Auld Lang Syne - 2013 in Review

I am in serious blogging debt.

As per usual, November flew out from under my feet.  While I'd like to be the Debbie-Downer and say that I was no closer to winning NaNo than I have been in previous years, that's actually quite a lie.  Despite major setbacks, I managed to wrangle 20,000 words together in the end.  30K shy of my goal, yes, but far, far better than I've done since my first mangled attempt at NaNoWriMo wordsmithing.

December has not been idle, either.  Despite the serious lack of writing, I have been nothing if not productive.  November and December saw a whirlwind of events, including the first time I totaled my car, the introduction of new acquaintances, and of course, a slew of new recipes:

Here it goes again.

Well.  November is here once more, so you know what that means:

So the insanity begins.  Two years ago, I failed miserably.  Last year, I didn't even enter, thereby really failing.  This year, I've got a bit more support, and I bothered to take the time to pen out a synopsis and a rough outline, so I'm really hoping for the best.

You can track my progress here.

Anyway.  A heads up that I may not make my 2-posts-a-month quota for November (because I was clearly doing so well before.)

Wish me luck.

Until the next.

With Apologies to Taylor

***Courtesy of: http://www.blogactionday.org

There is a story that I have avoided sharing with the Internet for a few years now, for fear that its main character would stumble upon it.  However, today seemed like an appropriate time.  So, without further ado.

Several years ago, I was feeling a bit lonely and sort of bored.  On a whim, I tried using Omegele for the first time, without much success.  For an hour or so, all I got was repeated requests for A/S/L, etc., etc.  I was starting to get fed up, when a young girl was paired with me.  A freshman in high school, maybe younger. A runner.  A fairly diligent student.  She seemed pleased to be matched up with an older woman, and cheerily asked me for little tidbits of advice about life, the universe, and everything.  Nothing of a serious nature.

She had a boyfriend, she told me.  He was also a runner.  They spent their time together, doing homework, and generally just hanging out.  A happy couple.

At least, that's what she said at first.

Trick or Treat: The price we pay

I fracking LOVE Halloween, for pretty obvious reasons.  Namely, it is the only time of the year that I get to dress up like an idiot in a costume of my own design, and it is more or less completely acceptable (unless, of course, you are my parents, in which case I am viewed as being a totally immature moron.)  With Halloween just around the corner, and GCS about a month away, one might imagine that I'm getting ready to dive headlong into the sewing fray.

And it's true; I am.  But maybe with a little more reluctance this year than most.  The reasons are twofold.  First, I have some mixed feelings about Halloween, or at least, the modern practice of it.  I'm not a religious person by any stretch of the imagination, but I appreciate the original roots of the supposed "All Hallows' Eve" and other similar festivals of the dead.  It seems unfortunate that such a reverent occasion was first Christianized for convenience, and then bastardized for consumerism.  The other day, on a whim, I walked into a Halloween Adventure to see if I could find any items that might be easier to purchase than attempt to craft.  I was shocked to find that a simple fleece hat would cost me a pretty $25, which brings me to my second source of reluctance:  costs.

Ending on a High Note

I love music.

I love the way music expresses ourselves better than words can.  I love how the swell of a song can send shivers down my spine and evoke the most poignant of thoughts.  I love all sorts of music.  Jazz.  Indie rock.  (Some) metal.  I'll give anything a listen.  I'm certainly no aficionado of any sort, but I am an appreciator.

My sister was pretty well versed in piano by the time that I was born, and my father was a competent guitarist.  Both of them loved to sing, so I can only assume that I was born with music all around me. There are pictures of me climbing up on the piano bench before I could even walk properly.  It was inevitable that I'd be smashing keys (much to C's chagrin) by age 6.  By 9, I was learning to pluck violin strings.  Several years later, I strummed my first C-chord on the guitar.

And I picked up the basics quickly enough.  I could spit out a little tune here and there.  My only problem was that, past a certain point, I was pretty s**t about keeping up with these things.

Impressions of Impressionism

(Best accompanied by Don McLean, as per usual)

Today comes to you in the form of another photo dump.  And, like so many of my adventures, our tale begins with my sister.

Some time ago, C asked me if I wanted to take an art class with her.  Evidently, two of her friends from business school own an art studio in Hoboken that does recreational workshops.  It sounded like fun, so I said yes, of course.  A few weeks ago, she sent me the website with all the specific pieces they taught audiences to draw and said she'd take me for my birthday.  After browsing through the available classes, I settled on Van Gogh's Almond Blossoms:

Image via Wikipedia

Technically post-impression.  Details, details.  (No, seriously.  There is a lot of detail in this painting)

Photo dump - Plastic Princess Pt. 3

Well.  It's done.  I think.

Frankly, I'm not terribly proud of it.  It's very messy looking, and it looks nothing like the original picture in my head.  But, I did spend the better part of a week working on it, and I did say that I would share the pictures, no matter the outcome.  So, here they are, for your perusal:

The weather today is slightly sarcastic.

"Winter gave spring and summer a miss and went straight on into autumn."

I grew up in Southeastern, PA, which - for the uninitiated - means that I was able to witness all four seasons, and in pretty even intervals.  Yeah, I had heard about the blistering heat of Florida and the unbearable year-long winters of Minnesota.  Despite all this, though, I had it in my head that all parts of the U.S. had the typical winter snow, showers & flowers in spring, warm sunny summer, and rust-colored fall.

And then... I moved to Pittsburgh.

Sketch Dump: Riding the 71C

Today's entry comes to you as a bit of a mix between past and present.  Several years ago, as I was riding the bus back from the shopping district, I spotted a young woman, R(H)C, someone I had dormed with in Freshman year, climb on the bus.  As she made her way to the far back, she chose a seat right across from mine.  She was wearing a royal violet, full-length peacoat, which I was rather jealous of/enamored with, but I otherwise didn't notice too much about her for the time being.

I averted eye contact for a few minutes, as I tend to do with most people with whom I'd lost contact from that old dormitory.  It's always awkward, saying hello.  Not to mention, I had recently had a run in with an acquaintance who I had spent 16 weeks in class and 2 weeks with abroad the semester prior, and he had already forgotten me entirely.  I was pretty wary about assuming that people would remember me.

Eventually, I hesitated a little, feeling stupid about being so withdrawn.  If she didn't remember me, well, what's the worst that would happen?  She would simply make brief eye contact, and then look away.  So, I chanced a glance at her.

Sweet Child o' Mine

Dear Future Offspring,

I'm not sure why I'm writing this letter, seeing as I'm about 65% certain that I do not plan on having children, ever, for reasons including, but not limited to:

• Dietary restrictions (no sushi for NINE MONTHS?!)
• Morning sickness
• Epidurals
• Fat gain
• Caesarians
• The idea of not sleeping for 3+ years

But in the off chance that my ovaries kick in, and I'm overcome with the unstoppable, overwhelming, biological-clock-tickin' yearning to bear some babies, I just wanted to say a few things to you.

Neverland

I was not always ambivalent about my appearance.

This'll shock some, but when I was quite little (about 3-4 years old), I hadn't an ounce of tomboyishness in me. I hated pants and wore skirts at every opportunity. I clipped little bows in my hair. I played with makeup.

Most of all, I dreamed of being a princess.

No - not that princess, but we'll get back to that in a sec.

Seeing Red

After a series of unfortunate events, including but not limited to waking up with the continuing oppressive lethargy of food coma, being lectured by a hypocrite, finding a massive zit worthy of my teenage years, and losing the capability to complete ANY of my overwhelmingly quickly growing stack of work, I - like any reasonable human being - turned into a giant rage-beast:

Or Big Bertha from the SMB movie.  I forget.

Citrusy Goodness

"When life gives you lemons, make lemonade."

Lemons get a bad rap, quite unfairly, I think.  Yeah - they are pretty sour.  But they're also really freaking awesome.

Lemon cookies on a Sunday morning - doesn't get much better.

Heat Signal

It is no secret that I quite like fire.  Ever since grade school, when I discovered that setting CuSO₄ -ridden cheesecloth on fire made it glow a pretty blue-green, I've highly enjoyed lighting various materials on fire.

I also hated Miley Cyrus before it was cool.

Plastic Princess Pt. 2

Today is going to be a very, very short entry.  The bulk of September has really whooshed passed, and soon, October will be here.  October means lots of planning for NaNoWriMo, which, for some reason, I have it in my head that I'll enter again, despite sucking wind every year.  On top of that, GCS is in November, and I had originally planned to have unique outfit for each day, though that seems less likely as the days pass.

Anyway, I really just wanted to give you a teaser for progress with the plastic dress.  Last time, I left off with the skirt in all it's poofy glory.  This time, a quick overview of what I'm doing with the top.

Nobody stayed with DOS

Having been born in the late 80s, PCs, which are a standard commodity today, were a pretty big deal when I was growing up.  My first computer was a boxy-looking Apple Macintosh:

Later (by which I mean '95 ish), it was an IBM that belonged to my sister, and then a few years later, a Compaq Presario that ran on Windows '95.  At the time we purchased them, none of them were exactly the forerunners of the machines available, but they were still pretty impressive.  It didn't matter to me.  I was like 8-years-old.  They could have run on gasoline for all I knew.  I was really only interested in two things - MS Paint (or, Corel Draw on the Mac) and any free pre-loaded games that came with the software bundle.

And I'm not talking Solitaire or Free Cell.  I mean proper games.  The Mac came with Spectre and Scrabble (both of which, I was admittedly awful at), the IBM had some child's game that escapes my memory, but the best of all was (and I can't believe I'm saying this, but) the Compaq because it came with this for free:

I can hear that sweet intro tune now...

This program was amazing.  It had short sound clips of world instruments, interactive articles, thousands of beautiful pictures.  Most importantly, it also came with this:

AKA - Guilt-Free time wasting

Reader Challenge #1: Fish & Meat.

Unfortunately, today's entry is another last-minute one, due to the overwhelming amount of things that I needed to do, so I had to tap into reader challenges early.  Today's challenge was prompted by the following video:

My entry has nothing to do with the video, per se.  More about... meat sentience and how we as humans treat it.

Like Drinking Poison

It is 11:45 PM, EST as I type this.  15 minutes until September the 18th, year 2013 AD (or CE, if that's your fancy.)

This entry comes to you shockingly late because I spent the entire evening (not an exaggeration - 4 PM until present) in the kitchen.

In 13 minutes now, it will by the anniversary of my birth.

I originally promised myself that I wouldn't use my birthday as a topic for blogging because I really don't see a need to make a big deal out of the day.  First of all, I was born around midday, CST, so I'm not even officially birthed yet.  Years are a semi-arbitrary construct.  365 days pass, and it's something to commemorate?

10 minutes.

I realized today that these less-than-enthusiastic feelings might be residual bitterness that I've felt for people who have scorned me during previous years, and that I've come to not expect anything.  No special treatment.  No candles.  No big parties.  If they happen, they're excitedly and wholly appreciated, but they're not the norm.

7 minutes.

But these people.  I don't even talk to them anymore.  I haven't called them friends in years.  There's a lesson to be learned in there somewhere.

5 minutes.

And it is stupid.  It makes me so angry at myself that I ... I...

FURY BAKING TIME.

It's never good to hold onto anger.  Fortunately, I've learned to channel it into other energies.  It's not the best solution, but it works for now.

Hopefully, it'll carry me through another quarter of a century.

1 minute.

Until the next.

Monday Fun-Days

Today, somebody quite sincerely told me that I looked refreshed and ready for the week.

>.>

<.<

...

PWAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

I find this funny on two counts.  One, when I checked the mirror later, I still had hints of smudges from black eyeliner under my eyes.  Two, this conversation occurred while I was waiting for the coffee pot to finish brewing.

I am definitely a morning person more by necessity than by nature.  In grade school, the bus would arrive at 7:15, sharp.  In university, when my other friends were rolling out of bed at 10 AM, I was usually awake by 7:30 AM for morning classes.  More recently, I had a personal trainer whose best available time slot was 6 AM, which meant I had my first alarm set for 4:45 AM.

A Make-up about Makeup

Today's entry comes to you in two parts:

Part 1:  THE SHAAAAAAAAME!!!

Well, it happened.  After going strong for nearly two weeks, at Day 14, I failed to post my daily update.

Someone once told me if that if I were a dog, I'd be a collie.
Someone else once told me that I'd be a mongoose, so there's that.

I could post a whole host of excuses, but it ultimately boils down to me falling asleep after about 10 hours of wakefulness and having nothing to write about.  Oh, sweet, sweet couch, you sultry temptress of slumber you.  How many weekends have I sat upon your luscious cushions, planning on productivity, only to fall prey to the comforts of your satiny embrace?

If being a hack is my biggest fear, writer's block is a damn close second.  I am not a loquacious individual, but not for lack of opinion.  I've always expressed myself better on paper than with my voice, so to not be able to command that method of communication can be a bit irksome, at best.

Solidarity

Of all the siblings in the universe, you won't find a pair closer than my sister and I.

Guess who's older

You also probably won't find a better example of polar opposites.

She buys Coach.  I make bags from yard sale scraps.  She's chatty.  I'm taciturn.  She writes about living in a sprawling metropolis.  I write about cosplay (her reaction:  "what the eff is cosplay?")  She's a fashionista. I'm a... well.  You know.

I don't think a visit goes by where one of us won't turn to the other and ask, "Are you sure we're related?"

But despite the differences, there is one thing that convinces me, without a doubt, that we most definitely come from the same parentage.

We're both oddly keen on pain.

Vance Packard, be my guide.

As a writer, the one thing that horrifies me the most in all the wide-world is the possibility that I am just a hack.  That everything I ever have written or will write is nothing but a cobbled-together mish-mash of stolen ideas, and that I haven't a single original thought in my head.

In part, it's true.  Who among us really has a completely new idea.  What book, bestseller or no, has not borrowed inspiration from something else that has come before?  And yet, we continue to read the modern novels that line the Barnes and Noble bookshelves.  Hundreds of new movie titles are released every year.  We do not relegate ourselves to the "classics." We consume new media like starving wolves.

Even Cinderella, as classic as it is, seems to have its roots in Rhodopis and Ye Xian.

Yet still, 50 Shades is mocked for being a fanfiction.  Critics turn their noses down at Mortal Instruments for being a rehashing of Harry Potter, Twilight, Star Wars, etc. etc.

But Percy Jackson, which draws heavily on the mythos of Zeus and the Greek Pantheon, is lauded for its creativity.

Remember, Remember

I was in 7th grade.

I remember the shirt I was wearing.  A white 3-quarter sleeve with green and blue boteh.  I think I still wore my hair long.

It was lunch time when I heard anything akin to information.  Caitlin was speaking, whispering really, in some unrecognizable code, lest the lunch monitors overhear our conversation.  She was trying to explain what was going on.  The Deville Twins (a reference from Rugrats) had been attacked, and Lil (not Phil - Lil is the one with the bow) got an axe to the head.  Liz, or maybe Chelsea, was disagreeing.  It was the other way around.  Or maybe both.

I was so confused.  GK was trying to convince her just to say it straight, but no dice.

It wasn't until later that day that an announcement came over the PA system.

The Tree of Life

This shouldn't come as a surprise, but for a very long time, I've wanted to get a tattoo.  In middle school, I would draw on myself with those crap gel pens that always seemed to clog the second week you purchased them.  In high school, traced my arms out in eyeliner, or I dipped a fine pin into fabric paint and dotted my arms with self-made designs (sometimes hoping that I would slip and accidentally tattoo myself for real).

Even now, I'll ink random designs onto my fingers and wrists during long morning meetings:

Black Lotus Smuggler!

Some attempts admittedly work better than others.

The Last Realm of Magic

It is very rare for me to recommend a movie so publicly, particularly a children's movie.  But if you ever have 90 minutes to burn, I highly recommend the following:

I can already hear Don McLean's silky tones.

Don't be fooled by the terrible cover.  The art of the actual film is...

Erm.  Well.  It's a little sub-par, at times, as well.  But that's not the point!

Reader's Block

I promise I am done squicking everyone out for at least a few days.

Today's post (my 8th post!  One full week completed!!!) will be far more lo-key, thanks largely to the fact that I spent the entire morning cleaning my apartment for the arrival of my parents.  A couple of days ago, they got it into their head that they were going to take me and my sister out to lunch to celebrate our birthdays.  Collective.

Date of my sister's birthday:  July 9th

Date of my birthday:  September 18th

... Makes sense to me!

Anyway - so I spent a lovely Sunday with the family, first at the wonderful Skylark, and then eating longan in my apartment around my tiny coffee table as we discussed the pros and cons of organic farming and hydroponics.  It sounds a little dry, but trust me - it surely beats getting berated about the fact that we haven't produced heirs to the Lai family line, yet.

If only you would stop antagonizing me, we could be friends.

Said no one, ever.

I have never, ever, in my 20-some-odd years of life, heard a woman say that she has a good relationship with her uterus.  Never have the words been uttered, "I am on great terms with my Period!"

If someone has said that to you, she is straight up LYING.  And don't give me that BS about the miracles of the Pill.  Medicating your uterus is not a good relationship.  You are literally drugging your vagina into submission.  I would venture to call that a really not good relationship, actually.

I don't blame them, though.  First of all, this:

Second of all, recently, when I've looked at a silhouette of the female reproductive system, all I've thought was some terrible hunch-backed, Gru-like villain:

Good luck unseeing that.

If it made sense for me, I'd probably dope up that bad-boy, too.

Plastic Princess

Confession:

I cosplay.

I'm also a massive Firefly fan.  I like to be a
well-rounded geek.

I'm sure some of you had your suspicions when I dressed up as an Alice in Wonderland character for Halloween last year with materials from scratch (though - I could just have really been into Halloween). Nope.  The truth is, I'm really quite into costume play - mostly from a design basis, but partly from a media appreciation standpoint, too.

For some reason, cosplayers get a lot of grief, particularly the lady breed, though something like this is totally acceptable:

Star-Struck

I sincerely apologize for how rough today's entry is going to be, as it is pretty much on the fly.  Last night, after nursing a slightly cramping right hand, I realized that I had virtually nothing planned to talk about today.  Yes, I do have a small list of ideas to choose from, but it doesn't cover the entire month, and some of the topics I've got are are planned to be shared on later days.

Or there's always this wellspring of positive creativity.

Any hope of me deciding upon anything interesting was dashed after I decided to watch an hour-long Q&A with Tom Hiddleston and lost the ability to form cogent thoughts. Attractive, goofy, and most importantly - British... the man is a nerd-girl's wet dream.

Thanks to GK for finding this image, which I keep on my phone
in case I need a pick-me-up from a rainy day.  Hnnnhhhhh <3