So, Might Never Get Married

So, watched 'Rosemary's Baby' last night with the roommate and have to say, I might never marry someone with ambition, or live in a beautiful apartment building with nosy "nice" old people. The movie itself is a testament to how brilliant Roman Polanski is as a director; that feeling of paranoia, and not being sure what isn't her hormones running wild and making her crazy and what is the awful stuff that's actually happening. It's insidious, that sense that everyone is trying to make you calm and complacent because being upset isn't healthy for the baby. Don't read pregnancy books because all they do is make you stress out over what could happen; don't take bottled vitamins because they aren't as healthful as fresh herbs; don't visit with your old friends because they'll put crazy ideas into your head. Crazy ideas being, "Go see another doctor if yours isn't doing anything for your pain, or for the fact that you're losing weight instead of gaining. Just get a second opinion." Yeah, that's some crap advice. At first, it's just that your neighbors are a little prying, but nothing too annoying. But all of the sudden they're a constant point of interest in your life, and you in theirs, and it's starting to wear. They're a little too interested in the fertility of your families, and how soon you plan on having children. And after a couple of weeks of being neglected, hubby comes home and declares that to make it up to you, you can have a baby. Now see, if it were me, I'd have been like, "You really think I'm gonna let you stick your penis in me after ignoring me and making me feel like crap?" But this one actually wants a baby, go figure. So, you pass out right after dinner and think that you're gonna miss baby-making time tonight, but "hubby" violates you while you sleep and you get horrible "nightmares" in the process. I'm sorry, I don't care how eager I am to have a baby, no unconscious sex; it is not okay, and I'd have kicked hubby's ass out of bed. Suddenly he's so damn eager for this baby, and is quick to report to the neighbors when you turn out pregnant. The lack of privacy in the marriage is getting weird, but the neighbors mean well, even if they are a little bothersome. They demand, nicely, that you see the obstetrician of their choice, a friend with whom they can get you a discount, even though you were already seeing a perfectly good OB/GYN recommended by your friend. The new doctor is nice enough, but is adamant that you don't listen to other women's stories about childbirth, or read the baby books, or take any of those vitamins that the other doctor told you to. What you're going to do is drink what the nice neighbor-lady gives you, fresh herbs that are good for you and the baby, and only listen to him about the baby. Don't worry that there's an gnawing pain in your stomach that he keeps saying will go away and it doesn't; don't worry that you never have the energy for anything anymore; don't worry that you're whiter than chalk and losing weight; the doctor says this is perfectly normal, and not to take anyone else's advice on the matter.

There's nothing wrong with your hubby flipping out when you suggest getting a second opinion, calling your concerned friends (from who he's alienated you) bitches, and insists that you talk to the doctor about a second opinion before you actually get one. There's nothing wrong with the fact that when you stop drinking the herbal drink and make your own you feel better. There's nothing wrong about a friend who was trying to help you with something suddenly slipping into a coma and dying. And if you do find something wrong about all of this and tell anyone, everyone thinks you're just being made paranoid and crazy from pregnancy hormones.

And isn't that a huge concern for all women? That when you feel there's something wrong with your baby, or you become worried that maybe the people around you don't have your best interests at heart, those concerns will just be brushed aside and written off as a case of the baby-crazies? After all, women are emotional and fragile and incapable of being rational during pregnancy, right?

God, I love this movie. Watching Mia Farrow become more and more confused about what's actually happening around her, and not having anyone she feels that she can trust, is almost Gaslight-esque. The rising sense of "they're all out to get you, and there's nothing you can do," is pitch-perfect Polanski.

So, what do we learn here? Trust your own instincts when it comes to what's happening to your body, and don't be afraid of people thinking that you're crazy. And also, don't be afraid to knife the neighbors or hubby, should it come down to it. In fact, just don't talk to your neighbors if it can be avoided. I sure as hell won't tell my neighbors I'm pregnant; I'm just gonna tell everybody that I'm getting fat, and then come home one day with a baby and act all surprised. "Why, I never even suspected! It has nothing to do with the fact that, for all I know, you people are Devil worshipers who want to use my baby for your own nefarious purposes! No, I don't need you to babysit."

Oh, Just One More Thing

This is just part of the insanity I was talking about. These are all of the house plans that I have gone through so far, and God help me, there are more to come, I can feel it!

And, yes I color coded. The bluish color is for five bedroom houses, the purple for six bedrooms, green for seven, and pink-red for eight. Columns are "Yes," "No," and "Maybe". Yes, I worry even myself.

  • Current Music
    Breakfast At Tiffany's (The Movie, not that song)
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I Am Actually an Insane Person, Just In Case You've Missed It

SO, every so often I get one of these wild hairs while I'm attempting to work out the kinks in one of my storylines. One of my biggest problems is my need to visualize the details, so I'll use The Sims to make the people, right down to the last detail, and I tear apart Pottery Barn and Neiman Marcus trying to get the rooms and wardrobes as perfect as I can (I drive myself around the bend doing these things). So, my last little flair-up was over Layla's wardrobe, and I made her a lover of all things vintage, from dresses to shoes to bathing suits and underwear to luggage. I spent weeks tracking down pictures of these various items, using Excel to organize them all, sorting through them, putting pictures of every item I found on Photobucket, and generally being a pain in my own ass. And, for a little while, my little problem granted me a respite from the frantic need to detail. And then, last week, it bit me on the ass, hard.

Now it's houses. I thought I was done with houses years ago. I used to fill graphpaper books with designs, from full-on property design, to garden layouts, to glass-fronted cabinets. I used to keep catalog clippings for reference purposes, as in: would the shower be better with panes of slightly frosted/textured glass, or wavy glass blocks? Would a Boccara rug go better in the bedroom, or the simpler flokati type? Yes, I actually gave a damn. And now it's back. I've spent the past week-and-a-half pouring over house plans, drawing up my own, comparing the two. Do I want one of the bigger designs, with 4 or more bedrooms, or one of the little efficiency cabins with one large room and a cubby-hole for a sleeping space? Do I want the bigger rooms that sacrifice closet space, or the smaller rooms whose walk-ins are almost the same size? The sprawling one-floorer that looks almost like a ranch-style house on steroids, or the three story masterpiece with full basement? I need to stop! I'm already picking out beds, and using the Behr's and Sherman-Williams' paint-a-room program things! I'm picking out window dressings, desks and lamps, tables and chairs, sofas and media centers and rugs, OH MY! (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)

I need to stop, I need to stop now. No good comes from these little episodes, except for a brand new folder in my Photobucket, and a brand new spreadsheet on Excel! That, and a wonderful new appreciation for the finer things in life, which only serves to further depress me. I'm going to go watch Breakfast At Tiffany's now, and lose myself in the wonder that is Audrey Hepburn. Ta.
  • Current Music
    Moon River (on rotation)
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Love and Other Disasters: B+

So, have just finished watching "Love and Other Disasters," charming little film starring Britney Murphy and Matthew Rhys, as well as the always wonderful Catherine Tate. Wasn't really expecting much, as I had only just seen the trailer by chance, and because it was so adorable I'd just had to check it out. Now, I'm not saying there aren't better movies out there, but not every movie has to be some arthouse, Oscar-worthy extravaganza. Sometimes what you need is a silly bit of romantic fluff mixed with a funny little misunderstanding. And, as always, Catherine Tate steals whatever scene she's in, and is so much fun to watch, even in the most awkward moments. I give it a B+ for being exactly what it is and making no apologies for itself.
  • Current Music
    Moon River

RESULTS NOT TYPICAL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

As an overweight woman, it seems like every other commercial is something about weight loss.  Nutrisystem, Jenny Craig, Weight Watchers, Slimfast, Slimquick, Slimshots, and that damn hardcore weight loss pill that says it's FDA approved but actually isn't.  And what does it say at the bottom of the screen whenever somebody talk about how much weight they've lost?  RESULTS NOT TYPICAL!  "I lost 16 lbs. in just two months!"  RESULTS NOT TYPICAL!  "I lost 41 lbs. in 6 months!"  RESULTS NOT TYPICAL!  "I lost 8 lbs. in just two weeks!"  What the hell is typical?  If these aren't typical results, I would like to know what is!  If these results aren't typical, then what fucking good is the product?!?!?!?!?!?!?!  AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  It's just all such crap.  I'd rather watch the uncomfortable penis enlargement commercials.

Now, back to RUDY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


New Year's Resolutions

<div style="padding:16px;border:4px double #fff;text-align:center;background:#ada;color:#000">In 2009, <img src="" height=17 width=17><b><a href="">starrydynamo007</a></b> resolves to...<div style="background:#fff; margin:8px 8px 16px 8px; padding:8px; color:#000; border:#ada double 4px">Lose ten books by March.<br>Cut down to ten long drives a day.<br>Cut down on my singing.<br>Backup my <img src="" height=17 width=17><b class="lj">stoney321</b> regularly.<br>Spend more time with my movies.<br>Take <img src="" height=17 width=17><b class="lj">red_rahl</b> dancing.<br></div><form action="" method="get">Get your own <a href="">New Year's Resolutions</a>: <input type="text" name="user" style="background: #fff url('') no-repeat scroll 0px 1px; padding-left: 18px; color: rgb(0, 0, 204); font-weight: bold;"><input type="submit" value="Generate"></form></div>

For some reason, these things never come out right for me.  Meh.  And copying and pasting like I would normally do doesn't come out quite right.  Meh.
  • Current Mood
    sick sick

Not My BOOTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

      So yesterday, it rains like crazy once i get on campus.  It's not like I expect my boots to remain perfectly dry, I don't mind a little damp, but for some reason my right shoe has created a sea inside itself as I'm walking.  Get to the computer lab, take off the shoe, and it is soaking on the inside, my sock is wet, and I am not happy.  Luckily, the computer lab stays warm, so my toes didn't freeze.  After four and a half hours, it's still sopping so I fold up some of my yellow notepaper, covering pretty much everything.  It feels a little weird, but it's totally working, my foot is remaining dry... until I'm about halfway up the hill, and it's even wetter than before.  So I get to class, take a ten minute final, and walk back downhill to the computer lab.  I take off the shoe again, and it's worse than before; not only is it wetter, but I now have pieces of wet yellow paper ground into my sock.  So I check all over that damn shoe and finally find it- a hole. 

        A HOLE IN THE SOLE OF MY FAVORITE BOOTS!!!!!!  ARGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  So, apparently that weird noise I kept hearing was my shoe drinking in all of the rain water. Hip hoorah.  Balls, I say.  It's barely noticeable unless you flex the bottom, and even then it's so small to cause so much trouble.  Pooh.

(no subject)

        So, I'm sitting here, reading this music blog about really awful band names, and it got me to thinking:  If I were, for some unforeseeable reason to form a band, what would be a good name?  So here is what I have so far.

The Band You're About to Hear (Yes, I stole it from That Thing You Do)
Invisible Pink Unicorn (My roommate's idea)
Left Foot Green
The Glass Menage a Trois
The Worm Turns
Plasticine Love
Please Give In
Heart Go Boom
General Tso's at 2 a.m.
So... Come Here Often?
Failed Saints (All band members would have to have the names of saints to make it work)
Candyland Kings
You Sunk My Battleship
Catman Did
Mayhem and More
A Near Occasion of Sin
Restraining Orders Make Intimacy Hard
A Bothersome Charm
Get Rich Quick
Tomorrow's Headline Reads...

Feel free to use these little gems, and if you become famous I will expect a small percentage of the profits.

Lah Lah Lah Lah Lah, Story of My Life

       So, one of the reasons that I've started to really try to commit to writing on this thing is to vent, to explain certain... aspects of my life.  My adviser recommended that I keep a journal, but I have a spending issue and this is free, and I can't lose this, unless there's some freak computer glitch which would be just my luck.  So here we are.

        My roommate loves my stories.  She never actually asks to hear them, and really they aren't that funny, but I'm an incredibly dramatic person full of hand gestures and facial expressions and interesting inflections and she's sort of a captive audience because she never really leaves the room except for class.  There's rarely an introduction for the tale, no clear impetus for my sudden verbal spewage.  It really could be anything that starts me off, and honestly, sometimes it wouldn't make a difference if she were there are not, because sometimes it's just a rant, like how my ridiculous AC adapter for my laptop had started to short out so I bought a new one at the beginning of October and the new one also has a short in it, which just drives me absolutely BATSHIT!!!!  $78, man, and you better believe I'm cashing in on the warranty, which isn't technically cashing in as I will not be receiving money but a new adapter, but adapting in doesn't sound quite right, it sounds more like some anthropological phrasing about assimilation but they can't think of the word assimilating as they're talking.  Anywho...

        So, I'm not an only child.  Yeah, I know, not inline with the previous passage, but what the hell.  I have an older sister, about 4 years older, who I love.  I would give her a kidney if she needed it, and will probably be providing part of my liver in a few years.  Our parents divorced when I was around... three?  I think.  Second divorce for both of them.  Not sure, too young to remember, don't remember them being married to each other at all.  I remember Daddy's girlfriends and Momma's boyfriends, but I don't remember them as a couple.  My sister and I are both adopted, something Bethany tortured me about as a child.  She used to tell me that we were only related by a piece of paper, and that if she tore up that paper, I would be sent away.  Bethany would become the source of almost all of my childhood trauma, through both physical and psychological abuse.

      According to my mom, Bethany was excited about my arrival for all of three, two, one... and then she realized that I would be taking up all of the time and attention and she couldn't actually play with me for another few years, and proceeded to try and drop me off of every available sofa.  When I was finally old enough to "play with," playtime consisted of me being pushed out of the tree house, off of Mom's bed, off of my tricycle; into walls, doors, trees, men's restrooms, other people, pools; sitting on me, sitting on my head, putting a pillow over my face and holding it down; throwing Barbies at me, throwing Barbie's dream car at me, throwing the cat at me.  I think the general theme is clear at this point.  And if she wasn't trying to maim and torture me, she was training me for sibling servitude.  A single look had me running for the kitchen to get her a drink or a cookie, to change the channel by hand even when she had the remote, and so on.

        There was the rare show of sibling solidarity, usually in the face of a particularly unbearable babysitter or our dad (more on him some other time), but usually she just fed me to the wolves.

        No one could beat Bethany in the creativity department when it came to abuse.  Oh, she was amazing.  The things she would come up with, and execute them with such precision.  I carry the scars, both physically and mentally.

        My particular favorite, because I didn't black out and can actually remember it, was the Bicycle Incident.  Now, there were several bike related occurrences, but this one beat them all.  I was four, four years old and precious as I could be with my long blond hair and my big blue eyes, and I had the most adorable little red tricycle.  I pedaled that thing all over the place.  On this particular occasion, Bethany was also in the driveway with her bike, and had been leaving me alone for the most part.  Mom was inside, because this was when you could actually let your kids run wild through the neighborhood without sticking tracking devices on them.  Bethany approached me, as innocently as she could, with a most wonderful idea: she would tie my tricycle to her bike and pull me around so that I wouldn't have to pedal.  Because I was a stupidly trusting child I readily agreed to her proposal, and she proceeded to harness my handlebars to the back of her banana-seat bike by means of a jump rope.  Without warning, Bethany took off, and my trike and I were pulled right along... until the law of odds decided to kick in and send me face-first to the ground.  Did I mention that the driveway was aggregate?  You know, the kind that  has all the rocks in the concrete?  Oh, yeah!  Busted my tooth right through my top lip.  Bethany found my pain to excruciatingly amusing-- until Mom heard me screaming and came running outside.  When Mom realized what it was Bethany had done, she beat the ever-loving shit out of her, but the damage was done, and it was done to my face, my poor innocent cherub-like face.  Incidentally, two days later, we had Picture Day at preschool.  Yep, there is photo documentation of my injury, the throbbingly bright-red split lip on my sweet little face, and in my pretty pink dress.

        And on the next installment, we will further examine my sister's keen sense of gravity vs. small child.

        Until next time.

Let It Stop Until Tonight

        So, it's snowing.  It didn't snow the whole way up to Bowling Green, only a little wet here and there.  Wasn't snowing when I got in-town, wasn't snowing when I parked, wasn't snowing when I was rummaging through my car for my headphones or doing my make-up.  And then I finish the make-up, I get my stuff together, I turn off the car, and IT STARTS TO SNOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I ACTUALLY TOOK THE TIME TO DO MY MAKE-UP THIS MORNING, SOMETHING I DON'T NORMALLY PUT ALL THE EFFORT INTO THAT I DID TODAY, AND IT STARTS TO FUCKING SNOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

        Now, don't get me wrong, I freaking love snow.  LOVE it!  I love how it looks, I love how it feels, in high school I loved canceled classes which doesn't happen in college because the majority of students live on campus but this is Kentucky so hopefully teachers can't drive in.  I DON'T like driving in it, and since it's snowing all the way down I-65 and I have a dental appointment at 3 o'clock to get fitted for those teeth straightener things, I have to drive in it.  Can't reschedule the appointment because my dentist is constantly booked, and I was super lucky to get in on such short notice the way I did.  It's not as if I expect the snow to stick or anything, I know it won't, but it is damned inconvenient to drive through. 

        On top of it waiting to snow until I was settled in Las Verdes, I spent the night at a friend's house, which means I had none of my cold weather/snow wear that I normally would except for my favorite boots, and that's only because they've been doubling as rain wear, which it has been doing a lot of the last couple of weeks.  So, I'm walking through the snow, my hoodie and boots only doing so much while my hands are burning with cold, and my legs are slowly losing feeling, and some asshole hits a puddle and splashes my pants with nasty street rain/snow water.  And I don't have time to run across campus to my dorm and change clothes, not that there's anything worth wearing in there right now as all of my good clothes have migrated back to Brentwood in preparation of the winter holiday.  So, poo.  The closest thing I have on campus to warm clothing at this point are the sweatpants in the car, which I'm not walking back to until after class is over.  Granted there is time, class isn't until 11:30, but I've finally started to warm up, and my left little toe has finally unthawed, which is nice, and I really don't want to lose this computer to somebody else.  Thank God this wasn't the day that I wore skirt and tights, at least that day it was only cold and windy.