I have lost only little tiny bits the last little while, but as long as the bell curve slopes ever downishly, I shan't complain. I'll admit I've invested my face heavily in some fizzy drinks the last week or so, out of old habit, and that may be contributing to weight-loss slowing to the pace of Ron Jeremy swimming in molasses. However, I have suitably spanked myself ("Bad hands! Bad!"), and I'll lay off once more, and try to override my brain's auto-carbonate function.
And then, because I love nothing as much as a good head-bleaching, I've gone ultra-blonde again.
I was going for Targaryen, but I landed at a satisfactory second-generation Lannister. It'll do. I'll just have to settle for cosplaying Cersei at this year's Medieval Fayre.
As you can probably tell, I'm still deeply immersed in A Game Of Thrones. I know it's taking me forever to get through it, but it's fucking huge, OK? And I'm still getting over my bout of reader's block, so it's slow progress. Loving it, though. I bought myself something, and it's going to make my costume for the aforementioned Fayre a thing of beauty. I promise pics, for you shall be amazed. Or not really, but that'll only be your own fault for not trying hard enough. Is anyone else going this year? It's in East Bum-Fuck Zululand this year, making it harder for absolutely everyone who attends religiously (read: me and Brenda, costume whores), but I'm still intent on going. Seriously, someone put your hand up, I don't feel like going alone.
On to other matters! Today, I went to a writing circle. I saw their little poster up some time ago at the library, and have been meaning to check it out ever since. And yes, I do still periodically go a library other than my own. I was kindly offered a ride to the gathering by British comedic actor and sometimes Stephen Fry co-star, John Bird.
I jest, of course, but just imagine that lovable mug with glasses and... well, exactly the same accent, and you've got my lift. To add to your confusion and mine, he is also named John. This was the general meeting, held on the first Saturday of each month. Once we got to there, I ran into West Germanic Anthony Stewart Head.
He runs the prose meetings, every third Saturday of the month (poetry on the second); he's so immediately personable, with his sandaled feet resting below shins so shiningly displayed by denim pant-legs that end somewhere between the knee and the Achilles tendon. Those same jeans have the decency to complete the look by inexplicably going all the way down past the ankles when he stands up. It's glorious. Female (and very pretty, I hasten to add, maybe more "could be the daughter of") Danny Glover seems to head up the meeting, and once it comes time for circle members to read aloud some of their latest work, she shows remarkable prowess with a word.
They ask the new faces to introduce themselves, and when I'm called on I explosively fail to string two coherent words together. I'm a terrible introverted weirdo when stuck in crowd situations, add that to my slight agoraphobia (and of course hypochondria, but I digress) and ridiculous stage fright, and I knew immediately I would not be able to raise my hand when they asked who would like to read a piece out loud. Funny enough, it's not the reading itself that scares the ever-loving poop out of me, it's the thought of having to potentially over step and raise my hand to volunteer.
If that seems strange, it's only because you're underestimating it. It's bizarre. I think it connects to two things:
My shyness is so blaringly painful that it actually makes people around me uncomfortable. They see me sitting in the corner of the room, trying to exist in as little space as possible with all of my *humhumhum* mass, and worriedly come over to make sure I'm OK. Repeatedly. For instance, at the end of the meeting, there was cake and coffee. I just can't bring myself to walk right the fuck up to their lovely table and help myself. Women and men alike were desperately trying to get me to join them in carbohydrated merriment, and all my shoddy neuroses would allow me to do was wave them off in a friendly, self-deprecating way. By trying so hard to avoid seeming anything like rude, I'm inadvertently making them feel rude.
And yet still, accepting seems sinfully wanton and presumptive, and if nothing else, I am scared to the death of ever being, seen as being, or thought of as presumptive. When men gesture for me to walk through a doorway ahead of them, I have to fight myself not to insist he go first until he finally gives in, weirded out and feeling slightly unsettled. This kind of behaviour is made all the worse in situations like these, where I don't know anyone, or the one person I do know is busy elsewhere or preoccupied talking to everyone else.
However, once I'm familiar with a set of people, or I've taken a few hits of coke and have loosened up a bit (ah, you know I kid. I don't do coke. I'm all over a bit of cream soda or heroin, though.), you can not shut me up for money. Motormouth, I'm sure my friends would call me if we lived in the 60's and I was Queen Latifah. So in my mind, raising my hand to ask permission to read is the act that breaks with etiquette, whereas by the time I'm standing up and reading to a quiet room with every eye on me the ice has been broken.The second thing is that I'm part of a big performing family, and I've always been involved with theatre and music. I've been on stage more often than the word "Macbeth", so pandering to a room full- nay, even a massive theatre full- of strangers is like peach Schnapps to me. Loves it.
Just don't ask me to do it in front of an audience of anything less than 6. That's a whole nother nugget of freakdom I shan't go into now.
But in all, a very pleasant little group, and I think I'll be making it a permanent thing. Perhaps I'll even get so far as to nibble on a piece of carrot cake next time.
Bigger, better and more amazing news!! Pregnant Brenda...
...Is now Mommy Brenda!
Yes, pie-lovers all, we have a baby Sam Meiring! Somehow, despite my months and months of unwavering wonderment at the idea that she was cooking an actual human being inside her, and even having been explained the process of baby making nigh on hundreds of times through the use of willing Barbie and Ken dolls ("Now, please Loraine, I don't want to have to do this again. Me and Sam's daddy loved each other very much, and..."), when he actually arrived my head still asplode. She sent me a pic of the perfect little miniature person doll she was expecting me to believe was her baby- pffsh- and I just can't connect her having a baby, versus her having a son. Man, I should never have children, it would take me approximately five minutes to sit on it or accidentally leave it in the fridge. Brenda however could last as long as a week, maybe even a fortnight- she's that awesome. Good luck Bren!
I've got one or two little projects planned for the blog in the next few weeks- one involves the promised Jed Whedon/Mo Tancharoen/Whedon-in-general tribute and a desktop mic, and the other involves Regretsy official fuckery. Possibly in Club form. Perhaps even for a lyfetime. I say no more, but if you want to be prepared to fully understand the joke once it's on your very own screen, go check out regretsy.com, and specifically cf4l.regretsy.com. The password is right there in the address, yo.
And lastly, as I fade like a cheap bottled tan at the tender hour of 10:36 PM, I bid you a bon nuit, jour or après midi to you, you, and you, respectively. I leave you with a Video Of The Day. This one is absolute gibberish, designed specifically to mimic what English would sound like to foreign ears, but its greatest value- I'm sure you'll agree- lies in its magical ability to make you want to BOOGIE THE NIGHT LONG.
You're welcome. (And you'd better bloody love it since it took me no less than a year to get linked, what with Firefox trying to be the new Windows 95 these days. CRASHES CONSTANTLY.)