, it's all her favourite actors, in a comedy that Dad would despise seeing with her. (And, secretly, I have kind of really wanted to see it ever since I saw the trailer. Does that make me old?)

Last Vegas may only have gotten 2 stars most places, but guys, it's super cute. It really is The Hangover for Old Dudes, only without the gratuitious sex and uncomfortable jokes that made The Hangover just a little too much for me. Last Vegas, on the other hand, is actually really respectful of its subject matter (womanizing, fidelity, and eldering), while still managing to be hilariously on point. Old people jokes are so easy to turn in to cheap, meaningless laughs, but Kline and DeNiro are just all over them. Perfect delivery.

There's also this douchey dudebro that they turn into their servant boy and help reform his dudebro ways, and it's so minor to the plot, but it is SO AMAZING to see a real life, mass media example of "Hey, jerkwad. You're being a jerkwad. Stop being a jerkwad. Here is a primer on how not to be a jerkwad, by which we mean how to treat women like they're people."

After the movie let out, Mom bought a $6 bottle of water from the concession stand. Nevermind that I have like 18 bottles of water in my car (that she's been bugging me to throw out since Saturday), nevermind that there's a 7-11 around the corner, as I tried to inform her. $6 bottle of concession stand water. Purchased.

We got back to the car, where I was disappointed to learn that $6 bottled water does not taste like Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.

Mom: Do you want some?
Me: Sure. Y'know, I hope this tastes like gilded lillies. Like saffron and rubies had a child, and it's this bottle of water. {drinks}
Mom: So?
Me: We're talking topaz, tops.
Mom: Better than quartz.

Finally, we headed off to 7C, so I could drop off a cliplamp as a stopgap til we can get one of the overhead lights replaced. I was kind of apprehensive about taking mom to 7C, and told her so - as much as I love that place, it's, well, ugly. Dirty. Disgusting. It's not the kind of place that Mom would feel comfortable in, at all. And so while there was a part of me that really wanted her to see this place that I'm so passionate about, I knew that even if she saw it, she still wouldn't really get it. And in fact, would probably actively dislike it. Which would invariably lead to a fight that I really just never want to have. (I left that part out.)

As I opened the door of my car, she elected to stay in there and wait for me. "Lock the doors," she called out behind me. "Don't forget about me!" she yelled as I shut the door behind me.

Then blah blah lamp delivered, Jorden hugged and kvetched at, new kid vaguely scared of me, mission accomplished all around. This is also just about the point in the Livejournal entry where I get tired of writing all this verbose nonsense, and sum the rest of the evening up in like three lines.

Drive up was uneventful as I continued to hate-listen to the audiobook of James Dashner's The Kill Order. It's really fucking terrible. That's for another post. Dropped Mom off, swung around, headed to Dark Horse to meet up with the guys and their M:tG decks, then peiced out around 12.45 and came home. It's now 3am, and I've been writing this 4000 (3700, if we're being picky) word blog post since 1am. Tomorrow we've got family therapy, and possibly the actual groundwork of what might be needed to really get me out of Colorado. Which means it's probably time for sleep.
irobot - feralkiwi

(no subject)

Finally donated a bunch of shit I inexplicably aquired from a friend of his when she was moving out of town. Fittingly, it went to a thrift store that benefits the local safehouse.

It's been kicking around in my car/storage locker for the better part of a year. Not sure why it took me so long to get rid of it, especially when the whole donation process literally took less than 20 minutes.

Yes, I would like a goddamn medal.
irobot - feralkiwi

You're Fired: Therapist Edition.

I'm definitely passively breaking up with my therapist by simply refusing to call her ever again. And after today, I'm perfectly ok with that. She's too expensive, I don't think she's doing a particularly good job as a therapist (I see her almost exclusively for drugs), her bedside manner is completely lacking and - the final straw - is that she's charging me for my missed appointment today. To my fault, she requires 24 hours cancellation notice, and I only gave her 21. On the flip side, I've never missed an appointment with her before, ever, so I may have expected some sort of leniancy. Instead, she calls me back, tells me she'll be billing me for the time, then in the same breathe, asks if I want to schedule another appointment with her this month. This is after the last time I saw her, when I explicitly told her that I can't really afford to see her, since my insurance doesn't cover mental health, and, hey, I'm not super excited with the way you treated my reaction to the meds yo uput me on.

I get that as a psychiatrist, you can't let your clients walk all over you, otherwise you'd be a terrible professional. On the other hand, treating me like an individual at ANY point in our relationship would be kinda swell.

I tried to be proactive the last time I saw her, and explain that I wasn't comfortable with the level of care I was receiving, or the pricepoint I was receiving it at. (Offering sliding scale pricing on an individual basis isn't uncommon in this world, especially if you're not a member of a larger practice.) It was like trying to break up with someone, and they're watching television. "Uh huh. Yes dear. Whatever. What do you want for dinner?"

So, I'm done. My therapist makes me feel like shit. Now I feel like I have to see a therapist to deal with my issues around my therapist. That's healthy.

I told her that I can't afford to see her more than once a month (which I told her last time, too, when her solution to "You're too expensive and I don't think I'm receiving adequate care" was "So, do you want to see me more often?"), and that I don't know when I'll be back from Philly (which is all about 80% true - if things with Mom go poorly, no, I don't know when I'll be back.), so no, I can't make another appointment right now, and sure, I'll call you when I'm back.

Except no. I'm done.

Yeah, I feel like this is the coward's way out, and yeah, I'm terrified to not have a doctor right now, but this is probably the kick in the ass I need to find someone better.
irobot - feralkiwi

(no subject)

Every so often, I run into a dude I went on one single date with here, years ago, when I first moved to Colorado. I remember nothing about this date, other than we were very obviously not suited for each other, not even a little bit, not even as friends. Nothing about him was, y'know, terrible, but none of our puzzle piece sides lined up.

Anyway, he's friends with a guy I actually AM friends with, so about once a year or so, date-dude and I show up at the same function. Whatever. Except, we have the following conversation, almost verbatim, every single time.

Me: Hi, Dude. Nice to see you.

Dude: Is it really, though?

Me: ... Would you prefer "Hi, Dude. GTFO."? Because that seems, y'know, harsh.

I mean, I get that Dude is suuuuuper awkward. Which is part of why we only went on one date. I just cannot for the life of me figure out what happened on that date, or anything else in the last 5 years, that would lead him to believe that I a) hate his guts, b) wish him ill, or c) think he doesn't deserve the social niceties that other innocuous, not-friend not-enemy members of society are afforded.

Don't worry, I know it's not my problem. I just think it's weird that 5 years later, this even happens.
thulu - ethereal_icons

For Dinner: Nothing.

So, as some of you already know, I'm terrified of cooking. Veggies and such I can deal with, because there's not much chance of me screwing them up. But proteins? Proteins terrify me. Every time I attempt to cook anything that used to have a pulse, I invariably fuck it up.

Tonite was no exception.

I'm sick of paying $10/day to buy lunch when I'm at the office, and eating pasta for the rest of my life isn't particularly exciting, so, ok, I thought. Chicken. Chicken is easy. I will try cooking a very simple chicken recipe.

Lemon and garlic and rosemary and olive oil - not hard, right? Right.

Then I decided to broil the damn thing. Because clearly, I am some sort of idiot. I didn't actually bother to look which side of the oven the broiler was on (I just assumed it was the bottom) and stuck the chicken in. For 5 minutes. 10. 15. 20. It looked done (clearly, I don't own a meat thermometer) but when I treied a piece (or 3) it had a weird, spongy, raw texture. (I've also probably given myself Salmonella. Again.) So I actually looked inside the oven, realized the broiler was on the top, and that I'd just been lightly warming my chicken for the last 20 minutes (I have almost definitely given myself Salmonella), and stuck it back in for another 15. Let's see how this goes.

Of course, in the middle of all of this, I decide to empty the dishwasher. While I'm placing a stack of shot glasses on the top shelf (please don't ask me why I thought they needed to live there), I bobbled, and dropped a stack of 4 glass shot glasses straight onto the counter, which bounced them onto the floor. So, my tiny galley kitchen is covered in glass, the oven is on, my vaccum cleaner is in the bedroom, and I'm barefoot. I've also just broken my favourite glass, the one with the cherry blossoms on it that I made with Krissums at SXSW 2011.

I carefully navigate out of the kitched, put on shoes, get the vacuum, plug it in, and start to clean up. Then I realize: the only shards I'm seeing are from that one glass. Where are the other three of them??

One I find upright, on the kitchen counter, unscathed. I don't understand.

Then next, I find after searching for 5 minutes and dejectedly just putting the rest of the dishes away - it somehow landed cleanly in one of the bowls on the bottommost shelf of my cubbard. The other of the pair of SXSW glasses, it is also, somehow, completely unscathed.

And the third? No idea. Did I mention that I had grocery bags strewn all over the kitchen floor while this happened? And my gym bag? So it's probably in one of those? Or that it may have bounced, and landed somewhere in the pile of junk that lives on the other side of the kitchen counter. I am 100% not excited about this search and rescue mission.

Oven timer is beeping. Let's see if I screwed this up. Again.

Well, now the chicken is definitely cooked in some places, and weirdly rubbery in others. Experiment: total failure! At this point, I almost want to get food poisoning, because if nothing else, my anxiety is at such a level that I feel completely nauseous. I'm also scared to set foot in my kitchen (to cook OR to eat Chipotle) ever, ever again.

So who wants to come to CO and be my personal chef? I pay in snark and hugs.
irobot - feralkiwi

(no subject)

Stupid awful nightmare snippets from between hitting the alarm clock and now:

- I pull into the Einstein Bros parking lot. Some dude in a Nissan Cube is blaring Beastie Boys. Everyone in the shop is singing along. Dude looks at me, glares, and swings his car in front of mine (both of us still legally in the space) and glares at me some more, then pulls out. The rest of the shop glares at me, keep singing.  I have no idea what I did wrong.

- I walk into the (same but different) shop, catching a climpse of someone who may be my bff of the last 27 years through the window. I walk in and, yep, it's her. Only she's doing (statistics?) homework with a pretty blonde girl, and won't tell me why she's in Colorado. She barely speaks to me, and seems put out that I'm speaking to her. She promises to call me later, but I don't believe her. I walk out without a bagel, feeling unsettled.

- My apartment, but not my apartment. Bigger, prettier. As I settle in, I realize that small things are oddly out of place. My computer is at a strange angle, and has a bunch of those wrist/mouseguard pads strewn around it. My dresser is askew. There's an overhanging lamp where there wasn't before. I walk into my living room, and my coffee table is gone. I walk outside, and everything seems normal (except for there being 8 units in my building instead of 6), my coffeetable is out on the walk way. No one has seen anything, no one knows what's going on. Eventually, a van pulls up around the corner (a corner that doesn't exist in real life) and a scary looking contractor-dude comes out. He tells me that he's replacing all my furniture. I question him intensely, he is hesitant to tell me that my landlord sent him. Eventually my landlord shows up, in a truck, with his mom and sisters making christmas decorations in the back of it. They angrily insist that I help them while the boys empty my stuff out of the apartment. The sister is angrier and angrier that they're not reposessing my car as well, even though my landlord has no claim to it. They try to take my computer as well. I tell my landlord I'm going to need a formal notice of eviction, and he laughs at me. Inside, 3 people my age (2 girls, i think i know, 1 i don't know, 1 friend of a friend who is in an improv troupe back home) are planning what they'll do with the property when they move in. They discuss calling my friend Brice to live with them as well. I'm appalled that they'd even consider him, let alone laugh about me being homeless, while I'm right there. They continue laughing at me.

- I different my apartment/not my apartment. A friend that looks like Seth (in bad overdramatic gothish makeup), too tall for the boyish, 1800s-esque clothes he's wearing, is yelled at by his mother. We go outside where a woman who looks like the evil fairy from Sleeping Beauty is standing regal and tall. She informs him that he is her real son, and will be coming with her. I am left alone, and informed by the groundskeeper that her other son, from the 14th century, is buried under the house. I will be joining him/taking his place. As I walk down the stairs to the sub-level apartment, I see credits rolling for a movie that is a collection of adaptations of short stories by DH Lawrence. I am, apparently, in this movie.
irobot - feralkiwi

(no subject)

Hey LJ, here's the deal:

I'm fine, my immediate friends are fine, but it turns out that we did know one of the kids down in that theatre who didn't make it. Alex was a good friend of my friend Brice, who we've all met several times and was just a fantastic dude.

We're all still reeling up here, just trying to unpack this information and doing what we can to rally around Brice right now.

Keep going to the movies. Hug your loved ones.
irobot - feralkiwi

(no subject)

So I'm finally finishing up BSG, and besides the lack of a dedicated corner recycling ship, I wonder: what sort of horrible cylon flaw is it that makes Baltar irresistible to Sixes? (Unless, oh god, Sixes, when aged, look like Ellen, and Baltar is a Cylon, but a younger Tigh model, then OH GOD WHY MUST YOU BE DOOMED TO REPEAT YOUR TERRIBLE RELATIONSHIPS???)

Also, I've made it this long without spoilers, so seriously, please don't. Please don't be that asshole.
irobot - feralkiwi

The Best Bunch of Assholes I've Ever Known

I'm tired of pretending that Colorado is my home. It's a place that I can tolerate. Barely. RPS finals were last night, and even though I had an AMAZING night seeing Itchy-O with my friend Megan, it was the first night in 5 years that Denver/Boulder has felt like anything other than part of a holding pattern.

And then I looked at FB just not, and it's full of pictures of RPS finals, and friends from back east congratulating/yelling each other, and old teammates and their babies, and family stuff... And I just want to be BACK. THAT'S the life I want. There. With the people that I care about, that care about me, that I want to be involved with and to share things with. The people I want to take home to meet my parents, brag about to everyone else I know. Introduce my theoretical future children to. Not out here, with a crowd of people that just make me ever more insecure with every passing day, that I don't trust far enough to phone up for coffee, let alone to trust them with my whole self.

I have a bunch of reasons that look great on paper for why I'm staying here, but then days like today happen, and my heart actually hurts to be away from all the places and people that I love. It's been almost 5 years, and I'm still not past that. So why can't I just listen to myself, just take myself back east, where I want to be, where I belong?
irobot - feralkiwi

Things That Have Never Made Me Sad and Have Always Made Me Happy, Unconditionally

In the wake of one of the more devastating weekends I've had in a while (nothing says "my head is totally screwed on straight right now" like 36 straight hours of uncontrollable crying, just because.), my therapist has instructed me to create a list of people/things I am grateful for. (Alternatively, I'm calling this lists Things That Have Never Made Me Sad and Have Always Made Me Happy, Unconditionally.) While the OCD control freak in me desperately wants me to make this the pentultimate list of every single thing that has ever brought me unconditional joy, I'm trying very hard to limit it to the immediate things in my life that remind me that I am a good person, and I am loved. So. Here it is.

My dad
My mom
My parents (as a collective unit)
The Other Berlins
The Japanese Maple tree at 91 Parsons Drive
Austin
BJ
Becca
Ramona
Reading in the bathtub
PBRPRPSCLCS
David Bowie's Package
Daffodils
Ifihadahifi
Gelflings
B-Fest
Sticking my face in strange dog's faces
Lobsters
Dinosaurs
Surprise llama farms
Roller derby
Being an alumna of Beloit College
The Jersey shore (not to be confused with The Jersey Shore.)

I'm pretty sure that the point of this is to keep this list close to me, and too look at it whenever I feel too low to function, to remind myself that I do have goodness in my life. We'll see how well this works.