the slack daily

Ways in Which I am a Wuss.

A while back,  Wil Wheaton wrote about the group of baby mantises (mantisis? mantisisess?) that hatched on his patio.   I may have to revoke my girl card, but I've always been fascinated by bugs.  In fact when I rented a small house in North Hollywood,, a family of crickets used to live in the light fixture above my bathtub.  Every day I'd disrobe and slide the glass door open only to discover a passel of crickets trying to scale the sloping porcelain sides of the tub.  They'd get about halfway up, slide back down, and then hop over to another side to try it yet again.  I started keeping a plastic glass and a notecard to trap them with, stranding them under the cup and then gently sliding the notecard underneath, I'd make sure they were secure and then pad to the back door, where I'd release them into the backyard.  

I was always naked, of course, because I'd never remember to do a cricket check until I was starkers.   I wondered if the neighbors called me the crazy naked cricket lady.  I didn't save all of the crickets - some of the babies were near impossible to trap (although I tried!)  - but after a few months, I could reach in and pick up the crickets with my bare hands and release them into the wild.

While the crickets fell from the light in the ceiling, they never fell on me while I showered.  My friends were disgusted but I sort of liked living in the the house that rained crickets.  Occasionally they'd get into the house and I'd pad around silently, trying to intuit where the sound was so I could cricket-nap them and take them outside.  The day that one fell into the heating grate in the floor was the worst, as I lived without heat for a full month afterward, not wanting to be responsible for cricket cremation.

Will and I were half-comatose on the couch last night watching TV when an ad for WALL-E came on.

We're not seeing that, I told him.

Why not?

Um, because I practically wept at the robot Superbowl Ad?

Good point.

Posted to counteract my previous jerkiness.

Today on Antisocial Networking: Be Your Own Constant (and the Most Ridiculous Picture of Me, Ever.)

Don't forget to Tell Me About Your Nerd Crush (and win prizes!)

More on the slackmistress + bugs: The Insect Messiah.
(note: if you're weirded out by spiders, don't click on this.)

Sometimes I Get Them Menstrual Cramps Real Hard.

Neil proposed that Friday, everyone write like a member of the opposite sex.  I cringed, because all I could imagine is a sea of stereotypical, hackneyed posts of women writing about getting hit in the balls and guys bitching about their period.  (Oh, and touching their boobs.)

I never think about my writing - my personal writing, that is - about being particularly masculine or feminine, but just, y'know writing.  When I wrote about my girly bits, it's something butch, like, y'know, getting a shot - multiple shots, even - in the hoo-ha. 

(If you're grossed out by Girly Stuff, I suggest you leave now.)

Not Truthy, Just Lazy.

Notes:

1. Dear Crafters: I kid because I love. I am crafty only in the Beastie Boys sense, so I am jealous of people who can Make Stuff.
2. As if the screen grab above isn't hot enough, check out the one at YouTube.
3. JustJENN Designs can be found here.
4. The Self-Portrait Truthiness Project can be found here.
5. I am trying out Viddler, because you can make comments within the video, and I think that's just peachy.  However, I will continue to use and upload at YouTube and blip.tv if you'd prefer to watch there.  I'm good that way.

My Girl Likes To...*

Last night, I asked Will: You know what makes me sad?

What?

Last year, when I had my Halloween Party, you didn't come.

You didn't invite me!

So?  I still can't believe you weren't there.

I wasn't at your birthday party, either.

Yeah, what gives?

We had met online but not in person - that wouldn't come for another month - but he promises me that during this time last year, he was proclaiming his love for me to whatever IMfriends would listen.  I had considered inviting him to the dinner party I threw right after Halloween, but I thought it might be weird inviting him to a dinner with six people he'd never met. 

Thankfully, we met a few days later and I wised up and invited him to my next party.  And the next one.  And the one after that was our engagement/housewarming party.  Which tells you two things:

a) I move fast.
b) I like to throw a lot of parties.

Party season is once again upon us, starting with my birthday and rolling into Halloween-Thanksgiving-Christmas-New Year's.  Then there's my mother's Russian Christmas party, and then Valentine's Day, and then a couple of family birthdays, and then my friend R's wedding in Hawaii that we're saving our pennies for, as it coincides with our one-year anniversary and we're trying to finagle it as a Belated Honeymoon (I know, crazy.  Can it be done?  I'll tell you when May rolls around.)  The fact is that I've got the party-throwing fever.  It's been suggested to me that I turn it into my own little business, part-catering part-event planning, but while the party-throwing fever is amazing in theory, in practice it starts with that little red flush of excitement and ends with me being a shivering, shaking, achy sweaty delusional mess.  And yet every time it's over...I want to do it again.

Parties are also pricey, so minus Thanksgiving (SlackParents are coming to town!) I am keeping my visions of bacon-wrapped dates and honeyed goat cheese with figs and prosciutto-wrapped smoked mozzarella and antipasto plates to a minimum.  But a girl can dream...

*To those of you born in the 80s/90s: Before Eddie Murphy liked did Disney Remakes and ran a Good Samaritan Cab Service for Tranny Hookers he was funny and also cut an album. 

Fate Mail.

About a year ago, Will sent me an email.  I can't recall exactly what it said because I didn't respond to it.  It's not that I didn't want to, but it got lost in the I'd-like-to-say-something-of-substance-so-I'll-get-back-to-it and never did.  He finally worked up the nerve to email me again. 

Hello,

If I'm to believe this comment, you are complaining about the fact that you never get creepy emails from me.  That's because I try my hardest not to be creepy although I will admit to repeatedly checking The Slack Daily but who can blame me for that, you're a fantastic writer and unlike many video blogs, yours are very entertaining and feature a dog from time to time.  In short, if you haven't noticed already, I think you're great at least as far as I can tell from the Internet. I admire your intelligence, your spirit, and your socks of say nothing of the fact that you are cute as all get out.  I'm happy to know that you exist Mistress Slack.

How's that for creepy?  It's the best I can do.

Will

Thankfully, this time I responded.  He suggested at one point that we should get together but it wasn't until November when I said hey, let's actually set a date and grab a drink, but it's not a date-date even though later I texted my friend Carla from the bathroom with a okay, he's cute and funny I think I could date him.  But I was mixed up in all sorts of other nonsense and I didn't want to be one of Those Crazy Girls who Jerks Guys Around.  So I was clear, and he was okay with that.  I knew he wanted to kiss me that night but he didn't, which just made me like him more.  Night after night we'd chat on IM, and night after night he'd invite me over.  I knew you'd say yes, he told me later, it was just a matter of when. 

He was right, and when was a week later.  I came over (that's me in the third story, the season changed to spring to protect the not-so-innocent) and essentially never left.  The reason I didn't want to date him is that I knew it would never be Just Dating.  Six weeks later we told the universe we were getting married.  A month later I was moved in.  And four months after that, I was sporting two rings on my left.

It's taken some getting used to, not just for us but for our family and our friends and as silly as it sounds, the people out there in blogland.  Will your Internet Girls get jealous? I asked when we started dating.  He said that there had never been a problem, and although there were a few bumps in the road and a couple of choice comments, most of my experience with his readership has been positive.

Until this week.

It's clear to us that the mail - only three pieces thus far, from different, anonymous addresses - is coming from one of his female readers.  Whether it's past or present is anyone's guess, the only thing that's constant is her utter and complete contempt for me.  Which is based solely on the fact that I am married to/shacked up with/having naughty time avec Will.  One of the points she made to me in her first email is that he's dallied with other women.

I didn't respond to the email, but y thought is of course he has.

Everyone has a history, the only difference with blogging is that your history is out there and tangible. It's pictures and names and descriptions of events.  When he was writing about his girlfriend before me he wrote like he loved her and was the luckiest guy in the world.  Because he felt that way.  If he had been writing about the girl was first engaged to years and years ago, he would have written the same way.  While I skimmed some of those posts when he and I started corresponding, I didn't read them closely because I was jealous in an abstract way.  I wanted someone to write about me like that, too.

My history is found on the slack - there's plenty of breakups and makeups and I-think-this-is-it that wasn't it, and then no-this-is-it and it wasn't it, and then this-is-REALLY-it and wow, was that sure not it. 

The person with the hate mail is clearly not just a troll.  I'm not sure what the purpose is, though.  Simple jealousy?  Thinking they're better for Will than I am?  Are they trapped in something they don't want?  Are they envious of the fact that we said 'let's get married' and then actually did?

Someone's trying to use his past - which is not remarkable in any way from anyone else's past who's dated anyone, ever - to try and scare me off.    And while I don't like thinking about him being with anyone else in real, tangible, physical terms, the way he wrote about his history was one of the reasons I fell in love with him.

No one's ever written about me the way that he has.  That's what made me fall in love with him, and that's probably what the woman who's sending the emails wishes she had or misses.  Send all the hate mail you'd like, lady.  If I were her, I'd be jealous, too.

Homeward Bound.

A week from today I will be heading home.  Chicago, I respond when people ask, as no one knows where Glen Ellyn, Illinois is unless you're from that part of the Midwest, attended the uber-conservative Wheaton College (one town over), or are obsessed with the movie Lucas.  (I'd like to note that my high school is on  Wikipedia and I am not a notable alumni. Le sigh.) 

We're heading back as the SlackParents are throwing us a wedding reception (the benefit of a small wedding: more afterparties!) and the self-interrogation has begun.  Did I need to polish off that pint of Americone Dream I bought for Mr. Boy?  Why didn't I drag my ass out to spin last night?  How can I lose fifteen pounds in the next seven days?  My arms could be firmer, my thighs could be smaller, my skin could be clearer. 

What is it about revisiting the scene of your childhood crimes that inspires such introspection?

It's not like anyone will be less happy for us because I'm not a size six.  It's not like I won't be let in the door because there's a zit on my chin.  It's not like I don't know this, but there's some part of my brain let loose in a self-deprecating playground every time I go home.  Maybe it's because lurking behind every corner is the ghost of the person I used to be, ready to pounce at any moment. 

Of course, the moment I walk in the door, all will be forgotten.  We'll eat too much and swear too much and drink too much and sleep too little.  Embarrassing stories will be told and re-told.  I'll point out to Will where I went to high school and where we used to sneak out for late night coffee and where you to find the best burgers in town. 

But until then...

 

(dis)articulate

¹ar·tic·u·late
Pronunciation: är-'ti-ky&-l&t
Function: adjective
Etymology: Latin articulatus jointed, past participle of articulare, from articulus
1 a : divided into syllables or words meaningfully arranged  : INTELLIGIBLE b : able to speak c : expressing oneself readily, clearly, or effectively   <an articulate teacher>; also : expressed in this manner   <an articulate argument>

I've always thought of myself as articulate.  I spoke in full sentences at an early age, and reading and writing followed soon after.  I've never had a problem getting up in front of a crowd and saying my piece.  While the idea of meeting and talking to new people is inherently terrifying to me, randomly addressing my friends or total strangers is a piece of cake.  (Or wedding cake, in the case of the previous clip.)

While being articulate is something that I constantly aspire to, lately I'm achieving the opposite. 

dis·ar·tic·u·late

Pronunciation:ˌdis-är-'ti-ky&-l&t

Function: verb

intransitive verb : to become disjointed

Disarticulating: it's what murders do when trying to hide the evidence, tearing things apart piece by piece. It's what I've been doing lately, taking each individual part of my life and putting it under a microscope.  The latest victim has been my reflection.  I like to think of beauty as more of a feeling rather than a set of physical characteristics, but lately I feel like I have neither.

It's summer and I'm looking on flickr at the women in bikinis, not models, but real life women, ones that are thinner than me and ones that are heavier than me and I'm jealous.  The most useless emotion there is but I'm envious of their smooth, unmarked bellies. It doesn't matter if they're flat or if they're round, the fact is there's not a piece of stretched skin or stretchmark to be seen.  I curse my weight loss of however many years ago leaving me with a stomach that still looked like I had given birth to triplets even when I was incredibly lean, and I open another tab to investigate reverse tummy tucks, poring over before and after pictures when I know that the problem isn't my stomach it's me. 

Why do we do this to ourselves?  Why do I do this to myself? Suddenly I'm angry and upset because I know this is stupid, I'm stupid, I'm wasting time on something that doesn't matter, something I know I can prevent myself from doing.  I can stop myself from going down this road but I don't and I didn't and I'm sitting here feeling sorry for me and my stretched-out stomach.  Why worry about that when there's my broken-out face or my big thighs or my arms or a billion other things I can pick at.  That I can pick on.  I want to be beautiful,and to admit that seems shallow and vain and ultimately embarrassing.  I want to be beautiful and I'm doing the one thing that makes me the most unattractive.

Nothing ever looks as it is magnified times a thousand, and yet I can't stop.  I'm murdering myself, but I'm not hiding the evidence.  I am disarticulated. And I want to get caught. 

Perfect? Stranger...

Today I woke up, got dressed, opened the curtains to let in the sun, and leashed up Daisy to go on an extra-long walk.  Simple, mundane tasks, perhaps even routine.  Except they haven't been for the past few days. True, I've been sick (this sore throat simply Won't.Go.Away.) but I've mostly just been depressed.

I have a whole M.O. when I'm down: I barely get dressed, I keep the apartment dark, I don't work out, I don't answer email, I sit and spin tales of woe, I don't answer the phone or return phone calls. (Okay, the latter I do when I'm happy, too.  I just hate the phone.)  I'm bitchy and weepy and ubersensitive.

Now all of these things are fine when you live alone.  But I don't live alone.  In fact, I'm not even living in sin.  It finally hit me yesterday, on Day 13.  I'm married.  I am no longer a Miss.   I am a +1. I'm no longer playing house.  I - we, rather - got up in front of friends and family and the Internet and said this is it, this is forever and the rest of my life.

I have always held myself to an impossible standard.  Which would be fine if I just admitted it and would just myself some proverbial slack when I didn't achieve the perfection I set out to achieve.  But every time I don't snatch that golden ring I don't keep riding, I fall off the damn carousel and it takes me months to get back on.  It's not fair to me, it's not fair to Will.  It's not fair to my writing partner, Older SlackBrother J. 

I am surrounded by people - my husband (!), my family, my friends, the entire Internet (!) - who have been generous with their love and time and support and advice.  I have everything at my disposal except for money.  And that's fixable.

I wrote this to Mr. Boy today:

Money and writing are going to be my two goals.  The third is to not be such an oversensitive, bitchy partner to you and be the sort of person you thought I was when you said you wanted to marry me. But for me, that's always intertwined with being productive.   If I can make progress on the money and writing thing, it'll help considerably.

I'm not going to be perfect but I am going to try.  The whole point of this missive is to call myself out.  You are amazing and brilliant and kind and talented, and  I want to be that sort of person to you.

The two things I have to do are bust my ass trying, and realize that it doesn't get any more perfect than this:

(I swear, that's not a disembodied Daisyhead!)

Thanks for reading, all.

   

Part Two.

Where were we?

Ah, the walk to the chapel.  I headed downstairs and ran into the SlackParents (y'know, I don't think we have a single photo of them together.  They both just work a room.)  SlackMom helped me with my pearls and then we were off to the chapel.

I spotted Mr. Boy and Dad of Boy standing outside the chapel. 

(photo by LeahK!)

For a split second I thought he's not supposed to see me before the ceremony and then I just thought fuckit.  We had already strayed far enough from tradition.  I gave him a kiss on the cheek and went off in search of the wedding coordinator for our flowers and to find out how we were going to be married.  Y'see, I hadn't exactly done this before, and while I've been o weddings, I don't really pay attention 'til the reception.  (But I will now!  I promise!  Maybe.)  I felt a little like vomiting.

They had a nice little room with a mirror and a bathroom and what appeared to be a fainting couch.  But I didn't feel much like fainting.  And I didn't want to stay there.  The minute I decided to step back out was the minute that my stomach stopped flip-flopping.  I mingled with the guests pre-ceremony. 

While Mr. Boy and I both realized that we were both about to embark on something Serious and Big and somewhat Scary, the mood was fun.  When it was time, me and my big mouth, herded everyone into the chapel.  The doors were closed and I heard the wedding coordinator yell into her walkie-talkie we need a pianist!  Now!  Hee.  I took my place on my father's arm and watched from the hallway as Will jumped up and down and paced back and forth.

We were ready.

The ceremony was simple and quick (a little over eight minutes according to our webcast.) SlackDad was so nervous that I had to remind him to shake Will's hand--

--and Will was so nervous he forgot his left from his right.

The minute the Minister said you may kiss your bride I realized that I wasn't wearing stay-put lipstick, but again, I thought, fuckit.

Of course there was slobber and I don't know if you can hear me say as I looked at Will's lipstick-smeared face hey! I married a Drag Queen!  I don't know if these are the sort of occurrences that would upset a normal person, but to me, it just made the whole experience that more perfect. 

The wedding photographer took photos while everyone headed down to the Four Seasons for the reception.  While some of them are something akin to the Sears Portrait Studio...

(Hee.)

 ...a good portion of them are Just Great.

And with that, we were off to the reception...

 

(To be continued...)

This is Your Life.

I cannot even begin to explain how surreal the last few days have been, or how I imagine the next few ones will be.  If you haven't been paying attention, I'm getting married on Thursday.  Me.  Married.  I know.

It didn't hit me until Will came home with half of a large sheet cake that they had given him at work, along with a card and a wedding gift.  The card didn't have pictures of Gary Larsen cows playing it cool or a snarky saying or even a black and white picture of a dog (I get many of those, but I love every one).  No, it was a heavy pink and cream card signed by a bunch of people I've never met, wishing him well - wishing me well.  The cake was so big it takes up a full shelf in our fridge.

Holy crap, I'm getting married.

I'm making lists and folding skirts and shirts and selecting shoes (two pairs of boots, one pair of dressy sandals, one pair of casual sandals, two pairs of flip flops and my wedding shoes) and every so often it hits me that I'm not just going to Vegas, I am going to Vegas to get married.  At 5:30pm I walk in on the arm of  SlackDad, and by 5:45 I can check "married" on the next form I fill out.  The best advice given to me and to Will has been just be in the moment, because it goes too fast.  My goal is just to relax and enjoy.

Thursday I'm hoping that I'll get a moment to stand up in front of all of our guests and say a few words, the most important two being thank you.  I'd like to take this moment to say the same to my - our - reading audience.  You were there the day we first met.  You were there for that first Detective Post.  Many of you are going to be there virtually when we get married.  You've been nothing but supportive, even if sometimes that support was hey you moron, you should date him.

So here's my moment. THANK YOU.

Will's got our seating music available for download on today's blog.  Piglet writes about her feelings on the wedding of two people she's never met.  Me, I'm nervous and jittery and a wee bit scared, as I'm taking the big gamble.  But in this case, I know I'm the House.  And the House always wins.