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Saturday,
August 23, 2003
Maiden aunts, and 13 Conversations About One Damn Thing Well, I'm in St. Paul. I drove up here earlier today to drop of my ferrets at Kym and Fischer's house. They'll be taking care of the little buggers while I'm in Russia. I'm pretty pleased with that, because Kym has a real gift with animals, and they're both great with their pets - two dogs, two cats, and a rat. So I'm certain that Malfoy and Colin are in good hands. I wish ferrets were easier to photograph. As it is, I think these are about the best pictures I have of the little monstrosities:  Malfoy  Colin Here's a better picture of Malfoy, but it's too big to put in the blog. Yeah, I'm a dork. I named them after Harry Potter characters. When I wanted to get a ferret, my roommates said I could only get one if I got a white one and named it Malfoy, as in the fourth book the kid gets turned into a nasty little white ferret. Then Liz decided to name hers Fred and George (Weasley. Get it? Get it? Heh.) so I pretty much had to stay in theme with Colin, who, after we discovered his nosy, clingy, borderline annoying nature, was pretty much a shoe-in for Colin Creevey. I'm such a dork. Reinforcing my total dorkiness was the drive up here. Visualize, if you can, me, zooming down I-94 at top speed in my mother's minivan, ferrets beside me, blasting National Public Radio's Symphony at 6, conducting an imaginary orchestra with one hand. Of course, I know nothing about conducting, and I only really knew the French horn part of the symphony they played today, so I pretty much just cued the horn entrances. But with enthusiasm! I can see my future already. I'm going to be the Batty Aunt. You know who I'm talking about. You might not have one of your own, but you know her. "Of a certain age," shuffles around all day in carpet slippers and overalls, frizzy red hair, chubby. Her favorite author is probably Faulkner or Willa Cather and she has fat long-haired cats instead of children. Doesn't own a car. She tends a garden and subsists on hummus and gourmet chocolates. Maybe she's written a book or two on some random eclectic subject. Probably plays the oboe or the viola. Politically liberal, likely a socialist. Her sisters think she's a big failure for not procreating, but she's happy, because she lives inside her head, and inside her head is a generally cheery place. But see, I'm going to buck the trend. I'm going to have a big floppy dog instead of cats. Maybe a mastiff. Or a Burmese Mountain Dog! Yes. And I don't play the oboe, I play the horn. So I guess I'm going to be the vaguely butch Batty Aunt. Le sigh. Perhaps I will luck out and find my male equivalent, the Skinny Middle-aged Literature Professor, and we can set up a dometic partnership that may or may not involve marriage (we're very modern thinkers, you know.) I told you all about the insomnia, right? I think that's what's causing these weird stupid entries. My neurons are firing randomly. I'd stop, but the blog is called Narcissistic E-trend, so why not keep up this self-indulgent BS? I had some trouble getting to St. Paul...trouble, in the form of my mother. Yesterday, we had this conversation approximately twelve times: Mom: When are you going to St. Paul? Me: Sometime tomorrow. Mom: Well, if I'm going to drive you, you have to give me a time. Me: I have to talk to Kym or Fischer first. Mom: Maybe you should call them again. Me: I left a message on their machine. They'll call. Mom: Maybe they don't want the ferrets. Maybe that's why they didn't call. Me: They want the ferrets, Mom, they want to test-drive them, so they can see if they want to buy one of their own. Mom: Then why haven't they called? Me: MOM. They have JOBS. And, like, other stuff. Mom: I don't think you understand how much stress I'm under. You can't just expect me to drive you across the country at the drop of a hat! Me: I can drive there. Really. Mom: No you can't. You don't know where it is. Me: MOM. I've driven there a zillion times. Mom: You can't drive. Me: I drive all the time! Mom: It's a long ride. How long is it? Me: Like three hours. Mom: No, it's like four and a half! Bill! How long is it to St. Paul? Bill: About three hours. Mom: Well, I don't want to drive it. Can Jessica dr- Me: MOM. I am NOT asking Jessica to drive me to St. Paul. Mom: Well, she could go with you! Then you could drive it. Me: I can drive it. Really. I'm totally comfortable with driving it. Mom: I don't think you can drive it. What if you have an accident? Me: I could bring your cell phone. Mom: Oh, but what good would it do? You can't drive. Lather, rinse, repeat. Yeah, that was a little tedious, sorry, but I was trying to recreate in you, the reader, my own emotional experience - exasperation. So, this morning, she comes out into the living room, and innocently asks me, "Hey, hon, I don't feel like driving to St. Paul today. Do you think you can drive it yourself?" I sat blankly for a few seconds, then replied, like a bad actor reciting a script learned by rote: "Oh, I'd be fine...if I could borrow your cell phone." "Sounds good. Phew, I wasn't sure you'd okay with driving alone." She's trying to make me crazy. Batty, even. Maybe she's realized that I am destined to be the Batty Aunt, and as such, is trying to create in me the proper mental state. Thanks, Mom, that's so kind. And here ends any semblance of regularity in my blog updating. Please be prepared, dear readers, for my schedule is about to go wonky. For tomorrow I am off to Madison, Monday I am off to Washington DC, and Thursday I am off to Russia! There is actually a chance that this thing will actually be worth reading then. We can only hope. - declared by Liusia @ 2:11 AM Thursday,
August 21, 2003
I am Jack's raging insomnia No sleep, night three. Fan-freakin'-tastic. So here's a blog entry. God forgive me if it gets a bit out of hand. Last night, around 1 am, I decided to watch Fight Club. It seemed like the logical choice, being as it is about a guy who gets insomnia and then pretty much loses it. I love that movie dearly. Oh, I don't think it's some great commentary on modern America, or some brilliant piece of anti-establishment art, or that there's anything particularly deep about two emotionally warped men pounding the snot out of one another. But it's a fantastically done film, and it does honestly capture the dead-end US underclass ennui. I always cheer when the narrator beats himself up in front of his boss. All the times I've wanted to sock my various supervisors, and it never occurred to me that it'd be more effective to punch myself in the head. But the movie really only reinforces my awareness that I basically hate everyone. Because, you know what... ...boo hoo. If your life goal is to be a millionaire or a rock star, well, I don't have much pity for you if your sense of reality is so weak that you don't realize you probably won't make it. And even if you do make it, then what? So you've got a lot of money and a shiny guitar? Somehow, I doubt that's fulfillment. I love Fight Club's belligerence, but the fact that it comes out of overweening self-pity makes it somewhat less resonant for me. No, when it comes down to it, I think that this is one of those movies that seems a lot deeper when you're watching it at 3 am in a darkened room with your own case of raging insomnia, after perusing your bank statements and discovering that the only way out of your enormous debt is selling a kidney on the black market. But really, any movie that contains lines like... ...is going to be something that I like. Not to mention, dude? Tyler Durden. In an entirely different movie experience, I went to see Seabiscuit with my mom and my stepsister this evening. Tobey Maguire was cute and the horse was cute and the plot was cute and everything was saccharine and I actually really enjoyed it. Very overtly inspirational, but somehow it worked, probably because the Seabiscuit story actually is pretty damn incredible. Not just the whole "scruffy little underdog saves the day" thing, but the fact that both the horse and the jockey survived and recovered from spectacular injuries to return to competition and win. Huzzah, Seabiscuit; huzzah, Red Pollard. Plus, I liked the bit where Red disobeys his doctor and goes back to riding. It gave me fond flashbacks to age 15 me, giving my orthopedic surgeon fits. Poor Dr. Whatever-his-name-was. He was really trying. It would have served me right if I'd fallen off and irreparably busted my leg. My stupid cast didn't even fit in the stirrup, and there I was, jaunting about on my flaky, dopey Quarterhorse, Whiskey, the one that broke my ankle to begin with, jostling the unmended bones all around. I was such an idiot. Also, it's about the only horse movie I've ever seen that got the horse stuff basically right. Go, Seabiscuit fact checkers! Speaking of horses...here's an update on Cisco. We had the vet out today, and she said he's the worst case she's ever seen, (she said that she's seen thinner horses, but only dead ones) but she thinks he'll make it. His heart is regular and his lungs are clear, and he seems to be disease and parasite-free, although we won't know until the lab work comes back. He needs serious dental work, but it can't be done until he's up to being trailered into the equine clinic. She offered to testify if the bastards who starved him ever get taken to court. - declared by Liusia @ 1:22 AM
Tuesday,
August 19, 2003
My mom and I finally found something on which we agree Two things, actually! Gasp and amazement. However, I'm pretty sure everyone agrees on these two things: 1)My sister is stoopid 2)Starving a horse is bad Anyway, yesterday Mom and Bill (my stepfather) came down to Madison to pick me up. They were approximately four hours late. This gave me a fantastic opportunity to watch some Judge Judy. Oh, my God, how I've missed insipid American television! Usually, the two-and-a-half hour car ride from my place in Madison to my parents farm consists of about ten minutes of small talk, then me falling asleep. Falling asleep in the car started off as a defense mechanism - if I'm "asleep," I don't have to be part of the conversation, and believe me, on road trips with my four younger siblings and my parents, that's a good thing. Shocking fact: sometimes my big mouth gets me in trouble. And the thing about road trips is, you can't run away and hide after commenting on what a man-whore your sister's boyfriend is. But now the sleeping has become habit, and now I tend to zonk out within minutes of buckling in. But oh, did we have things to talk about yesterday. Firstly, my brainy, brainy sister, with whom my mother had a scintillating conversation last week. Okay, so the idiot's actually at the clinic, and she thinks she'll be able to stay there until the baby is born. It's putting a cramp in her style, you know, to have to stay with these medico squares, but they pointed out to her that miscarrying and hemorrhaging all over the sidewalk and dying before the ambulance even got there would probably be a more significant cramp, so she grudgingly agreed to stay. During the ride to the clinic last week, mom asked her why she didn't use protection. She replied that Johnny told her he'd had a vasectomy. Three, in fact. The first two didn't take, because he was too much man. Mom asked her why she finally decided to come back to northern Wisconsin. She replied that she couldn't live with those people in Milwaukee anymore. It wasn't the drug dealer or the crack addict, the screaming unattended children or the neighborhood's high violent crime rate that finally convinced her to leave. No, it was the fact that one of her roommates was a transvestite. Not only a tranny, but he was - OMG - GAY! GAY!!! How could he LIVE such a life of sin! It's just so...ICKY! My mom is old school Catholic. She's got pretty strict views on the spectrum of sexuality. But even she busted out laughing, then started shrieking at my sister. "What, did he come solicit you? Did he and his tranny friends crawl into your bed? No, because you're a girl, dumbass! What threat was it to you that he liked to look pretty? With the things you've done, you're judging him based on the trivial fact that his brain chemicals say 'men are tasty and I like to wear falsies'? Of all the people you could befriend in your stupid hippie wanderings, God grant that they be flaming, good-hearted drag queens!" Or something to that effect. The brilliant one also told my mom that the reason she'd had to leave my apartment last spring was that my roommates had poisoned my mind against her boyfriend. My mom, rather embarrassed, informed me that she'd told my sister she didn't believe that at all, because in the history of the world, no one had ever made me change my mind about something. Hee. I'm almost flattered. My sister also told my mom a fantastic story about the time she was driving down State Street with her friends and one of them was smoking crack and she tole him he couldn't be smokin' that, becuz she pregnant, and it wasn't no good that he rolled down the window, it could still be harmin' the baby. And then the front left wheel fell off the car. And the wheel fell off because "they didn't never rotate the tires." Jay-sus. These stories are like those Highlights for Children challenges. "Spot all ten things that are wrong with this picture!" At this point in the conversation, my brain was about to burst, so Mom and I moved on to a new disturbing topic. My parents' horse rescue has a new animal - a twenty-something mustang named Cisco. This is not a picture of Cisco himself, but rather an approximation of what he looks like: 
He belonged to a fundamentalist "Christian camp," and had been used for trail rides until recently. They fed the horses hay only, and fed them by throwing a few bales out into the paddock with all twenty or so animals. The older animals like Cisco, who were unable to compete, did not get to eat. So, my mom heard about this, and went to pick him up before he died of starvation. The people who ran the camp were more than happy to foist the walking equine skeleton off on some poor schmuck, and signed him over to my mother. We have a horse trailer, but my mom can't drive it, so the fundies agreed to trailer Cisco to our farm, and my mom, against her better judgement, rode along with them to give directions. They tried to spread the good word to her, tried to open her mind to the power of Jesus, but she assured them that she was already converted, already a Christian, thank you. They kept it up, though. Midway through the ride, she started to have an insulin reaction (she's a diabetic) and asked them to stop at a fast food place so she could grab something sugary. They stopped at Burger King, and the fundies got lunch. One of the guys gave a five minute prayer of thanks for the burgers, loudly enough that the entire restaurant could hear. Fed up with their antics, my mom heartily replied "Amen!" and crossed herself theatrically, revealing that she was a - gasp - Catholic. Then she excused herself and left to wait in the car. The rest of the way home, she chattered cheefully about how her daughter (me) had a Wiccan friend who was very nice, and explained to everything she knew about Wicca. Aghast, the fundies just sat there and listened. Then she told them about all the murders that have happened in our hometown, and how one even happened on our property a few years back, but it's no problem, 'cuz we'll just get a priest out there to sprinkle holy water around and speak some Latin...and on and on. Any time they tried to interrupt her stream-of-consciousness narrative, she ran them over with whatever offensive-to-Born Agains factoid she could devise. You know, sometimes I think my mother may be the coolest person I know. When I got home and saw the horse for myself, I was surprised that she managed to make it the whole ride back without killing those people, those self-proclaimed Christians, who are so concerned with saving souls but can't be bothered to feed their stock. He's literally skin draped over bones - every rib is showing, his spine stands up inches off his back, every line of his pelvis is visible. He has no rear, and his shoulders are hollow. He has a tremendous wound on his back that couldn't have been caused by another horse, and seems unlikely to have been caused by debris or a natural accident - it's a perfect square cut out of his flesh, about five inches by five inches. When he arrived, he was severely dehydrated, so much so that when you pinched his skin, it stayed pinched. Just to look at him made me tear up. Despite this, his eyes are bright and he's alert. He's too sick to be skittish, but he seems to have a bit of feistiness in him, and is getting pushier now that he's rehydrated and eating. He's definitely the worst case that my mom has taken on, and that includes Manny, the little Appaloosa with the hole in his leg. But since he made it through the stress of the trip and of being introduced to his new home, and since he's been re-introduced to food without colicking, he has a high chance of survival as long as he doesn't get an infection or have a bad shock. Despite his emaciated, ghastly appearance, it's clear that once fattened up, he'll be a handsome animal. He's more than 16 hands high - I'm 5'9'', and I can't see over his shoulders - and he's a fantastic dun color, with primitive Mustang markings: zebra stripes on his legs, a donkey cross on his withers, a black dorsal stripe. Even malnourished, he has strong legs and hooves, and a thick flowing black mane and tail. His all-too-obvious bone structure is near perfect, if somewhat coarse. If anyone out there knows about horse brands, please email me - he's got a weird brand on his rump that looks like an upside-down U or horseshoe with a double-crossed T inside. We're curious about where that might have come from. Yes, he'll be handsome...if he survives. Those fucks. Couldn't even be buggered to put an animal they didn't want anymore up for sale or even to sleep. They decided to let him starve to death. How can anyone be so callous? - declared by Liusia @ 11:38 PM Sunday,
August 17, 2003
Oh, fantastic.
In other, less sinister news, I got a letter from my host family! They're an eldery couple named Tolio and Sonya, and they enjoy such activities as watching TV and movies, reading, and taking walks in the park. Tolio is retired, and Sonya does freelance graphic design work. They have a room ready for me. The letter says it has a "balkon," and while I'm pretty sure that means "balcony," my friends are teasing me that it means "giant rodent" or "gaping, dripping hole." They both like to cook and have spare time, so they'll be cooking breakfast and dinner for me. Seeing as how when I try to cook I usually set fires, this is a good thing. They have a cat named Alisa, which they assure me is quiet and lazy. Quiet, lazy cats are less creepy to me than cats that stalk my feet, at least. They live 30 minutes by bus from my school. They don't speak any English. I think it'll be good. - declared by Liusia @ 10:04 PM Good news! I survived my flight! It was really uneventful. The best thing about the trip was the steward on the first leg of the flight. Instead of the usual fake perky stewardess with a painted-on face, there was a little old man. He welcomed us to the plane by ordering us to sit down and buckle up, then sing-songed the normal safety spiel. Then, he grabbed the mike, held it up to his mouth, and solemnly (and sarcastically) intoned, "And now, I have something else to show you - a new security feature - a new cockpit door." He dramatically opened the door, gesturing Vanna White style. "This door is impenatrable, with all the warmth and friendliness of a submarine bulkhead. Please, do not attempt to pass through!" I giggled. For some reason, I was the only one. I'm starting to think I derive more fun from life than other people. Midway through the flight, his disembodied voice came into the cabin. "Yeah, now I'm gonna serve you what passes for breakfast these days." As we got off the plane, he ordered everyone, one by one, including the little old ladies, to behave themselves while disembarking. It was excellent. When I arrived in Madison, Jessie, Jess and Er met me at the airport. I got a couple of very weird looks from passers-by by exclaiming, "I'm so happy to be back in Wisconsin where it doesn't smell like cows!" And, they brought me a...present.  Aieeee! I don't think that picture illustrates the true horror of this Gollum action figure. Here's a better one. One that will haunt your dreams! Or mine, at least...  Oh dear God make it stop make it stop! And it talks! No, "talks" is the wrong word! HISSSSSSES! Evilly! "My precsssssious!" It's the worst thing ever! Then they handed me the other half of the present, in an attempt to prove that they really were happy to see me - a Hugh Jackman-as-Wolverine action figure, which they informed me should be stood next to the Gollum, menacing him. The Wolvie is awesome. He has slashing action, but in practice it looks more like disco dancing action, which is even better. Picture it...disco dancing Wolverine. Huzzah!  Mmmm, Wolvie. The only problem with this plan is that it means Gollum has to live someplace other than at the bottom of my closet, wrapped in an old sock. We stopped by my new apartment, which looks exactly as horribly swanky as I remember it - oh, am I a class traitor. Now I'm going to have to redouble my efforts to undermine the capitalist system, so as to make up for the fact that I'll be living here. Dammit. And then - and then! We went to Star Cinema, and I witnessed the single greatest film in the history of Western cinematography. Arrrr! This movie has everything you could want in a movie, you guys. Pirates, Orlando Bloom, explosions, fencing skeletons, a shaggy puppy, even a monkey! A pirate monkey! There was no car chase, but there was a boat chase, which is even better! Arr! Avast! And Johnny Depp is the coolest thing in the known universe! He's cooler than the deepest depths of space! So, in honor of this fantastic film, here's a quiz:  Which Pirates of the Caribbean character are you? Huzzah! After that, pizza and margaritas! Huzzah! And sleep! Huzzah! Now, I'm watching a Monk marathon on USA, totally glutting myself on American TV. Also, cereal. I can't believe how good it is to see everyone, and how good it is to be home. And I can't believe that I'm leaving for Russia in just over two weeks. - declared by Liusia @ 5:03 PM
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