The year in review

2009 was an excellent year for us, filled with grand journeys, great love and copious amounts of meat (for San). It marked the first entire year we spent together!

We traveled across the sea to glorious Ireland, where San’s BFF Holly had spent the previous three months. Holly hosted them with gusto, enchanting San with the Guinness Brewery tour where we all learned how to pour a perfect pint. San also drank several perfect pints…enthusiastically. Next came our first rugby game in the hotel pub, in which Ireland breathtakingly defeated Wales in the waning seconds of the match. After the first night of revelry, which included finding the Dubliner version of Captain America, Holly lured us into a train using wine and cheese, and stole us across the country to her abode in Galway. One day was devoted to visiting the majestic Cliffs of Mohr, underground caverns where bears once dwelled, and exploring graveyards and castle ruins. We even met her Irish Boyfriend, who introduced us to a village where where old (and not-so-old) Irishmen start drinking at the local historic pub at approximately 7:06 a.m. (The Irish Boyfriend eventually made two trips to Chi-town later in the year to see his beloved Holly.)

Shortly after returning from overseas, Tracy hunkered down to study for her professional engineering licensing exams (yes, plural, as in two). Hours, hours, and more hours at the end of March and most of April disappeared in such quiet places as coffee shops, libraries and the dining room table on Saturday and Sunday mornings. She rejoiced in July upon finding out that she passed. She can now legally oversee and sign off on dangerous projects that could very well kill you.

We met our respective families for the first time this year, traveling first to Tracy’s hometown in Kentucky. On Day One, during mid-drink at the local baked goods establishment, Tracy’s Aunt Sheila unexpectedly gave San a southern seal of approval. San also experienced a Kentucky tradition of biscuits and sausage gravy, made from scratch by Tracy’s Pop. (It was later explained that such a feast was only prepared for those her father liked.) In the fall, Tracy met San’s extended family in New York. His parents, aunts and uncles took a vote, and decided she could stay.

In June, San fulfilled his 10-year dream to attend the Annual Superman Celebration in Metropolis, Illinois. The geekfest featured the world’s largest Superman statue, a Superman Museum, appearances by Superman writers and actors, locals dressed in a variety of superhero costumes, and a nefarious gaggle of Mole Men - all eagerly enjoyed by a wide-eyed San, who gleefully purchased collectibles and photographed as many Supergirls as he could.

This year was also filled with obligatory wedding trips. We attended our first Jewish wedding in Cincinnati, complete with a “little hat” for San and kosher delicacies. Tracy was a beautiful (and unfortunately pink) bridesmaid for her brother’s ceremony in Kentucky, where she managed to be unnaturally perky for several hours. San was the best man at his childhood chum’s wedding deep in the Adirondack Mountains. He got to ride in the back of a 1940s fire truck, was appropriately introduced at the reception to the Pulp Fiction theme song and, of course, gave a riveting best man speech about the groom’s love for dragons, which had been sweetly supplanted (or at least augmented) by his love for his new bride.

Halloween was celebrated with eerie finesse, complete with costumes, cobwebs, corpse-faced fiends, chili and spider-legged cheeseballs. We hosted our friends in our first and final bash at the old apartment, filling it with opposing sounds of creepy sounds and death metal, and baking decorate-your-own cookies. The party was certified a success when the marathon partiers began battling board-game zombie legions, while Tracy mysteriously disappeared around 1 a.m. San later found her on the bed, where she mumbled, “Someone must protect the coats!”

In November, Tracy closed on her first home. During this exciting time, San reached his major personal accomplishment (along with his trustworthy chum, the Captain) for 2009: he finally defeated every single burger on the menu of his favorite restaurant, Kuma’s Corner. While San and Cap packed their bellies, Tracy spent the day packing boxes. (San made penance by spending 14 hours packing the following Saturday.) We finally moved ourselves and the two grumpy old cats in December, shortly before Christmas.

Christmas was spent with Tracy’s family, where San woke every morning to the savory smell of pork sausage in her Pop’s man-kitchen. A painful amount of food was eaten, many presents were opened (to the three kitties’ glee), and much snow and rain was driven through to get to and from the festivities. San even learned not to snuggle with the calico cat, who first played shy then tried to eat his ear.

We hope this year has been as kind to all of our friends as it has to us. Happy holidays, and may 2010 rock your arm sockets out!

San & Tracy

Misadventures in new condo'ing

Summary of misadventures thus far (the day before moving in):

We bought a fancy closet organizer. It will be awesome. It's still not in, because when we ripped out the existing shelf and hang bar, the moulding was glued to the wall and ripped off the underlying paint. No big deal...we spackled and sanded, and prepared to paint the upper half of the closet, above the line at the bottom of the moulding. The previous owner had painted the bottom of the closet steel blue to match the bedroom walls, but left the upper part cream. We taped the edges, found the matching paint, and started painting the edges. It was the wrong color. Forty-five minutes later our entire closet matched the hallway outside the condo. We have yet to figure out why the previous owner, who painted the common areas on commission, kept the common area paint colors under the sink of the guest bathroom.

I learned to install sealant by caulking the edge of the tub with clear silicone and questionable lighting. I started to get the hang of it about 3/4 of the way around the tub. There are some holes that need to be patched one of these years.

I learned to remove caulking by scraping up the edge of the sink. I think white caulk will make it look better. If not, I get to pick a new color for the master bath.

Speaking of new colors...I took down the too-industrial-looking pipe fixture towel bar (yeah, weird, right?) in the guest bath, spackled the holes, and dug out the paint from underneath the sink. Learning from the closet mishap, I carefully matched the dried paint on the side of the can to the wall. San compared, and we came to agreement on the most likely color. Six days later, there are still too dark spots on the wall. So I get to pick a new color for the guest bath, too.

San created his own damage in the second bedroom closet. He took the hang bar out so that he could put shelving in for his comics. As part of this, he decided to lower the shelf to sit evenly on the moulding. Sometime in the past, someone raised only the ends by adding a 1 inch high piece of moulding to provide more clearance for the hang bar. Once he tore into it, San found holes all the way through the moulding and the drywall that had been drilled to install the hang bar, gobs of paint that had collected on top of the short upper moulding (which had now been removed) and general mayhem. We now need to replace some moulding, scrape, smooth and patch some paint, and again paint yet another closet.

When I bought the place, we thought that we didn't have to paint anything because the previous owner was a professional painter.

Before we even started, I learned how to stain a kitchen cart. It went pretty well, except for the exorbitant amount of dust that collected on the first coat of stain while it was tacky. I guess that's the downside of keeping the windows open to allow for the proper ventilation that the authors of the warnings on the can are so worried about.

The sixth (or eleventh maybe, I'm losing count) trip to Home Depot will be to pick up white sealant, moulding, wood primer, paint...and drywall anchors so we can finish installing the tall bookcases...

The Thanksgiving Post

As usual, this blog has fallen into the trap of neglect due to the authors' heavy involvement in that mysterious entity referred to as Real Life. But this is a good thing to be celebrated. And in honor of today being a designated day of celebration, I'm going to list a few things that have made this year memorable!

• I met San, who clearly and unequivocally influenced my life decisions this year. We started dating just before Thanksgiving last year.
• My best friend got engaged to her long-time boyfriend. (Among other things in her life: she's had a fantastic year, too!)
• San and I went to Ireland. It was awesome.
• I studied for and passed my professional licensing exam on the first try. Why such a big deal? The fee to sit is about $1,000, and the sitting is for two eight-hour days. And the pass rate is only about 50% for the first try. Go me!
• I moved in with San, and it turned out to be a Good Thing. Especially since we still like each other after six months of close quarters. We might even argue that we like each other significantly more, if asked.
• I lost a couple of friends, but made new ones.
• My brother got hitched, and even though I wore an ill-fitting and ill-tailored dress that was pink, my parents finally had a good time and I have a sister-in-law.
• San met ALL of my family. They got along.
• My brother is back in the U.S. for the first time in five years.
• I met San's family and several of his close friends. ALL of his family. We got along.
• I bought a condo, and am now a first time homeowner. (We will be moving next month...)
• My family and friends are in generally good health and happiness.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you! May your next year be full of love, light, health, and happiness!

"Oh, shit!" Jesus

San and I have a favorite coffee shop/cafe that we visit every couple of weeks. This particular coffee shop decorates its walls with artwork. Not just a little artwork, but enough that you're not quite sure what color paint is being covered by the panels.

The quality of the work varies significantly. One of our favorite amateur pieces is an oil painting that hangs between the cash register and the door. It depicts Christ on the cross, bleeding from the crown of thorns and the wounds on his hands and side. The unconventional part of this piece, which has a price listed as "Any reasonable offer," is that Jesus looks surprised. As if he was taken in by the sudden reality of the situation. As if he is saying, "Oh, shit! Man, this ain't cool! What am I doin' up bleedin' on this thang?! That was NOT part of the deal!"

I call him, "Oh, shit! Jesus."

Ren Faire 2009

Yesterday we attended the Renaissance Faire in Bristol, Wisconsin. There was cleavage spilling over corsets. (HB often and aptly described them as "vein-ey.") There were elf ears and devils horns. There were floral headpieces. There were velvet dresses with long flowing sleeves and leather boots. (Even some with curly toes.) There was a pseudo-mime named Moonie with ping pong balls in his cheeks, and kids wearing chain mail with light sabers. There was even a giant papier mache jester.

There were also fish in chips served in newspaper that hadn't been invented in 1574 (apparently it came about in 1838, thanks to Charles Fenerty of Halifax, which is not even on the same continent as England...), shrimp and vegetable tempura, ice cream crepes, and bratwurst. And Leinenkugel. Can't forget the Leine! Our Irish Chum ate a giant turkey leg and declared it good.

Admission was $16.45 because we had coupons for $2.50 off the regular adult admission. But once inside, we were offered many opportunities to pay $10 to throw 10 tomatoes at a fellow throwing insults right back, pay 2 "pounds" to climb a rope ladder (Tracy never did figure out how they calculated the currency conversion), and pay 5 "pounds" to pummel your buddy with period rapiers. Our new friend Steve was disappointed that San and the Irish Chum wouldn't ride The Hurlinator with him. The cinnamon roasted pecans were pretty yummy.

We passed a giant nose on stilts with wavering arms, and witness Queen Elizabeth be a bitch to her courtiers. Then we got bored and wandered off to find something else to look at.

We ended the afternoon (which was overcast and a bit chilly) with The Mudshow. Billy tweaked his left nipple at us, and got jiggy with one of the patrons on his "side." Hanonymus whined, and thrust his hips in an inappropriate manner and grunted. "Trojans, Trojans, we will never break! Sparta, Sparta, *mumble mutter junk* " Mr. Wiggles was the judge in his mud splattered fez. At least, we think he was Mr. Wiggles. We're not really sure. San yelled "MONKEY" into the crowd at random and for no obvious reason. The Mud Men failed to notice.

http://www.mudshow.com/

They scammed San out of $1. Which was actually Tracy's. The power of competition was a shockingly effective way to collect hats full of bills. Disgustingly effective, in fact.

Chilled and exhausted, Tracy drove and San snored home.

Happy birthday to me!

My birthday was last Monday. And I love my friends. Why? Because they joined me for wine and cheese the night before, and gave me love and books about sex. I think they rock.

And why else? Because they ate the chocolate cake that I made for San. Ordinarily this wouldn't be a test of friendship. However, they made the mistake of letting me bake after having nearly three glasses of wine. If I'm giggling, I should not be cooking. So instead of serving warm cake with ice cream, I put 24 of San's 34 candles into the fresh-out-of-the-oven pan of yumminess. And then I wondered why the candles wouldn't stay up straight. And then I wondered whey the bottoms of the candles were melting when I pulled a couple out to reposition them.

Some moments I am truly a super genius. That night while tipsily baking was not one of those moments.

Sorpresa Mexicana

To indulge my rice craving, San and I had Mexican on Friday night. As the meal concluded, the waitress brought us the check, and made small talk by asking what if we had any plans for the evening. Thus ensued:

San: Well, I'm going home and getting a belly rub.
Waitress: !!
San: And you don't really want to know any more than that.

Waitress walks off, then soon returns.

Waitress: (Looking at me) Is that true? Is he really getting a belly rub?
Me: (Shrugging) Yeah, pretty much. Yesterday was his birthday.
Waitress: Happy birthday!
San: It's her (nodding towards me) birthday, too, on Monday.
Waitress: Happy early birthday!

We sit for several minutes, waiting for her to return the paid check. I even joke that she had run off with my credit card. A few more minutes pass...and a horde of waitstaff return with his and hers cheesecake - San's had a blue candle, and mine had a pink candle and hearts. Birthday singing began, and the waitress commanded that we make wishes and blow out our candles.

Who would have predicted that San skeeving out the waitress would lead to treats?

¡Feliz cumpleaños!

Coming attractions

So we've been total bums lately. Which I think is okay. I thought that the Fourth of July would yield some interesting stories, but we ended up isolating ourselves in the apartment, hanging some pictures, and having a Buffy marathon. Then Holly came over and we had fish tacos and watched Harry Potter. At least, I think that might be the right day I'm remembering... I managed to be out of town every single day of the short week before the holiday, so I didn't really feel like doing much that weekend. Particularly if it required sitting in a car for longer than ten minutes.

The end point is that not much has happened in the Tracy and San household of late, aside from some quality time with some friends and seeing the ever-funny Arj Barker at Lakeshore Theater. Which reminds me that I should recommend that you check him out - www.arjbarker.com. I have no idea why he doesn't have youtube video up, but it's a bit negligent. The crowd was an unfortunately bad match to his comic style, which involves long lead-ups and some subtle humor, but we got several good laughs. In fact, I think Carolyn narrowly avoided peeing herself a couple of times. It was all good fun.

I predict, however, that the above statement regarding domestic bummage will soon be null and void. San made me get out of bed before 6 a.m. this morning (notice that it's Saturday!) to drop him off at the airport. I will be joining him in a few days to meet his family (*gasp*) and serve as arm candy as he presides as Best Man at his friend's wedding. If there aren't stories, I will be extraordinarily disappointed. San is already working on collecting them. I spoke with him mid-afternoon, and he had already flown via regional jet to New York, taken a brewery tour, eaten barbeque, bought comics, and taken a nap in preparation for an evening out. I think he may have even met up with his parents at some point. In the same span of time, I had driven home from the airport, eaten yogurt, run by the vet's office to pick up a list of potential cat-sitters, and taken a shower and two naps.

Stories will be shared after we get back from almost-Canada.

Kitty Goes to the Doctor

We have two geriatric babies: Hektor, who is a 14-year old black kitty with fangs of terror (also known as the breaker of horses and men), and Toby, who is a 16-year old siamese kitty with bulimia. They are both needy, whiny, and shed, but they purr, so they get to live with the heroes of this blog.

Today marked our first dependent-related medical procedure: we dropped Hektor off at the vet this morning for surgery. Because he was a foul-mouthed beast. In other words...Hektor went to the dentist.

San slept poorly last night, worrying about the impending procedure to his baby. Two weeks ago, the vet predicted that three teeth would come out. She did, however, admit that she was so excited about the first bad one that caught her attention that she hadn't really looked at the rest.

At the appointed hour, we deposited kitty with the receptionist. Tracy went to work; San worked from home with his phone on his person at all times and nerves on full alert. When Tracy checked in around lunchtime, San was still formulating fifty gruesome scenes of dental disaster and had nearly given himself an outbreak of gout. Ten minutes later, San finally got a call. Hektor made it through surgery, was groggy, and the vet had extracted EIGHT teeth.

That's right: eight.

Promptly at 4:30, San and Tracy went to fetch the feline. The vet tech reported that Hektor was missing six teeth when he went in for surgery, and that eight more had come out. And that he was supposed to have 32. Quick math revealed that he has 18 left, which is just over half. In fact, the left half. Much to San's relief, the infamous upper fangs remained intact.

Armed with three syringes of pain medication, a bottle of antibiotics, four pages of instructions and patient information, and a bid from the tech to, "Call us if you have any questions at all!" Tracy, San, and Hektor went home. The black cat wobbled drunkenly out of his cage, leaned on nearby legs for precarious support, and headed straight for the other kitty's food dish. Tracy quickly popped a can of Fancy Feast and fed the beast a third of the can. An hour later, after much kitty whining and the discovery that Hektor had eaten the Toby's third, she fed the beast the last third. And still another hour later, Tracy was forced to open a second can to calm the insatiable patient. He finished filling his not-so-little kitty tummy and passed out on the futon, where he still sleeps as we write.

Moral of the story? Brush your teeth before bed.

Operation: Strawberry Short

A few years ago, San attended a wondrous event in Long Grove called the Strawberry Festival. Since the day he met Tracy and realized that she could eat a quart of strawberries in one sitting, he set his heart upon taking his love there. How could she resist a festival dedicated to a yummy red berry?

Last Sunday morning found Tracy and San on their way to Long Grove, Illinois, anticipating a gluttonous day of strawberries. As they approached the festival, the first clue to their proximity was the fact that the street into Long Grove was lined by parked cars. Even though the two municipal parking lots were already full, San gracefully parked the car in a ditch, between an SUV and a minivan, only a half mile north of the northernmost entrance.

In summary, the festival was a bust. Our heroes wandered through the sprawling mess of tents, which were situated between renovated homes that now sheltered touristy boutiques. They found a reprieve from the kitsch at one tent that served very yummy strawberry donuts, but they were disappointed that the "strawberry/lemonade drink" turned out to be $3 Kool-aid. Questing further past the tents selling corn and kabobs, they finally found one fruit stand that sold tiny little wild strawberries from "Micigan."

Fending off complete and utter dismay, our heroes ventured into a quaint Norwegian shoppe, hoping to find helmets, swords, and busty blonde Valkyries with pigtails wielding warhammers. Instead we found Viking Tour 2009 shirts. And snowglobes. And bobblehead Thor.

We left.

Tracy and San drove home, but made sure to stop by Dominicks to buy large, red, flavorful strawberries from Mexico with which to make strawberry shortcake. It was yummy.

An Incomplete Diary On Ireland

During our trip to Ireland I somehow had the bright idea to keep track of everything I experienced. I wanted to preserve my mad adventuring with the written word so that my children and their children and the robot clones of children 3.0 would know of my great and heroic journey across the sea.

So I bought a fancy magnetic journal adorned with Irish doors, took pen to tiny page and tried. Four hours later I had already failed to keep pace with the adventuring and the Guinness.

Having said that, what I shall pass down to the Robo-Sans is that this Irish Odyssey was so epic, so intense, so incredibly rich, that no words could quite capture its grandness. And they will understand because they will be fucking robot clones. They will shun paper and occasionally laugh electronically at the living. But for you, my present humans, I share this unedited, incomplete proof...

March 20, 2009 - Ire

Preparation for trip is a bit hectic. Too much work. Too many dreams of Guinness.

American Taxi is run by robots. There are no humans present at trans headquarters. Robots make me angry, especially when you can't see their robot faces.

Cab driver tells Tracy a joke. I don't hear it. He says he can't repeat it because he's afraid I'll punch him. I almost give him a mitt sandwich for being coy.

Cab becomes hot. Whined. Conditions normalized by cabbie, who tell us he was once a well-traveled aristocrat with a hard-on for Cypress. Former punch possibility fades. Tipped cabbie too much.

Aer Lingus airline tells us our seats aren't together. Unacceptable. Destroy! Requested managerial assistance. Seats changed. Aer Lingus man avoids destruction.

Ate a $9 sandwich. $10 with tax. Note to self: $10 sandwiches at airport bad. Smuggle in proper treats next trip.

Plane satisfactory. Seats in the very back. Explored galley. Irish Air hostess not pleased. I acted dumb, "Where is the lavatory, miss?" Went back to seat. Exploration of snack secrets failed. Further espionage needed on return trip.

Trip over ocean is pleasant. Watery crash death only enters mind once. In the dream I survive and rip out the eye of a shark. Tracy also survives. Looks fetching in coconut bikini. Island life enjoyable. Meat is plentiful. I make a "Wilson" out of a large, exotic fruit husk.

Back to reality - plane
Note: Diary includes a drawing of a plane. A bad drawing and not an actual representation.

Watched first ep of Kings. Very good drama. Ate some kind of beef stew with potatoes that looked like sparrow eggs. Not bad. Tasted even better after seeing Tracy's vegetarian meal (shudder).

Snuggled. Nice. Tracy is a darling. I love her a lot.

Plane lands in Ireland! Greeted by fog. We have journeyed into a cloud. This is Cloud City without a Lando.

Customs takes a while. Some French couple won't stop french talking. Whatever they discuss does not seem important. They realize they are in the wrong line and leave. Sweet cobra... relief!
Customs guy is unfriendly but efficient. Stamped. Baggage and Guinness await.

Walk is long. Boots heavy. Tracy's hand feels warm and inviting.

Bags acquired. Call Holly (my good friend who has been in Ireland for nearly 3 months). 1/2 hour away. We are little waves in a sea of green rugby jerseys. Ireland plays Wales later. Should they win, they will be the first team to sweep all other nations in the 6 nations conference. Rugby is tough. Want jersey.

Call Holly again. Been over an hour. She fails to meet at rendezvous point as discussed. She may be a robot. Turn to walk and Holly is found! So good to see her! Hugs! Her failure is excused. And she has brought me an Alan.

Alan is a thin Asian who was born in Ireland. He has decent taste in music but his driving skills are mediocre. He knows the band Mastodon, so I decide he can continue driving me. I discover he lived in the states for a while before returning to his Irish roots. His lack of brogue is mildly disappointing. I think about telling him to work on it, but I choose not to be a dick this early in our relationship.

Grafton Capital Hotel. Demure check-in girl says we can have our room in a 1/2 hour. Just enough time to fill bellies with Irishness. Note: bacon in Ireland kicks American bacon's ass.

Checked in. Slept. Dreamed of a river of Guinness and Irish sea faeries. Some were topless and Tracy was their leader.

Guinness brewery tour! I now know the secrets of its brilliance. Old dudes threw stuff together and stumbled upon a mighty concoction. Manly and mighty. Tracy and Holly don't like Guinness. Holly asks a bartender to contaminate her pint with Black Currant and was properly dismissed. "No Guinness shall be altered in any way at our brewery!" Dismayed, Holly returned to her seat, whereupon her glass was passed to me. Tracy was also defeated by the rich power of Guinness. Her pint soon passed to me. The king is triple crowned!

BUZZED! I buy stuff.

Off to the hotel bar where we are to meet Alan and watch the Irish rugby team attempt the 6 nation sweep. It's been 61 years since anyone has accomplished the feat. Only Wales stands in their way.

I drink many a Guinness and the match is fantastic. With only 3 minutes remaining Ireland kicks the ball through the uprights and goes up 2 pts. They hold off Wales and the nigh impossible becomes possible! Elation avalanches through the bar. The streets. The country. Rugby good.

Pissed (drunk in Irish) and full of glory, we stumble into a restaurant called Captain America's! As a comic book geek extraordinaire, I am suddenly jizzing my pants. Comic book murals adorn the walls. The waitresses wear T-shirts adorned with Cap's shield. I order a cheeseburger and a drink named after Cap's arch nemesis, the Red Skull. The drink is bad. Nazi bad. I give it to Alan. He's too hammered to reject evil.

We joke and laugh. I mist Holly with food particles. I purchase a Captain America's T-shirt. Happy. Ireland is sweet.

Airport stories

Things I've seen this week while travelling through various airports:

• Mr. Popped Collar. He got off a plane in St. Louis, channeling some Ryan Seacrest-esque spiky bleach blond hair, wearing oversized aviator glasses (did I miss when these came into fashion?), and a short-sleeved brown polo with the collar popped.


• The Turquoise Family. A mother, father, and seven children, aged approximately 15 down to 6. Five boys and two girls. The father and several of the kids had a cool European accent. They were headed to Spain, which one of the middle boys quipped was famous for their chocolate. The men in the family were all clad in turquoise polo shirts, and the women sported turquoise t-shirts. I guess color-coding your kids would make them easier to pick out of a crowd.
  
• Musak. The music choice in Wichita baffles me. I heard an instrumental elevator rendition of Smash Mouth's Walking on the Sun. Never in a million years could I have predicted that this particular song would be immortalized as musak.


• Sunglass Challenged. A commonality among annoying men who think too much of themselves: they wear their wrap-around sporty sunglasses backwards or tucked into the back of their collar.


• Loud Talker. Sitting behind me at O'Hare, an aging baby-boomer heading out on vacation was discussing the status of his buddy drinking, getting sloshed, getting slammed, being inebriated, getting hammered, and various other frat-boy euphemism for being totally drunk to his other buddy via cell phone. Maybe he was wearing his sporty sunglasses on the back of his shirt...but I didn't want to turn around and look.


• Preppy Boy. Lincoln Parker wearing a white polo, white shorts, white no-show socks, and white tennis shoes sat near me, eating a powerbar and a banana. Thankfully he didn't talk.


• Tattooed Woman. I tried hard not to stare, but a woman across from me had full tattooed sleeves on her arms, and was wearing an ill-fitting sleeveless top that clung to her in a very unflattering manner.

Witnessing the Geek-Out

My dad used to refer to something called a "smoke-out." He defined it as a bunch of people (my mental image involved middle-aged men in suits) in a car with the windows rolled up, puffing away on their cigarettes (the men in my version had cigars), trying to stay in the smokey car as long as possible. The loser was the first one to crack a window to find relief from the cancer incubator.

The Superman Festival became my smoke-out, complete with spandex, taped up black-framed glasses, Superman shields heat-applied to cheap t-shirts, and pasty white skin. This version of smoke-out will hereforth be called "Geek-Out." First one to flee, shaking and muttering, loses.

Two weekends ago, San dragged me down to Metropolis, Illinois, to attend the Superman Festival. This trip would fulfill his ten-year old fantasy that had been previously expressed by hanging a postcard on the refrigerator door with Supergirl magnets. Being the good girlfriend, I dropped him off near the festivities on Saturday morning before going cake-tasting with my mom. I then rejoined him for lunch and an afternoon of Geek-Out.

After preparing myself with caffeine and sugar, I returned to see what state of hysteria San would be in as a result of overexposure to Geek. I drove around downtown Metropolis, skirting the closed-off streets, scouting out a parking space. Luckily for me, most drivers who aren't citizens of an urban area are terrified of parallel parking, so I found a free street spot pretty easily. I parked and called San, who reported that he was standing next to the giant Superman statue. This statement immediately begged the question: where is the giant Superman statue? I walked into the middle of the festival, gazed upon the phallic climbing wall directly in front of me, looked to my left down the rows of vendors' trailers selling fried everything with a side of fake tattoo, then looked to my right, past the comic book store with a plastic Superman suspended in a flying pose from the wall of the building, toward the fourteen foot tall effigy of the Man of Steel. I would find San in that direction.

Weaving between the local patrons sporting logo t-shirts and cutoff denim shorts, I ventured into the slowly growing throng of festival-goers. I located San under some trees, just as a band of superheros in surprisingly detailed costumes walked up to the steps of the nearby building for a photo shoot. San nearly jizzed his pants as he captured the posed scenes with my little Nikon point-and-shoot. I laughed to myself as Supergirl and Wonderwoman discussed the visible bruises on Supergirl's legs, which were a result of a carseat incident. Supergirl was either a mom of several small children, or a preschool teacher. Even though tempted, I resisted the urge to crack the window to escape the ever-increasing level of geek. I'm not one to admit defeat within the first fifteen minutes.

We walked around the festival, and I marvelled (haha...I'm so punny) at the elaborate costumes and the amount of pasty-pale skin that normally would never be shown to the world. There was an uncomfortable amount of ass-cheek hanging out of bathing suit bottoms in a very unattractive manner, and a few beer bellies that weren't accustomed to being stifled by spandex one-sies and drawn in by utility belts.

Lunch consisted of soggy hot wings at a local bar with a funny but not particularly memorable name. It stayed in my good favor because it protected us from the sun and had air conditioning.

After lunch we sat through a Q&A with the woman who wrote the comic Birds of Prey for several years. Rumor is that Wonderwoman is involved in this particular comic. The questions weren't very interesting, and the woman avoided expressing any non-sanctioned opinions. A young man sat in front of us with a melting airbrush tattoo of the Superman shield, oversized aviator glasses, and a chic haircut. I'm not sure who he was supposed to be. As a followup question to learning that the woman had begun her adult life as a hair stylist, he asked the woman - who was a writer, not an artist - how she felt the first time she drew hair in a comic. Ultra-genius geekdom at work, folks.

The next task was to procure a funnel cake, which was unfortunately very successful, and left me feeling like I drank a quarter-cup of warm oil. At this point of the day, with a belly full of ick and skin tired of being in the sun, I was reaching for the switch to roll down the window and ditch. I finally got San to agree to a break, so we headed back to my parents' house for dinner.

After dinner we picked up my aunt to return to see Superman and the Mole-Men. Ah, 1950's era film, made in a time before CGI became more common than fake breasts. This part of the day was actually enjoyable - the film wasn't too long, and it had a nice moral to the story. The festival organizers fed us cupcakes and lemonade (awww!) before showing some fan films. Nine films were screened, each less than ten minutes in length. Four of those films were by a fellow from St. Louis, who was apparently getting jiggy with one of the emcees. Probably the puppeteer, who had his arm inside a donkey for the last two hours of the evening and thought himself funny. Despite his prolific second career as a director, the St. Louis fellow didn't win a prize. Just an honorable mention for being a good sport. And for forcing his family to be volunteer actors in his filmography.

As we left, costumed superheros wandered into the building for the ultimate Geek-Out: an evening Dance Party. We took some pictures of San molesting the Superman statue, and then fled. Geek-Out over, Superman won.

Postus Premiero

Today we made breakfast: blueberry pancakes, turkey bacon, and orange-cranberry bread that was discovered belatedly to require ten more minutes. (It's headed back into the oven as Tracy types.) We munched and drank coffee while watching Season 2 of Buffy. As we concluded that neither of us have showered yet, we revel in the fact that this is the first day in MONTHS that we have nothing to do. And only one cat has puked so far today. Bliss.