Wednesday, January 23, 2013

"Look, Snotface! *Cobwebs!*"

Oh my heavens oh my stars, how overlooked and forgotten is *this* thing? Lots to do, lots having happened, so let's hit the recaps:


  • I moved. The military had me sequestered in Nebraska, land of cold and corn. My specialty while in the service held me fast even after I got my standard GCD; I ended up sticking around the Midwest, working in the same building and same job as when I'd been enlisted. (Cuter shoes, though, so it evens out.) But lo, an opening... opened up in my home state, the glorious West, the Golden State, land of skipping the crappy seasons, and moved did I, back to California. Not only was this a solid career-type move, but it got me away from some of the dram-dram and general awfulness hinted at a few posts ago, too. So for those few friends still stuck in the flatlands, don't be blue; I'm in a better place, where I can run around with other ex-linguists. 

  • I stopped smoking. This is notable because of why I stopped- somehow, I picked up a beau, and as he is of the non-smoking variety, it seemed a polite thing to do to not foist upon his delicate palate the gritty reality of lung-butter-breath. The fact that I met a dude who warranted that sort of change is a little awesome, too- all the others either came before I picked up smoking (because smoke breaks rule, to this day) or were told, politely,

But then along came A, and he's pretty rad, so it's looking like my days of cadging a smoke in every parking lot have come to a stinky, ashy end. 

  • I picked up a trainer, and she's awesome. Well, first I got a dude trainer, and that little debacle is likely the next post I post, but. THEN he got all fired and I got a girl trainer and she is great at all the exercise programming, which is important because this is the year I accomplish another fitness goal: figure model competition.  So there will be postings about that, too.

  • ART. I am figuring out more and more that I really probapossibly should learn Photoshop, or at least how to color things on computers. Until I either take a summer course in this area or figure it out via blind flailing (which is how I learn most things, honestly) I will be working on, well, lots of random things. Newest random thing? CROSS STITCH PATTERNS.

  • Finally, NETFLIX RECOMMENDATIONS. It seems like the Flix gets less and less good content as time goes on, so this is both a request and a service- I can thoroughly recommend Once Upon a Time, Better Off Ted, and if you grew up with morgue humor at the supper table, well... the entire run of Law and Order: SVU is on there, too. 
This has been your random recap. Thanks for reading!



Saturday, August 4, 2012

Art Dump: Tattoos for Others


Random person on deviantArt asked for this. I have no idea if she actually ever got it done, as I create and molt devArt accounts like a new snakeskin skirt that looks SUPER AMAZING and IS GOING TO BE THE BEST and WORN EVERY DAY THIS TIME I SWEAR MOM until I wear it twice, it starts to itch, and smells like, well, dead snake. Then off to the internet ether it goes.

Someday, I imagine all my abandoned devArt/Elfwood/etc. accounts are going to gundam up into one hideous, malformed and backgroundless beast and come looking for vengeance on the cruel creator what left it in the web equivalent of an abortion clinic dumpster; thank God I didn't get good at drawing proportionate bodies or people without spina bifida until way later on, or I'd have to worry about them, you know, walking after me all upright.

I'll... get... you... even with my question mark of a spine!


Hahaha, dat tumory arm

Needs a background, eh?

*Why not STARS******

He didn't end up getting it, if only because he got himself kicked out of the military for smokin' the ganja, getting hauled in for Operation Golden Flow, and then promptly surrendering AND ratting out all his friends. Pretty sweet design though, right, Space Cowboys?

Has she ever seen a gun? Let's pretend she hasn't so it's just a little sad. 

If you're going to ask a person to draw you a tattoo, it behooves you to ensure they are skilled, are fairly reliable with completing tasks, and that they draw in the style you like.


It also helps if they have experience drawing whatever it is you're looking for; for example, if you want a dragon of a European style, and the only dragon said artist has to their name is an Asian monstrosity with fortune cookies that invoke a Georgia-O'Keefe-ordered-Chinese vibe, well. Like the coat hanger said to the excited fetus, prepare for disappointment.

Why yes I did own a few deep-chest-bodied dogs, why do you ask?

 

This was for Mike. Mike was another guy I met on the ol' dA, except unlike Random McWhat'shertits up there, I actually liked the guy a lot, particularly when he brought me in on a project of spectacular distaste. I mean, how could you not love a guy who would order up the tattoo above? He ended up quitting dA too (if you needed another example of how neato the kid was) but we Facebook friended, so, it's pretty legit you guys.

Did I mention the re-appropriated superheros as fan characters? 

ADVENTURES!
 
Anyways, any of you kids want a design, keep ol' Tennaners in mind, eh? Eh? 

...where are you going?




Thursday, August 2, 2012

Surely the Internet Needs MOAR GIFS.

Flew today, and while poo-gas smells were at a blessed minimum, the nature of our jets is that they are very old, very dirty, and let's face it- you know that "not-fresh" feeling doe-eyed preteens murmur to dutiful, tampon-packing moms? Imagine that sensation ALL OVER.


  MOSTLY ON YOUR FACE, THOUGH. And of course, today is the day I run out of my little wet-wipes with the soothing this-herb and cleansing this-botanical, so here I sit with a handful of those Clorox wipes because for reals, I feel too disgusting to be seen even in textual format. My primary concern at this point is that The Roommate will order food and then do that thing he does where he doesn't hear the VERY LOUD doorbell and it will weigh heavy on those manners my mother beat into me, thinking of that poor wage slave at our door, treading water in the 100% humidity out there, until I finally get up to answer it.


And don't think I can just hit The Roommate until he is made aware that his food is here; one of his uncanny abilities is to be randomly and inexplicably shirtless, and apparently making the seventeen year old at the door witness his bare chest is somehow more offensive/trashy than his oily counterpart, resplendent in t-shirt from 4 am and sweatpants issued by the military. So off I pad in my resentment and guilt (which does nothing to further the attractiveness of this situation, as you can imagine.) I pause at the top of the stairs and look down the darkened well.

"Maybe I should leave the light off," I think. "Then they will only see that there are hands holding money, surely that won't be threatening."


"...maaaaaaybe not."

So then I suck it up, hit the massively unflattering overhead lighting, and pound down the stairs. Note the change in verb there? From pad to pound? It's not an intentional thing, kids- the acoustics are conspiring with the lights to make me as monstrous as possible. It is impossible to descend those stairs without sounding like you are attempting to Riverdance and your teacher was Derek Vinyard.

So this kid's tip is like, quadrupling with every Jello-shaking stomp, and just when I am feeling like the most hideous mockery of human girl conjoined with Hutt, something clicks. Or falls off like a load off a truck. I decide, eff it, I was the six year old who wanted to be a T-Rex when I got older; let's own this scene.

 Even with the flying- can we say Spirit Animal?
 

 WHAM WHAM WHAM GREASE GREASE WHAM and the door WHOOMPS open, and I'm 

   because T-Rexes have many teeth AND much attitude, and then I actually behold the delivery guy, 





       He's.... beautiful...





 ...







At least The Roommate is fairly good at comforting me when he finds me fetal-style in a corner:

 




Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Lift


So, I'm into the fitness. I began life as a runner, which was following in my parents' footsteps, literally. After hours of running every night in my first tech school, and my first two marathons, both of which were conducted on some of the flattest flats you could find west of the Rockies, I attempted the Big Sur marathon. I was cocky- this was old hat to me, I'd done it before, sure there were a few topographical differences, but surely youth and hubris would make up the difference!




                                                            Sad trumpet sound here.

I made it to the half-marathon point, and just... stopped. I was done. At the time, just with the race, but later on, I realized that by done, I meant done. The running kick was put paid with one last, aborted marathon, and I never looked back. It was time to find something else to do to ward off the fatness.

At my next tech school, I discovered it in the weight room.


Things are bigger in Texas!

To this day, I still do just that, in varying increments (5 sets x 12 reps with one weight for a couple of months, then the upside-down pyramid of higher weight to lower reps in a 12 rep - 10 rep - 8 rep - 6 rep pattern, etc. I won't go into more detail than this, because I think on the scale of Things You Love to Discuss That No One Wants to Hear, discussing your personal workouts is beneath "Dreams" but slightly above "Pictures of Food I took with my iPhone+Instagram." If you really care, follow the link to my fitocracy and stalk me around the gym!

Wait. Don't do that.)
 
I like to pick up heavy things, and then put them down, and then do it again, half-in-hopes that someday, I will be able to lift even *heavier* things! Quite a goal, very conducive and productive, yes yes.

The other part of my ambition is not at all performance-based, and therefore, out in the world or on the fitness sites I frequent, not something I often disclose; frankly, I'm in it for the vains as well as the gains. I want to look good in clothes and not in clothes and all of that good stuff that you only care about if you are shallow. 

 Don't care if shallow. Am honest. Want. 

And I don't think I'm in the minority, even while most may not want to admit "sex appeal" as readily as they do their desire for "health" or "longevity" or any of the other words on the pill bottles you buy at GNC. You know, the things that are socially acceptable to want, or else you risk people trying to somehow, weirdly, let you down easy. It sounds odd, but I've hand-to-God had people do the whole soft-voice consolation speech; it's as if they, from either their own experiences or from seeing other people try and fail to lose weight, want most to reassure you that it's just that darn ol' media that wants you thin and pretty and able to shop in stores that do not have Bryant or Barn in the title, whereas actual, inner you just wants lasagna.

 Inner turmoil as pictured with bad lighting.

 But goals is goals, and whether or not you want to be as blunt and vain as I am in declaring your actual ambition, off you go on your fitness journey... but not alone. For if you thought the "My Deepest Sympathies on Your (Attempted) Loss" friends were annoying, well, honey, you ain't seen nothin' yet. 

For out of the woodwork of your Facebook or MySpace or Twittermagerd come the product-pushers. 



Don't let the uber cute lolcat throw you, because, man alive, do I hate these people. Or would, if hate wasn't altogether too much effort to waste on something I don't like. Let's say, for argument's sake, that they are at the very least heartily disliked. Got that? Good, because here's the itemized list of why these people should be right-click-IGNORED post haste: 

First off, why's it always got to be people who are FATTER THAN ME pushing the products? Guys, I'm no willowy fashion model, but I maintain a shape that is easily recognized as not-a-manatee from even a healthy distance. Yet any time someone comes along to push their product, it's always someone larger than me, and unhealthier to boot. 

Let's not beat around the bush: what I'm about to say isn't a nice, PC thing to say, because if there's anything worse than someone being a straight-shooter with not-pleasant news, it's someone who passive-agressively implies it.


Like approaching anyone else with a product designed for weight loss, for example. Don't think you're being subtle, you jerk; why would you approach me if you didn't think I could use something made specifically for fat people?

Tip for all you aspiring Product Pyramid scheme types out there: if you want people to buy your product, find people who would aspire to look like its spokesperson: you. When approaching a prospective client, ask yourself, "Do I look like their 'Before,' or their 'After?'" Doing otherwise makes you look oblivious and, quite frankly, wishing their salesperson would pay less attention to detail isn't, like, a thing that happens. Ever.

Okay, so secondly, there's the fact that it's not actual food food, but food product. On the one hand, everybody's body is different, and if you find a product that works for you physically, financially, etc., good on you and way to go! One-two products, like a protein bar or shake, can even ensure you stick to your diet guns by being ready right now, and that can be the difference between will power for days and (this is probably just me) justifying Oreo-knockoff "Hydrox" as "fiber."But I'm a way bigger proponent of learning how to eat healthy via real food than "the commercial says eat cereal so that's all I will eat because the model on the commercial looks like how I want to look." Three sub-reasons real food > food product: 



1. Availability. Real food is everywhere. It's simply more widely available than cheese-flavored lo-so rice-cereal blocks, and therefore, you can find deals on it, eat a variety of foods of your choosing, and not be stuck paying fixed rates on food product because WELL THAT'S WHAT IT COSTS, JENNY C. SAYS SUCK IT UP LIKE THE SAUCE IN THE CORNERS OF THE BOX. 

BACK OFF IT'S MINE STUPID WRAPPER


2. Sustainability. Real food consumption allows for people to go out and eat socially, like in a restaurant, at a picnic, at a party, etc. Anyone who's jimmies are rustled by this, i.e. "Well just don't eat out, restaurants are costly and you never know what they *really* put in the food because it's not you making it, and if you're trying to lose weight you should eat at home, alone, forever," should never have gotten onto your friends list, let alone right-click-IGNORE. 

No, what Debbie Downer up there doesn't take into account is that having support from your friends can be key. So is distraction from how hungry you feel or how bored/depressed/lonely you are and how those cookies may not be love, but they taste close enough, is key. And really, experiencing food IRL as opposed to ICC (in cardboard container) allows you to learn how to eat well IRL, i.e., fix the actual problem as to how you got to a size or fitness level you don't like, and not just fixing the symptoms. If you're chained to a product line, you're far less likely to learn about portion sizing and macronutrient balancing, which means that unless you plan on being on, say, Weight Wishers' food FOREVER AND EVER, and eating alone over your sink because a fatty like you doesn't deserve plates, you'll have no idea how to eat when *off* the product, and hello rebound weight. (I'm not posting the statistics on weight re-gain here, but man alive, are they depressing.) 

(Oh, fine. Just so none of you can jump up my butt about sources.)


Also, you want to talk cost?...

3. Reliability. I touched on it above with the paranoia about what extras restaurants are adding to your food,


NO, MY POINT TOTALS DON'T INCLUDE SPIT!!!


and you actually have good reason to be concerned- many restaurants throw melted butter on steak on the reg, to make it seem more succulent and savory, for example. So eating at home does allow you some more control over what you're actually ingesting...

...when it comes to real food. This popped up in my newsfeed today, and in skimming it, I didn't feel disgust, paranoia, or even frustration, but... deja vu. That's the thing about these products- they maybe started out or contained something grown from seeds (both plant and animal apply here if you've spent any time on farms) but they've been so processed, blanched and sifted that whatever trace is left is nigh unrecognizable. The fact that it's shelf-stable should be a tip-off; last time I checked, if I dumped three pounds of grapes into a kitchen drawer and left it there, it would not be a tasty treat come a week later. That so many food products extol their organic and natural virtues on products that have better nuclear survivability than Cher is misleading and totally irritating for people who are trying, damnit, to watch what they eat, and to pull these shenanigans on people that are already feeling low about themselves and are totally raging from hunger... it's a wonder you don't hear about high-fructose-corn-syrup labs getting burned to the ground after their whole "it's corn-sugar, and corn's a plant, so, HEALTHY!" campaign.

Additionally, I totally remember reading that article in Men's Health and Fitness about the guy who started drinking soy milk because it was marketed as healthy... and grew him an impressive set of hooters. Any product that can mess so badly with your hormones might be good to avoid, anyway.



Unless, of course, you're into that. 

So whether or not you guys are into gaining strength, agility or stamina, losing weight or clothing sizes, or just peachy-perfect the way you are, just remember that diet is just as important as exercise- your size you build in the gym, but your shape is built in the kitchen- and that learning about nutrition and building your own diet vs. buying some prepackaged stuff that comes with a IKEA-like schedule of "At Time A, Shove Package B into Foodhole" is like that other old saw about teaching people to fish. Only in this example, if you learn how to provide for yourself, you're good to go, my friend...  

...but if you don't, expect that the fish monger will be in the same place every day, charging you a pretty penny for ground-up bits of fish SHAPED into a fish-like patty.

And he's the only monger you're allowed to buy from, so if he decides to jack up the price, let's hope you have extra cash laying around.

And you get to listen as he waxes rhapsodic about how much weight you'll lose, your eyes unable to meet the shiny glaze of his belly sweat in the midmorning sun.

Just stick with the diet chocolate bars! They're great for you and you'll lose gobs of weight... trust me.  I know what I'm talking about!

Friday, July 6, 2012

Art Dump, Life Update


 Art tends to come in all-out phases for me. An old friend of mine used to attribute it to my zodiac sign; she'd nod knowingly at my pages and pages of comics or fan art or tattoo designs (of which the dragon above falls, surprisingly) and draw parallels as to how ram-like my run-run-run-ohshitawall-KEEP-RUNNING behavior was, and I couldn't really argue (aside from astology being absolute hokum, I mean.)

This phase was the tattoos and flash art phase, and fittingly enough was the same year The Roommate took me to get my first tattoo, which was also my first tattoo design.


This is why it is imperative to find not just a talented artist, but a *smart* artist, kids; she wisely talked me out of both the cliched scroll AND the Chinese characters. While you'd think someone who had been trained by the military to understand a foreign language for 63 weeks would be less likely to get a screwed up, incorrect or even crass foreign language tattoo, off the top of my head I can name such a one: a guy who flipped two characters' places in a four-character phrase, which are pretty common in Chinese culture, which he would also have learned through the course.

Thanks to his inattentiveness, his "寧 為 玉 碎" or "níng wéi yù suì (colloquially, death before dishonor)" became "寧碎 為 玉 " or rather, dishonor before death.



This week has been choppy and left me feeling a little like one of those dreams where you're juuuuust drifting off and then you TRIP on a curb and TWITCH your silly butt awake. This is what happens when a federal holiday squats in the middle of your week, I imagine, and while it must have happened at least once before in my twentyCOUGHcough years, I don't remember it. 

What I did remember, however, was DEADLINES!!! prompted by the story I posted last time. That particular zine is headed up by a kid I used to babysit (and who was nice enough not to point out that I did manage to outgrow my awkward teens finally, as he seemingly skipped his and records albums now) and two of his compatriots, and while it does ostensibly accept short stories in the form of flash fiction, the last couple of issues have been all poetry. Which, if that's your bag, by all means, but it's not my scene, jelly beans. < the most poetry you will ever see me do.

But while sonnets and slams are out of my ken, they also troll for high-contrast black and white art, and while I'm about 80% sure it's not just my former charge exhibiting some nepotism for his elders, I *did* manage to get a picture published as the back cover on one issue:


So I'm currently running about with my hair on fire, trying to figure out 3-5 black and white pictures for an issue entitled "Kisses for Fishes." And while they stress that there's not a thematic requirement, well, I imagine you'd be pretty confused if you were told about a magazine of poetry that had 'something to do with fish?" and yet, when you went looking for this volume, the cover was, say, Ninja Turtles fan-art / character design:


So I'll let you know if that happens... but wouldn't it be fun if you knew because you got published too? Seriously. Submit some brilliance, people.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

Real Life is non-non-non-non-NON-Heinous!

So it's been a while. And I haven't written, haven't called, haven't so much as posted up a quick link to someone else's top ten. I wish it could have a good reason attached, this sudden drop off in posts- like, that I had secretly fostered super powers and was spending my free time running about in long johns, fighting crime via punching people doing the crime a lot. Or maybe that I had been tinkering in the kitchen so long, I discovered a cake that tastes exactly like red velvet but actually is made of celery, and the more you eat, the more you look like the very first movie character you ever found beautiful. 

On second thought...

 However comma, I have no such life-altering goodness to share. Or goodness. There is something afoot in my life, and not in the funny way that would provide either an entertaining or a Very Special episode of this rinky-dink one-chick show we're running here. It's something I can't go into, not now, and really, probably not for a good long while, as I'm having trouble finding humor in the situation at all. Which, come on people, if you've been reading along, you know full well that if I can't wrest out a "dumb me" story or even crack a joke about what shenanigans I got up to this time...

then it is probably, potentially, possibly (and in this case, definitely) something pretty horrible and let's just spare the melodramatics and woe-is-mes for when I'm on the rag and much more likely to provide adequate waterworks as to convey just how awful it all is. 

So here's a story I wrote that got published. 


She straightened as her friend approached the booth, hands skirting down to smooth her scrub pants as she did so. "Well there you are, Susan!"

"Sorry I'm late, lunch-time rush traffic." She pulled her sunglasses up over her forehead and with a quick smile and a nod, dispatched the approaching waiter for a glass of water. "But you knew I wouldn't flake on you, not when you've got juicy details." She leaned forward against the table and in the conspiratorial fashion of little girls with candy, lowered her voice an octave. "Now. Spill."

Rebecca slouched back with an exhale. "Oh, wow. I thought he was obnoxiously persistent on the flight, but when he called the third time the next day-"

"The old divorcee called again?" A titter erupted as Susan followed suit, sitting back against the booth in her own body language for disbelief. The waiter slipped her water onto the table, and after a perfunctory order of salad nicoise and peach cobbler, disappeared again.

"I know, right? But should we be surprised, from how obnoxiously he behaved on the plane, and me, completely held captive -check that, hostage- at 30,000 feet?"

"It's probably the only time he ever gets a girl's number, when she's good and trapped. Then he can casually bring up his millionaire self -flying coach- and his yachts and music videos." Her eyes rolling, Susan continued. "I mean, when you told me the bit about his owning a clothing label specifically for his own use, because, what- he's so special that he can't bring himself to wear something us pedestrian bourgeouis pick up in stores?"

Laughing, Rebecca jumped in, "Right, because that just means he really must be a millionaire; it's a well-known fact that Armani and Versace's lines are really only for the middle-class, and any really rich people just open their own lines when they spill a little sauce on their white button-ups."

The giggling continued as lunch was served, and Rebecca tucked a stray red curl behind her ear as she speared a cucumber slice with her fork, continuing her story between bites. "Well, apparently the elderly have nothing better to do than phone girls half their age and beg for dates, and well, I figured if it went poorly enough, that'd be the end of the phone calls. So he promises me a day I'll never forget, right? Makes a reservation at some little bistro, orders a car, I'm to be out waiting by the drive at nine.

"So the car rolls up- only it's not a chauffered car at all, it's him driving- he wanted to show me he was a 'take-charge man.'" She paused for effect as Susan nearly choked on a hard-boiled egg, then continued. "The restaurant is some hole-in-the-wall Italian joint, and point for him, it was really good -burned-tomato-flavored sauce, excellent garlic bread- and then we hit this country bar for dancing. Hypothetically."

Susan tilted her head, subconsciously mimicking her last patient, Woofles, the French Bulldog. "And pray tell, how does one, "hypothetically," dance?"

"Well I'll tell you, Suze- you go to a bar, boasting a whole host of knowledge and alleged compliments on your dancing abilities, and then you get inside, realize the median age in the bar is approximately that of your youngest child, and then claim that it's too noisy to get to know eachother and relocate to his 'pad' for a nightcap."

Susan regarded her coworker with incredulity. "Ugh! Seriously?"

"Seriously. And the whole drive there, he kept mistaking my thigh for his gear-shift." She shook her head. "Thing is, he was almost in the clear... up to the groping, that is. And the rohypnol in my drink."

Susan's eyebrow quirked. "So that'd be a gin and amnesia for you, and a Geritol and Viagra for him?"

Rebecca held up a hand as they giggled on, empty salad plates being replaced with peach cobbler. "No no, I have no idea what his drink was... because I was too busy staring at the gold-framed 2-by-3-foot portrait of him, his current wife and three kids."

Susan let out another laugh, but her reserve was depleted and the sound barely carried. "So that's when you knew."

Rebecca nodded sagely, turning to regard her reflection in the window. "That's when."

The redhead lowered her eyes from the glass pane and blushed. Susan coughed delicately, then picked up her fork to prod her cobbler. "So what about the body?"

"Turns out, he wasn't lying... about the yacht."

750 word flash fiction; published under the name Joan Colairta* by Bank Heavy Press in their September 2011 offering, "Orangutan."

*Oh, come off it, anyone who's ever dreamed of authoring more than a shopping list has toyed with a nom de plume. Especially if their name puts them in shoddy cupcake territory.