Confessions of a Geek (There’s Nothing ‘Former’ About It)

 

Roughly from the ages of 7-10, I collected X-Men trading cards. Before that, I was the only girl in the whole of school was a Batman lunchbox. I was more inclined to beg to buy a comic book (and a heap of purple Swedish fish, back when they still existed – along with Nutty Buddies, which are better than Drumsticks, damn it) than I was to ask for a pony. (Never mind that I already HAD a pony.)

That was the very beginnings of my Geekdom. I was also heavily into musicals, running around at recess playing Phantom of the Opera on a boombox. (No, it was not operated by a dinosaur. And no, it was not a Victrola. Damn you, if you do not know what a Victrola is. A plague on both your houses.) I preferred books to most things. I knew the librarian by name, and she knew me by first name. (Imagine her surprise when I requested A Tale of Two Cities. Side-note: bad idea in middle school.)

But the trading cards were a huge deal at the school was attending. I was a displaced Yankee, although I did not know that at the time (Yankee? I was most certainly not a baseball player.). My core group of friends and I sat around, discussing the merits of all the characters. We all watched the cartoon. If it had existed at the time, I’m sure there would’ve been fanfiction.

At some point, I ventured to create my own X-Men character. No, I’m not kidding. Yes, I’m laughing as I write that. It was ridiculously earnest and wholeheartedly silly. Her name was Ultra. I’m fairly certainly that I just “borrowed” all of the cool powers from a handful of X-Men (Jean Grey’s telekinesis, Rogue’s flight, Jubilee’s…fireworks? What the hell was her power?). I gave her a backstory and everything.

One of my friends thought this was the COOLEST thing EVER. She encouraged me (read: demanded) that I tell our other friends about my character. Sheepishly, I did. Miraculously, no one threw tomatoes at my head. No one called me a Super Dork (or, you know, something vaguely insulting). In fact, they thought I was awesome. Large cheer!

Shortly after, I moved back to my home state. It was a glorious decision, because as much as I loved Sweet Tea, I missed my home. I returned to the school system I had started in. It was more difficult to readjust than I thought it would be. All my old friends had moved on, grown up as much as one can at that age, and I was still unapologetically…me.

I collected X-Men cards! I had created my own X-Man! Turns out, that kind of coolness is contextual. Like Farmer Ted, I was King of the Dipshits. But that only works as long as there were Geeks around. (I’m tired. I realize that comparing myself to Farmer Ted from Sixteen Candles is both silly and unwise. Shush.)

I stopped collecting the cards. It wasn’t as much fun without people to share the geekiness with, without an echo back in the darkness. I found the cards, today, in a tin that I have moved about 7,000 times time then. (Hyperbolic? ME?! Pshaw.) I saved the cards all these years. YEARS. They weren’t lost in any of the moves. I did not sell them on ebay. I did not simply throw them out. I kept them. Why?

At heart, I’m still the girl who loves X-Men. (Thank you, Hugh Jackman, for making them cool again.) I’m still the girl who quotes from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and The Princess Bride whenever I can manage it. I reference everything from Stars Wars to Dorothy Parker – and nothing makes me happier than having someone enjoy the joke or reference.

This is one reason I adore Twitter and the Internet. Because if I shout: No one more rhyming – this time I mean it! I KNOW someone is going to respond: Anybody want a peanut?

This benefits me as a person – and a writer. As someone who is constantly looking for, finding, weighing, and sometimes losing words…it’s really nice to not be the only geek in the crowd. To say “Damn it, Janet!” and know that it’s not going to get lost in the fray. To know that if I’ve forgotten to eat, because I got caught up writing, someone is going to get it.

The more I talk with authors, the more I love you all. It’s like finding a really eclectic village, where everyone’s quirky and looking for a good recipe. (I’ve noticed a correlation between writers and food. Alcohol, too, but…DUH.) What did we do before Twitter? (What? Myspace? *creaking hinges* Riiigt. I remember that place.)

My weekend has been comprised of a flurry of writing (so many words. Brain sufficiently smashed on the proverbial thought-rocks), cooking, sunbathing, housework, and cleaning. The last bit was how I found the X-Men cards. I’m still that kid who likes to collect odd things (old books). I’m still that girl singing Phantom of the Opera songs – and Into the Woods, Scarlet Pimpernel, and Les Miserables. The latter, I’m afraid, I will never pronounce correctly. Le Miz is so much easier to manage. Now, instead of collecting cards, I watch The Big Bang Theory. I harbor annoyance that Firefly was canceled. (Yes, still.) And even though I know it will not end well, I STILL try and master any Rubik cube that I find. Stupid, color-code block of Satan! *shakes fist*

Yes, I’m a geek. I’m okay with that. How about you?

This Place Has a Memory

 

This morning, everything is serene. Outside, the birds chirp, flit, and flutter.

There’s a crow on the fence. A robin on the ground. A mocking bird’s perched in a nearby tree.

It looks like a Disney movie. Half an hour earlier, you would’ve found deer on the lawn. And probably a very anxious bunny. I suspect it has some kind of social anxiety disorder.

This place, where I’m sitting right now, it has a history. Years and years of memories. Beginnings. Ends. Words unsaid. Words never said. Love. Hate. Anger. Friendship. Heartbreak. Joy.

And food. Lots and lots of food. (Coffee, too, of course. This is ME we’re talking about.)

I’ve been thinking about all the people this place has seen. It’s a horse farm. There have been a lot of folks – some good, some bad. Some completely frightening and incompetent. Some have even earned highly original nicknames like Icky Mark, Brat Number One, and Blondie. (Don’t ask. I beg you.)

If you look back through all my family photos, the majority of them are from this house. Some of them feature me with (very) unfortunate hair, clothing, and an explicable passion for grinning at the camera like some sort of mental patient.

This place has always been home. The center aisle of the barn is concrete (not cement, guys – that’s an ingredient in concrete. Yeah, I’m a dork), and it holds the shoes of a very awesome pony I once owned. The pool out back? My family and I put it in ourselves. The house? We built it. I’m not kidding. (I was very little. I mostly made sand castles in the foundation sand. BUT STILL.)

This house has been through a lot. (A bad tenant during an unfortunate stint in Florida – and, years later, a Flood. No, really. It flooded. No unicorns were harmed though, so it’s all good.) The bathroom upstairs? That’s where my mom did my hair for my first homecoming dance. I ended up on a blind date with a really awesome guy (who, if I can admit it now, I didn’t fully appreciate) – because my “friend” ditched me the afternoon of the dance. (Bitch.)

The barn out back? I used to hide in the hayloft and read for hours, never mind that I’m completely allergic to the hay. Or that I don’t particularly enjoy heights. That was my safe place. My home turf. And in the riding ring? I rode great horses, bad horses, my favorite horse, and one named Camelot. I also did trick riding (why, YES, I can ride a pony backward), sang until my voice gave out (mostly Sarah McLachlan), and supervised some strange characters.

There was a woman who vacuumed her horse as a grooming tactic. There was a girl who often tried to steal things, while in the very next breath professed, “I don’t steal.” Really? That’s my HELMET in your hand. Hand in the cookie jar, much?

There were friends and people I loved. Mistakes and good deeds swirling together in a mess of opportunity. Can a place hold memories? I like to think so. I like to think that history grows in between the floorboards, slips into the ground, and comes to rest in the silence between moments.

I like to think that this place remembers everything that I remember – good, bad, hard, easy, stupid, smart, beautiful, ridiculous, and whatever else. People talk about having a connection to a place. I don’t think I ever really realized what that means, what it feels like.

This morning, for whatever reason, I do. I get it. I’m glad to spend time here. I’m glad to make more memories. Summer’s coming, and I’ll be hard pressed to stay inside at all.

It’s the season of ice pops, swimming, stupid mistakes, and dreams. The beach (called the shore, people). The fresh produce at the farm stand that also makes the BEST apple cider donuts you’ve ever had. Getting homemade ice cream at the shop attached to the hardware store (I’m not kidding. And it is the most wonderful ice cream around). Flip-flops and bikinis, fireflies, and riding at dusk.

This place has a memory. And trust me when I say, it’s wonderful.

My Grandmother’s Gift (Edited to include the funniest thing EVER)

 

Since I’ve been inundating you with poetry (it’s April, people!), I think I owe you a story.

Here is it.

My grandmother could cook anything. Potato pancakes, rainbow cookies, pizza gain – you name it. She made it. She was Italian through and through.

This past weekend, I acquired two things from the house that belonged to my grandparents: a beautiful mahogany nightstand and my grandmother’s recipe box.

I can’t even tell you how excited I am. For one thing, there are so many recipes for things that I love. Also, things that I can’t pronounce. Some of it is in Italian. (I should point out that while I know some Italian words, I don’t write in Italian. For years, I didn’t know that basilico was basil. My grandmother would send me out into her garden, and I didn’t even know what I was picking.)

There are many things that I’d been missing that my grandmother used to make. I don’t know how to spell them. I only know the Italian names, so I’m going to root through the box and hope I get lucky.

Do you feel lucky, punk? Well, do ya?

I hope so. I’m looking for something that I think is called pizza gran. I should tell you that it’s not an easy recipe, and I’m slightly terrified that I will screw it up. But things like this – cooking, baking – the remind me of my grandma. Then I am reminded of my grandfather, who used to constantly my aunt, “Can you cook [whatever] like your mother did?”

She might not have been able to imitate my grandmother, but I can. I like to think that it’s a way to remember my grandmother. It’s something that lasts.

When I make the pizza gran, I’ll post a picture, and I’ll let you know if I botch things up.

Do you have any family recipes you adore? What’s something from your childhood that you miss?

ETA: We (Okay, I) interrupt this blog to bring you something funny. Tucked between the pages, is this gem (I dare you NOT to laugh — especially if you’re on Twitter and witnessed a certain Epic Implosion):

Prince Charming was an Idiot (Or, What We Learn from Fairy Tales)

(This is a post from an old blog. It’s one of my favorites. I hope you enjoy it. Also, is it fairytales or fairy tales? I can never remember.)

I’m a hopeless, throw-caution-to-the-wind romantic. I believe in love. Worse yet, I believe in true love (or twu wuv, for those who have survived the Pit of Despair). I mean, everyone knows that false love is just so tacky. I do hope that you didn’t miss the memo on that. Regardless, a copy of it will be along shortly, with the TPS reports. Feel free to make copies, if the copier decides to cooperate. And, no, no one really knows what PC Load Letter means.

Anyway, let’s get back to the point: fairy tales mess with your mind. Almost every girl I know was raised on all those classic fairy tales and stories. Disney, of course, served most of these tales to the Masses (I’m not even going to touch the Grimm versions). While they are entertaining stories, they are a recipe for epic disaster. They have the same basic formula: boy meets girl. One of them is some sort of royalty. They fall in love quicker than you can accelerate your car. Enter the villain. This surely signals impending doom! Don’t you hear the scary music? But, no. The villain’s plans are thwarted. Boy and girl go riding off into the proverbial sunset. The End! Everything’s great, right?

Well, what do we actually know about these dashing princes (Here’s a few: Prince Charming, Prince Philip, Prince Eric, and “just” Prince, who is Snow White’s prince. And, really, what’s up with that? He doesn’t even have a NAME.)? Think about it. They have no personality. Well, that’s not exactly true. They’re heroic, right? They rush off to fight danger, braving all kinds of things, like dragons. It’s all in the name of love (somewhere, Bono is nodding his head). Let’s consider Cinderella’s Prince Charming (not to be confused with Sleeping Beauty‘s Prince Philip). Is he even charming, or is that the biggest misnomer ever?

Cinderella and Charming meet at a dance. They dance. And then what happens? She runs AWAY. Sure, it’s because her dress is going to turn back into a less flattering ensemble–not to mention the fact that her transportation is about to repossessed–but she freakin’ RUNS AWAY. And Prince Charming does what? Well, of course, he scours the kingdom for her. I mean, isn’t that what every guy would do, for a girl you met for a few hours at your parents’ house? (I could turn that into a Bridget Jones reference, involving Colin Firth and a disastrous jumper…but I won’t. *wink*)

In all honesty, if Prince Charming were a real guy, he’d probably would’ve given up. He would taken one look at your shoe, decided that he didn’t like how big your foot was, and he would’ve written you off. (We’ve all had that moment where we look for a vice, just to end things. Usually it’s because we’re scared, but that’s another story.) Charming would’ve gone back to his party to chat with his royal friends about what a FLAKE you were.

Why? Because we don’t believe in the chase, anymore. In a world where marriage doesn’t seem to last as often as we’d like, we’ve slowly stop believing in fairy tales. We’re cynical, even if we’re more optimistic than most. Even romantics are riddled with cynicism. I mean, let’s face it: it’s rather difficult to chase after someone. You have to put yourself out there. It is a lot like fighting a dragon: there’s a very real possibility that you’re going to get roasted. This goes for girls and guys, alike. (Yes, girls can chase after guys. This does not make her a slut. This doesn’t make her horribly aggressive. Going after what you want is never a bad thing; it’s refreshingly honest.)

The Disney princes, though heroic, had no real personalities. They operated in a predictable manner, because it’s a freakin’ movie. However, most people are wonderfully multidimensional. They have *gasp* personalities, quirks, and baggage. That’s probably what leads to all the difficulties we experience in relationships. But, you know, I’d really rather have all those difficulties–the fighting, the tension, the conversations, and disagreements–than not. It’s what helps us grow.

So, yes, fairy tales might not be real in the strictest sense of the word. Things don’t always end with a beautiful sunset. They won’t always work out, magically–but that doesn’t mean there isn’t real magic out there. (Is that too Hallmark-y? Well, shush. Nobody asked you. Okay, so I did, but I didn’t really mean it.) Magic is a funny thing: it’s there if you look for it, though it won’t come in the guise of singing birds and genies. If happen to stumble across a singing bird, seek immediate medical attention; you’ve either hit your head or you’ve gotten into the magic mushrooms.

Love is messy and imprecise. It will, on occasion, make you batshit crazy, out-of-your-mind loony. But love? It is magic. Love is the part of a fairy tale that is true. Sure, guys don’t dress up like knights to impress girls (unless you’re Ed and the object of your affection is Carol Vessy). And ladies don’t really get locked away in a tower surrounded by giant thorns and a DRAGON. But we all need to be rescued, sometimes. We all need that great kiss to shock us awake. (Anyone who has experienced one of those real-life Hollywood kisses knows just what I’m talking about.) We all need to be someone’s hero or heroine.

We all need just a little bit of fairy tales.

A Sign of the Apocalypse: A Jonas Brother Does Les Mis

 

You know, I’m sure that if there’s ever an apocalypse, there will be signs. Something absurd, like monkeys will begin to spout sonnets. The farm animals will begin to speak. Perhaps I will finally assent to the fact that baking chocolate will never taste like chocolate. (A cruel trick of my childhood.)

Unfortunately, I am hoping that a Jonas brother performing in a Les Misérables concert isn’t one of them. Oh, I wish I were joking. I really do. Because it is my belief that the Brothers have the combined musical talent of petrified dirt. (Can dirt be petrified? I don’t really know.)

I know that’s a mean thing to say, and somewhere Jiminy Cricket is wagging his finger at me. But putting aside the fact that I have trouble distinguishing the Jonas Brothers, AND the fact that I find their collective dressing habits very Saved by the Bell meets the 80s, I think that the Jo Bros are like Hansen, except HORRIBLE. Granted, I don’t enjoy Hansen, but they can carry a tune.  I’m also not a big fan of boy bands, which means I never had a NKOTB lunchbox. (Mine was BATMAN, thank you.)

Les Mis is one of my favorite musicals. I can’t tell you how many times, as a teen, I pretended to be a vagabond roaming the streets of France, gearing up for the revolution. “A Little Fall of Rain” STILL breaks my heart, and I always thought Marius was a fool, and he should’ve noticed Eponine. But we’re not here to discuss plot.

I Youtubed Nick Jonas performing in the concert, and he is not very good. Yes, he hits the notes, or most of them, but his voice is not strong enough to play Marius, and I (unfortunately) don’t believe a word he is singing. He has the emotional depth and maturity of a blueberry scone (random Buffy reference).

 Somewhere, I have the 15 year anniversary concert on tape. I no longer own a VCR, so it’s packed away. As a child, I had the double disk CD of the original London cast. Few people can match Dave Willets’s version of “Empty Chairs and Empty Tables” (I’m pretty sure that he isn’t part of the original London Cast, but I’m not 100% sure. I can’t find the CD, currently.) I have a lot of random compilation tapes (yes, TAPES) only a vague knowledge about where it’s from.

When Lea Salonga played Eponine, she was resplendent. Absolutely perfect. I would listen to her sing the dictionary, honestly. I would’ve loved to have the 25^th anniversary concert on DVD, but if it includes a Jonas (who possibly ripped off Jason Mraz?)

The Broadway girl inside me is breaking a little. Next time, people, hire Neil Patrick Harris. Not only is he AWESOME, but he can sing. That’s talent – not good marketing.

I Was Batgirl (Or, The Most Disappointing Halloween EVER)

When I was a kid, my mom made all my Halloween costumes. And they were, if I may gloat, AWESOME – and unique. For example, I was a cat (with hand-stitched furry mittens – and an awesomely painted face), a Punk Witch (complete with these fantastic green sunglasses – and an overwhelming disappointment that I wasn’t allowed to carry my black cat in my Witch’s Basket. She was a miracle cat who suffered nerve damage at birth, and she was not allowed outside, because she could not walk in a straight line. She is also proof that cats DO have nine lives, but that’s an entirely different tale.), She-Ra (with a handmade headdress and the coolest boots I’d ever seen), a cowgirl (complete, honest-to-god, with an actual PONY to ride on – that was the year of the Raisin Incident, which is epic in itself), a Fairy (I HAD PIXIE DUST. Consequently, everyone in the vicinity ended up covered in the sparkly, iridescent glitter. It was AWESOME.), and Queen Mab. Now, that is not a comprehensive list, and it’s not in order. Consider it a random sampling of Halloween joy.

But this brings us to my Batgirl costume, which my mom handmade in its entirety. This was, at the age of seven, the most amazing thing I’d EVER seen. It fit me perfectly. It looked just like Batgirl. I had a utility belt. I WAS AWESOME.

This was also my first Halloween in a new state. I didn’t know anyone. I’d just started school. And I went out trick-or-treating with my mom. Still, I was beaming. You see, in my family, Halloween isn’t just some stupid tradition where you haphazardly throw together a costume at the last minute. It usually involves a lot of time and SOMEONE burning  her fingers on the hot glue gun. The end result is always worth it – and I say that being the person who doesn’t have to live with burns on her fingers for a few weeks.

At the time, my best friend times infinity (or BFTI) lived back in my home state. I was, of course, bereft that she wasn’t around to Trick-or-Treat with me. We spoke on the phone, but that wasn’t the same thing. Cell phone were not commonplace back then, although we did have one in case of emergencies, and it was the size of a BRICK. You can still see it in later episodes of Saved by the Bell.

I ventured out in my Awesome Batgirl Costume, ready to knock on doors and score a load of candy. I was filled with the kind of candy-anticipation that only a small child know. My plan was simple: knock on as many doors as possible, before it got chilly and it was time to head home. Obtain the most candy possible. Take more than once piece at each house.

Sadly, this was not to be. I knocked on a few houses, and learned that people did not have candy. I assumed that this must be some kind of fluke, that these people were crotchety curmudgeons of the worst kind. I mean, who doesn’t celebrate Halloween? This did not compute in my seven year old brain. Somewhat frantically, I walked up to another house, my mom behind me. I’m sure, at that point, she felt like she’d dropped into The Twilight Zone, wondering what kind of hellish neighborhood did not celebrate Halloween, seeing her daughter’s AWESOME costume go to waste.

There were two people playing basketball in the yard. Tentatively, I went, “Trick…or…um…treat?” I was met with a blank stare. I must’ve looked ready to burst into tears or have a tantrum, because the girl said “Hold on a minute,” and went inside.

This was it. Someone was finally going to give me candy. The evening would not be a complete waste of my time – and an exercise in humiliation. Halloween would be vindicated!

And then she came out of the house with…an apple. AN APPLE. Was she possibly out of raisins (the WORST Halloween “treat” possible)? I don’t know. I took the apple, politely, because my mother raised me not to be an ungrateful twit. And, dejected, we finally went back home, sad that no one even knew who Batgirl was – where I promptly called my BFTI and lamented, “THEY GAVE ME AN APPLE!” with as much horror as I could muster. She was also thoroughly and appropriately appalled (although, I did eat the apple).

For whatever reason, no one in that town trick-or-treated. Instead, there was a Halloween Carnival at one of the schools, and everyone flocked there like overeager lemmings. The next year, I would attend, and come home the proud owner of several goldfish – which despite their tendency to die quickly, lived for a long time. (And my mom thought I’d never win one. Mwahaha!)

So, that was the worst Halloween I’d ever had – the second runner-up being the time some cracked out lady, upon opening her door, exclaimed, “Oh my goodness! Look, dear, Little Bo Peep!” Needless to say, I was NOT Little Bo Peep and neither was my BFTI (with whom I’d been reunited with, much to my supreme joy). There was nothing to even suggest shepherdess. Neither of us were clutching sheep. We had on hoopskirts, for the love of KitKats. We had parasols, old-school dresses, and bonnets. (Scarlet O’Hara and Melanie Hamilton, thank you very much.)

If nothing else, Halloween is always an adventure.