Moving Time...

I know that most of you base your entire lives around when I will and will not be posting, so I figured I ought to warn you that Boyfriend and I are in the process of relocating.  This means that I will not have the internet for a few days (I'm going cold turkey).   I'll be back to my regular posting schedule in less than a week (probably even sooner, but I don't want to give you false hope in the event that something goes awry.)  If you absolutely cannot live without reading something new on my blog (who knows...?), I have prepared a little secret surprise for you to enjoy during my absence...

...But you have to find it (canadiandoubles, don't you dare tell anyone about how to get there!  Let them find it by themselves...)

Or you could just read and post tons of comments on my older posts to surprise me when I get back.  You have no idea how thrilled I would be if that happened.

Either way, I have not forsaken you.  I am just going out into the world to have experiences that I can later write about (I mean, you can't move to a new city without finding at least something to write about.  That sounded foreboding.... I hope I didn't just jinx myself...)

My Tweenhood was a Haze of Baldness and Shame

When I was 13, I shaved my head.  Bald.

It was a quadruple-dog dare.  I didn't want to look like a coward.

It all seemed like a fantastic idea while it was happening.  I was the center of attention - especially in the eyes of the boy who had dared me to do it.

I really liked this boy.  I had liked him since the 5th grade.  He had always been cooler than me, which really wasn't very hard to accomplish.  I mean, I wore wolf T-shirts, had giant braces and thought that it was socially acceptable to own elastic-waisted jeans.  I don't know how I came to the conclusion that shaving my head would make things any better.  I really didn't think it through properly.  Like I said, I really liked this boy.  I thought maybe I'd look like Demi Moore in G.I. Jane.

I called my mom at work:

Me: "Hey mom, is it okay if I use the dog shaver?"

Mom:  "For what?"

Me: "To shave my head."

Mom:  "Um... (prolonged silence in which I am sure she felt torn between her duty to protect my self esteem and her duty to allow me to express myself)... It's your hair sweetie.  Do what you want."

Me:  "Thanks."

My mother passively taught me a very important lesson about thinking things through.

My friend didn't just use the dog clippers.  He braided my hair, cut off the braid, used the dog-clippers on me and then went and found my mom's razor in the shower and shaved my head until it sparkled.  Everybody laughed.  Allie is so crazy!  I laughed too.  Look at how silly I am!  I am out of control!  I am so extreme right now...

...My time in the spotlight lasted about 4 minutes.

That evening, I eventually got around to looking in the mirror.  I had never been very self-conscious - I didn't have the fashion sense to know what to be self-conscious about.  But I knew ugly when I saw it.  I spent about an hour transfixed in front of my hairless reflection.

I was confused.

I wondered why I didn't look like Demi Moore in G.I. Jane.  

Was it my jawline?

I calculated how long it would take my hair to grow back.  I started to weep. (You can laugh.  It's okay.)

The ensuing months were filled with the kind of life experiences that force a person to develop their "inside beauty" lest they become devoid of any value whatsoever.

For example, I was waiting in line for the next stall in a public restroom and a little girl started screaming "this is the girl's bathroom!" I soon realized she was screaming at me.  I looked her dead in the face and said "I'm a girl."  Neither of us walked away without significant psychological damage and gender confusion issues.

Despite having my gender-identity ruffled, my interest in boys began to intensify.  Looking back, I am so sad for myself.  The futility of it all was mind boggling.  My best efforts at attractiveness only succeeded at making me look vaguely like something you'd see in Cirque de Soleil.   Apparently, this wasn't what the boys were looking for in a girl.

My friends were getting into makeup.  Not wanting to miss out on the fun and hoping to disguise myself under a thick layer of feminine awesomeness, I joined in.

We were terribly misdirected in our attempts at looking beautiful, so I ended up strutting around town with whore-red lipstick (it was like a neon frame for my giant, gnashing braces!), bright blue eye shadow and a nice, shiny, bald head.  I think I may have been wearing my wolf shirt.

Sadly, my best attempts at looking feminine and smokin' were not convincing enough.

I had been selected to play the lead in the school musical that year.  However, the lead role was a woman and my appearance-altering decision made it difficult for me to effectively portray that.   My teacher gently requested that I give my part to a more "convincing" classmate.  Instead, I was to play a male role.  To make it worse, I had to sing.  Like a man.  All I remember is being up on a stage, fake beard clinging fake-beardedly to my face, belting out some annoying song in my best baritone and wondering how my life had gone so wrong so early.

My hair eventually began to grow back, as hair is wont to do.  First I looked like a skinhead or cancer patient, then like a Chia pet, then like a marine, then like Gary Busey and finally, kind of girl-like.  I got rid of my wolf shirt.  I started plucking my unibrow.

Gradually, I began to fit into society again.  I almost learned how to put on makeup.  I bought a dress.  I even got my first boyfriend.  I think he turned out to be gay, but whatever.  If I was going to look like a dude, at least he reassured me that I looked like an attractive dude.

The important point is, I made it.  I survived the catastrophic ugliness that once shrouded my future in uncertainty.  And I learned an important lesson about being mindful of the consequences of my actions.  
Kind of.

Okay, so here it is in all of its blurry, hairless, dog-presenting glory:

P.S.  I think my dog (who was usually a morbidly obese chunk of pure disobedience) won that ribbon only because the judges thought I was a cancer patient.  After the competition, my mom overheard them talking about the "poor girl with no hair... what do you think she has?  Do you think it's terminal?"

My mom interrupted them and said "you must be talking about my daughter.  She did it on purpose.  There's nothing wrong with her physically."

I like how she included the word "physically" to insinuate that yes, there may be something wrong with me mentally but I definitely didn't have cancer  :)

I Am Destroyer

Prelude:

I just wanted a cup of tea.  How could I have known that this simple desire would lead to such utter chaos and destruction?

I was staying with a friend's parents while traveling in Oregon.  They were kind enough to feed me dinner AND dessert.  They cheerfully complied with all of my food-allergy demands.  They let me sleep on their vintage leather sofa without a protective bed-sheet underneath my filthy, drooling head.  And I destroyed their home.

I knew that I had to leave very early the next morning.  I would need caffeine.  I should have just gone to a gas station, but I didn't.   That night, I asked my hosts if I could brew some tea before I left in the morning.  My friend's mother showed me how to work the immaculately crafted and expensive-looking marble stove.  There was a teapot sitting inconspicuously on the counter.  I assumed that it was the vessel in which I was to heat my water.   Seeing no further need for clarification, I bid my warm and friendly hosts goodnight.

Chaos:

4:00 AM:  My cell phone heralded that fateful day with a salsa-inspired ringtone.  I groggily shuffled into the kitchen, turned on the stove and placed the teapot upon the right rear burner.   I didn't turn on a light because I wanted to be as unobtrusive as possible.  I sat down at the kitchen table, waiting for the telltale whistle of my boiling water.

It was about 4:07 when I first noticed the smell.

My sleepy brain slowly began to realize that there was something wrong.  "Burning plastic is not a normal household smell..." it thought to itself.

I got up to investigate the source of this noxious odor, thinking that maybe the oven had just been cleaned and I accidentally turned it on instead of the stove.  Oven cleaner can sometimes smell like burning plastic.

When I got closer to the stove, my theory about the oven cleaner was thoroughly debunked based purely upon the raw strength of the smell.  This was no ordinary scent.  Something epic had occurred to produce this vile trespass upon my nasal passages.

I probably should have turned on a light, but I didn't want to alert my hosts to the presently unidentified disaster in their kitchen.  I figured that I would identify the disaster, act quickly to control the problem and clean up any evidence before I went merrily on my way with no one the wiser.

Except that's not how it happened.  Because I didn't turn on the light, I had to rely on my sense of smell to locate the source of the problem.  Unsurprisingly, it turned out to be the teapot.

"Oh," I thought, "it must be a new teapot.   Maybe they didn't take off the price sticker and now it is burning."

If only that were the case.

I went to grab the teapot off the stove.   When I lifted it up, a plume of chemical vapors erupted into the air.  At this point, I was thoroughly confused.   What the hell?  Why was this happening?  I was starting to panic.

I turned off the stove and poured water on the chemical-spewing teapot because I figured that the problem was most likely burning-related and water fixes burning.  I thought I had the problem solved.

When the cloud of toxic fumes responded by growing in magnitude, I began to grasp the severity of the situation.

The adrenaline coursing through my veins finally succeeded in waking up my brain.  I opened the microwave to cast some unobtrusive light upon my predicament.

Destruction:

Holy sh*t.  Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.

The teapot had been reduced to a smoldering lump which was presently oozing outward in all directions, destroying everything in its path.

I picked up what used to be the teapot by its cord and threw it in the sink.  If you were paying attention, you may have noticed that I said "cord."  The teapot was not meant for stovetop use.  It was a plastic plug-in teapot.  "Was" being the operant word.

I don't know what this f**king demon of a teapot was made out of, but whatever it was, it had a remarkable capacity to keep burning despite my best efforts to put it out.  Also, adding water seemed to simply exacerbate the gaseous cloud that was beginning to form in the kitchen.

I took the object formerly recognized as a teapot outside.

By the day's first light, I could finally see the consequences of my actions clearly.   The charred relic of a teapot dangled limply by its mangled cord, winding in and winding out on itself as if it was shaking its head disapprovingly, saying "look what you did!"

I set it in the grass and hurried back inside.   I opened all the doors and windows.  I turned on the fan.   I quietly closed the door to my hosts' bedroom.

I could then turn on the light (why hadn't I done this earlier??)

I died a little inside when I saw that the previously immaculate stove was covered in a tarry, bubbling layer of super-plastic.  I stood, eyes transfixed on the spectacle before me, contemplating my escape options.

Action:

I could leave right then and let them try to figure out what happened.

I could tie myself to a chair and pretend that marauding anti-teapot extremists had ravaged the now-defunct piece of kitchenware as I watched helplessly.

I began frantically searching the kitchen for an answer.  I found a spatula.  I used the spatula to scrape off the worst of the mess.  It didn't really work.   I just destroyed the spatula too.

Applying my knowledge of chemistry, I began rifling through the bathroom drawers, looking for something that would dissolve plastic.  nail-polish remover!  Acetone will dissolve plastic, or at least loosen its grip on other substances.

I took the nail-polish remover into the kitchen and applied abundant amounts of it to the charred remains of the teapot.  (I don't even want to know what kind of damage my lungs were suffering form all these noxious vapors.)

It actually worked fairly well.  The stovetop was devoid of any stuck-on plastic.  If I tilted my head just right, I couldn't even tell that it was irreparably damaged.

I cleaned up the rest of my mess, and packed my things.

Atonement:

It was a Saturday, so I felt even less keen about waking up the proprietors of the household I had so nearly destroyed.

I opted to leave a note:

"Dear J_____ and J_______:


First of all, thank you for opening your home to me.  I truly appreciate your hospitality.  I am sure you are wondering what that smell is.  I regret to inform you that your teapot has perished at my hand.   I didn't realize it was an electric teapot and I put it on the stove.  I googled "burning plastic fumes" and, luckily, you guys should be okay as long as you don't get a really bad headache or start throwing up.   If you do, go to the doctor immediately.  I tried to clean up the stove.  I had to use nail-polish remover to get the plastic off, so that is why your entire house smells like acetone.  Don't worry, it'll burn right off when you turn on the stove again.  The remains of the teapot are out back, airing out.  I checked to make sure it hadn't set  your yard on fire before I left.  Enclosed, please find $20.  I know that the damage I have caused to your stove is far more costly than this meager amount could ever hope to atone for, but it is all I have.  It should at least be enough to buy another teapot.  I have some stuff that I could sell, so I should be able to pay you back in full at some point.  Once again, thank you for your hospitality and I am sorry that I destroyed your teapot and stove.  Please forgive me.  


Sincerely,


Allie"

Epilogue:

My friend's parents are wonderful people with a good sense of humor.  They said that they understood, and his mother actually blamed herself for not telling me where the real teapot was.  She said she was impressed with my ingenuity in regard to cleaning up after myself.  Sadly, all the ingenuity in the world cannot make up for a total lack of foresight.

2 NEW COMICS!

Here they are, Space Jet #7 and I Come In Peace! On sale TODAY at the Comic con at Heritage Hall in Vancouver on Main & 15th! Bring your walking shoes! It's Car-Free Day, and the streets will be closed off for your benefit!

zooom!

long time no post here's another one from the desktop

An Open Letter to my Boyfriend, the Serial Killer

Boyfriend;

I have come to the conclusion that you are probably a serial killer.   Or an alien.  Over the 5 years I've been collecting data on you, you have exhibited some strange and alarming behavior, not the least of which is always remembering to put the toilet seat down (except for one time, but we'll get to that later).   I think I now have enough data to prove, without a doubt, that you are up to no good.

Exhibit #1:

You told me I was beautiful this morning.   One might think that kind of behavior is totally normal until you consider that I looked like this this morning:

This is not the first time you've acted like this.  At first, I thought you were just mocking me, but you say these things with such alarming sincerity - with your soulful brown eyes penetrating deep into my soul.  I am thus forced to file your actions under "serial killer behavior" instead.

You also called me beautiful one time when I was crying - there were fluids oozing out of every one of my facial features, I was drooling on you and I was making water buffalo sounds.  Only a serial killer with a secret, murderous plot to protect could have reason to call someone beautiful at a time like that.

 You did it again when I was sick with the flu (FACT: no one is beautiful when they have the flu.  The flu and beauty are so mutually exclusive that you couldn't fit a Venn diagram of them on the same page.)

You said it one time when you weren't even looking at me.   When I asked you "why do you say that?"  You said "because I was thinking about you."  Were you also thinking about how you were going to get rid of my body??  I immediately locked myself in the bathroom to protect myself and also so as not to ruin the image you had of me in your head.   A boyfriend should not make his girlfriend feel like she has to go hide in the bathroom.  It is abusive and wrong.

Exhibit #2:

As you may have surmised from a previous blog entry, I am experiencing "my time of the month."  Normal boyfriends usually leave well-enough alone during this time, but not you.   Yesterday, you bought me Haagen Dazs milk chocolate ice cream bars for no reason.   I interpreted this to mean either a) you are fattening me up so that you can kill me and eat me or b) you are covering something up.   You are probably covering up the fact that you are trying to fatten me up to kill me and eat me.   Was it the fresh blood that awakened your appetite for human flesh?  

Exhibit #3:

Do you even fart???

Exhibit #4:

You say I am perfect.  LIAR!!

I mean, I once went 4 days without showering because I was too lazy to unpack my shampoo.  Is that something that perfect people do?  How about the time I drank too much and threw up on your friend's shoes?  Or the time I....

...LOOKED LIKE THIS:

  Boyfriend, I'm onto your little game.  You could have at least tried to be a little less transparent about it all.   Did you think that I wouldn't notice when you washed all the dishes just because they were dirty?   Did you think that your little "I love your body" charade was going to fool me?  Boyfriend, I don't know if you've noticed, but I have the breasts of a 9-year-old.  Are you a pedophile??  Maybe you were telling the truth but meant "I love your body" in the "your body looks like it would taste like chicken" kind of way.   Either way, I know what you are trying to do.  

If this behavior continues, I may be forced to seek the help of the law in defending myself against you.   

Consider yourself warned.

Thing of the Day: Uterus. Rating: NOT AWESOME

Disclaimer for male readers: this post may make you feel weird inside, almost like being molested.  I apologize in advance for alienating you.  Please don't go away.  

Uterus, f**k you.  Where do you get off?  (And why is it so hard to insult you without making some sort of sexual innuendo?) 

Every month, you waste my hard-earned bodily resources to build a fitting environment for the godda**ed baby you are so sure we are going to be having.  


Every month, you end up having to clean house and start over because, guess what?  WE ARE NOT HAVING A F**KING BABY!!!  POSSIBLY NOT EVER IF YOU KEEP UP YOUR STUPID SHENNANEGANS!!!  

You seem to have figured out that I will not allow you to make a baby and are therefore continuing your obnoxious behavior just to spite me.  


Let me be very clear, uterus:  If you keep on making my life a living hell every month when you don’t get your way, I will forgo motherhood just to piss you off.  I will see to it that you do not come into contact with so much as a single drop of semen for the rest of your natural life.  Do you understand? 

And being overly dramatic will not solve anything. 


Am I supposed to feel sorry for you when you are lying around bleeding like that?  That’s my f**king blood you are wasting!  Have you ever stopped to consider how your childish tantrums affect my life?


You see, uterus, you are attached to my other organs and when you thrash around in anger, they become quite upset.  Your little hissy fits prevent me from doing anything that cannot be accomplished while in the fetal position. 

Also, you have somehow convinced my cells that they need to stock up on water for the apocalypse.  This is not funny.   I do not enjoy having to cart around the extra 7 pounds of water that my freaked out cells are hoarding away because of your fear-mongering.  It makes me feel gross and unattractive.

I know that you want a baby.  I know that it is upsetting for you to go month after month un-impregnated.  But you need to learn how to deal with your feelings in a more constructive manner. 

You see, when you carry on like this, it makes me think that there is something wrong with you – that maybe you wouldn’t be able to construct a fetus properly.  

You need to earn my trust before I can trust you with the responsibilities of building a baby.  

A major step in the right direction would be for you to grasp the concept of punctuality.

You are supposed to work on a 28-day schedule.

 I don't want to spend every month of the rest of my fertile life vacillating between desperately searching for emergency tampons and wondering whether you have indeed achieved your goal of harboring a baby because you are 14 days late for your shift.  

Secondly, no more temper tantrums.  You are supposed to be a nurturing and gentle organ so stop acting like some strung out schizophrenic with a God-complex.

Thirdly, be nice to the other organs.  They are more important than you.  In fact, I could live without you completely if I so desired, so stop acting so godd*mn important.  You are a floppy pouch of extremely stretchy skin - big f**king deal.  Get over yourself.


  

Sincerely,

Allie