If I’ve been so busy–then why is there still nothing worth writing about?

Anyway. I don’t really want to get into that. That way leads only to shame and circular things (writing about not writing more, and how I should, and feeling so ashamed for the whole mess). Instead, I want to talk about things that HAVE been happening.

One of the last times I had anything at all to post about was around the time that Dave and I had my visa approved so I could stay in Ireland. Hip hip hooray, right?

Right.

There’s just one small problem: I only had enough clothes with me for a week and a half–two weeks at most. Some of it was ‘sort of nice’ and the rest was more or less just my usual jeans-and-tshirts attire. Not exactly the sort of clothing that screams ‘I’m responsible! Give me a job!’

So plans were made–quite quickly–to spend two weeks in Minnesota. I got to go back to see my parents, friends, and other family–plus pack up all my clothes. I didn’t even have to pay for the ticket! My father had enough airline miles with United that allowed a round-trip ticket from Dublin to Minnesota. Hot diggity.

There’s just one minor problem–trying to get the itinerary was a bit of a pain. So on my departure date, I flew Dublin to Newark, Newark to Cleveland, and Cleveland to Minneapolis. However, all my flights were relatively on time, and I was moderately cheered by this. I got back to Minnesota, travel-worn and weary… I suffer through the obligatory post-travel cold which dug in a little harder with the exciting and new addition of ‘slight allergies to Minnesota’ (Normally, I’ve never had any sort of allergy to pollen or what have you… but in fairness, I haven’t been around it very much). I proceed to enjoy myself mightily between seeing friends and family… a good time was had by all.

Well, that is except for the day I had to take my cats to the vet for their annual check-up and vaccinations. That was not a good time. That was a sad and grumpy time.

But work needed to be done as well. Pretty early on I started packing up things I wanted and needed to take back with me. Stuff I knew I wouldn’t need while still in Minnesota. Partly because I realized early on that two weeks is not a long time and I didn’t want to leave it all until the very end–and partly because my cats both tend to freak the fuck out if they see a flurry of suitcases and packing. I wanted to ease them into it a little.

So there’s that. But the 22nd finally arrived and it was time to say goodbye to the US. Unlike the past, my flight didn’t take me to a US city East of Minnesota (Newark, Chicago, Atlanta, Detroit, JFK–I’ve flown through all on my way to Dublin before) It took me to Toronto. I was vaguely excited by this–as even though I was born and raised in Minnesota and have been within mere feet of Canada before–I’ve never actually been IN Canada. I realize that loafing around an airport for seven hours hardly qualifies as actually being inside of another country–but hey, I had to go through customs–I count it.

And yeah. My original layover was around seven-ish or so hours. I landed a hair before 2.00 p.m., and my flight was meant to take off at 8.50 p.m.

Please not the phrase ‘was meant to take off.’ I would have loved to find a way to make some kind of delicate foreshadowing to make this story all the better–but I just don’t have the energy for it. So you get ham-fisted spoilers.

My flight did not take off at 8.50. It took off 22 hours late. A new record or lateness, I feel. Here’s what happened:

As time ticked away, we had no notice of what was going on. Eventually, someone from the gate came over the intercom and explained that there was a ‘small mechanical issue’ that was being worked on, and they expected to start boarding ‘shortly.’ Then, the people manning the desk at the gate left. It struck me as somewhat suspicious. Why leave the gate if you expect to start boarding shortly? Whatever. I happily contented myself with more free-wifi and episodes of Glee. The half-hour delay became an hour delay, and then jumped to two and a half hours. With little to no followup.

Eventually we were given an update: the minor mechanical issue was more minor than we realized–but vastly more important than it really should have been. See, in case of emergencies–we’re all told–and if there’s a loss of cabin lighting, light strips will illuminate the aisle to lead us all to the emergency exits. A small section of one of these light strips was not working. Therefore, we were not allowed to board and take off.

People were pretty good-natured about it in the airport. Jokes of ‘well, if we need the strip lights, we’re probably all fucked anyway’ were rippling through the crowds of people trying to keep their spirits up.

Then we were told the trouble with this was actually a specific part–a part that was not on-hand in Toronto (somewhat ridiculous, given that Toronto is one of Air Canada’s major hubs) and that they had to get the part sent from Montreal. They said they expected the part to arrive by about 11, and that once it was here, it wouldn’t take long to switch out the parts and be on our way.

Time ticked on. No movement. No updates. Nothing. Rumors swelled that our plane was gone, and we’d get a new one instead. Other people were grumbling that the problem with the plane couldn’t be as simple as the one we were offered–or else we’d be on our way by now.

At this point, there was someone back at the gate desk. But she wasn’t making announcements to everyone, she was only quietly talking to the pushier passengers who demanded updates. Comments about ‘cancelled flight’ started swirling–but nothing official was stated.

Finally, we started getting some updates. We were told that the part sent from Montreal ‘didn’t work’ and that they wondered if the issue was actually with a different part–they claimed they had a couple other things they could try, but really it was getting to a point where they didn’t know what to do, because apparently–these light strips are NOT SUPPOSED TO FAIL. Well, more whispering went on–and a number of people started circulating that they had been told by the woman at the gate that it wasn’t a matter of the Montreal part failing–it was a matter of Montreal sending the wrong part.

In short: It was a fucking parade of tragedies.

Eventually there were more and more notices about the potential for our flight getting cancelled. Eff. Finally–they did cancel our flight. They told us we’d have to go to baggage claim to get our bags, and then proceed to the customer service desk to see about getting hotel vouchers and rebooking things. They assured us that they’d gotten another flight scheduled just for us–and they were trying to schedule it for Thursday Morning. About 10 minutes later, they confirmed a new flight time: 6.50 p.m. Thursday evening. Soon after that, they slipped it in there that there was a limited number of hotel rooms. Suddenly, travelling alone sucked a whole lot more. I listened to people travelling together plot to have one person go wait on bags, while another sorted out a hotel room. Those of us travelling on our own didn’t stand a chance.

So I did the only thing I could: I trudged on down to baggage claim and waited on my bags, hoping that we’d all be lucky enough to get a room somewhere. I chatted with a couple of women travelling to Ireland for a family trip. They were quite nice. One of them went off to see about a room, and the ladies who stayed behind assured me that they’d let me know what was what.

The bags took ages. Once we got them, we went to where we were told to go, and discovered a massive clusterfuck. There didn’t appear to be any sort of line, people were everywhere. The woman who’d gone off from the family to find out the story came up to us empty-handed. She said since our flight was completely rebooked–we were all rebooked as a flight. So there was no need for us to worry about that. However, ‘all the rooms were taken in nearby hotels’ So they weren’t handing out vouchers anymore. But they told us ‘if you can manage to find a room on your own, Air Canada will reimburse the cost up to $100CAD.’

Things looked bleak. I wheeled my luggage and sadness to another area of the airport and settled down to feel horrible and maybe nap. Around four in the morning, one of the guys travelling on his own who’d been wandering with us went up to one of the older women in the family group. Apparently, there were rooms left. Very few. But, if we called this number, we could have one. He gave us the name of the hotel. The woman passed–but pointed to me and said since I was on my own, I might prefer to have a hotel room.

Bless that woman.

The guy lent me use of his phone (my Irish mobile was out of credit, and my phone from the US doesn’t work outside of the US). I called the number, booked a room, and when I was done, he took his phone and called the shuttle service. we were told it would take about half an hour. So we collected our things and scuffled off to where we were supposed to meet the shuttle.

The man arrived, and we told him we wanted to go to the Days Inn. He asked us ‘which one?’ … We told him we didn’t know. The guy who booked the shuttle told the driver the number he was given, and it must have been the right hotel–because suddenly he was packing our bags in and encouraging us to get in the van. We get to the hotel, and the driver is trying to get us to unload our stuff right away. The other guy said he wanted to make sure that we were, in fact, at the right hotel. I’m glad he did–because as our fucking miserable luck would have it: we were at the wrong goddamn hotel.

The man at the desk (rudely) helped us figure out where we were supposed to go–and then snapped at us that we’d have to go back to the airport and wait for a different shuttle–oh and by the way: check out is at 11, no exceptions. Insert sadface. Because by now, it’s pushing 6.00 in the morning. So we sigh, and we say okay, and away we go. We get back to the airport, get back to where we have to wait for the shuttle, and continue waiting.

The shuttle comes along, we’re off, we get to the hotel, and I’m wondering if it’ll be worth the $75CAD I was quoted. But it’s hot and humid in Toronto, and I figure even if I can have a shower and a two-hour nap–it’ll be worth it. We get to the right hotel, and we explain to the man behind the desk what the situation is. We tell him we were never given vouchers–and we explain why. We tell him we had to find our own rooms, and this is what was available to us. He then asks us what time our flight is at, and what price we were quoted. We tell him, and he says ‘they gave you the daily rate’ and he starts typing in his computer.

Then, this amazing man tells us that he’s going to push our check-out time back to at least 3.00 p.m. And scheduled us for a 3.15 shuttle so we could get to the airport with enough time to get checked in again and hopefully fix this reimbursement mess. If I wasn’t so hot and sweaty–I would have hugged the man. He was a goddamn saint. He gave me copies of the amount they had to hold my credit card to, copies of my receipt, everything. Before I go, I ask him if there’s wifi in the hotel. He tells me yes, and then apologizes saying it’s down at the moment and they’ve got a tech guy on his way out. I shake my head and tell him I don’t want it now–but later, when I actually get up. So I get my room key, and I stumble on upstairs.

I barely get my bags shoved through the door–just enough to get the door shut, actually–and I strip out of my clothes, take the best shower of my life, pull on my jammies, and crawl into bed.

I slept like a king.

Later in the afternoon I got up, got dressed, congratulated myself again on the right choice made, and then went to check out. I called to confirm my seat on the rebooked flight, checked out, and back to the airport I went. There were four other people from my flight on the shuttle back. Talking with them, it became clear that AirCanada didn’t try so hard to find ANYONE a room as supposedly a lot of people found places to go. Way to be, AirCanada. Way to be.

But I got back, got information on how I need to go about getting reimbursed for my hotel costs, got my bags checked in again, got a food voucher (which I should mention–I was shorted on. I was supposed to get one for $15CAD–but they only gave me one for $10CAD and it had the wrong date on it so I had to wander off and get it fixed. But they only fixed the date. Sigh.

Whatever. One customer service rep told me it was such a clusterfuck, I shouldn’t get any guff for seeking reimbursement. She said everyone on our flight would be receiving letters. Turns out the letter was a voucher for $100CAD off your next AirCanada flight. Can’t say I’m all that encouraged to book with them again. But whatevs.

We finally boarded. I was sitting on a plane. Happy days. The shenanigans didn’t even stop there for some people. Some were double-booked in seats, some were pushed off to the next flight–inexplicably. It was all sorted in the end, but still.. What a nightmare. Families were split up. I traded seats with a woman so she could sit next to her children. I sort of wish I hadn’t–as I ended up sitting next to a mouthbreather with no sense of plane etiquette. Legs splayed wide,  using his bulky jacket as a blanket and letting it migrate into my seat… utter crap. I was too tired to complain, so I sucked it up as best I could and dealt with it. Tried to sleep, but the jackass was such a fidgety moron that I was constantly jostled.

But finally–FINALLY I made it to Dublin. I got off the plane, practically skipped to passport control, and grooved my way to baggage claim. By bags were among the first group of bags loaded–so I scuttled through a mass of people, yanked my luggage away, and frolicked off to get a taxi.

My driver was a lovely talkative woman. She accused me of ‘not travelling light’ and I let her know I was actually moving here. She laughed and told me that actually–I pack very light indeed then. Damn right. It’s the first time I didn’t get a taxi driver lost on the way to Dave’s (I’m used to travelling by bus–so getting off the M50 is disorienting for me as I’ve never driven the way myself). So well done me.

I got to Dave’s, got my things inside, and proceeded to hug and whine at Dave. He helped me heave my things up the stairs where I abandoned them, unopened, and went to have breakfast. Not finding anything I wanted, I hunkered down on his bed and tried to nap. No naps forthcoming.

So I got up, emptied my suitcases (leaving everything on our bed) and then put away my empty bags. Again, I returned to Dave’s room, flopped down, and tried to nap. It wasn’t happening. Dave told me he was going to go for a jog, but something he’d ordered was out for delivery–could I please stay awake while he’s gone ‘just in case’ ….

Magic. Fucking. Words.

Suddenly, I couldn’t keep my stupid eyes open. I agreed to go to the couch downstairs and promised him I’d hear the doorbell if someone arrived. Yeah. Funny story. Not only did I not hear anyone arrive–I didn’t hear Dave leave. I didn’t hear Dave come back. I didn’t hear the doorbell, or even Dave answering the door. I was out. He woke me up with a hug around lunch time–waking me from a weird dream. I proceeded to shriek at him ‘stop melting on me!’ before quietly realizing that I was, in fact, being silly. Dave made me a toasted cheese sandwich, helped me get back up to his room, and let me nap longer on his bed. Again, out like a light. No recollection of anything. More weird dreams. Dave wakes me again, hours later, and I once again, give him a load of nonsense for his trouble. This time I thanked him for waking me up because it meant I didn’t have to crawl around in the ceiling holding ice cream.

Of course–sleeping so much during the day fucked me over for the night. We went to bed around 11. I woke up a number of times. Finally, the sky looked like it was getting lighter. So I got out of bed, and discovered (to my dismay) that it was only 3.20 a.m. Hell. I was awake until about seven in the morning, and then fell asleep again until noon. I’m hoping to sleep normally tonight–but we’ll see. I’m still feeling exhausted and like I want a nap… but I’m not letting myself go back to sleep.  Fingers crossed.

And that was my Toronto Adventure. I suppose I’m lucky this happened when there was nothing to really rush anywhere to. I was mostly upset that I was on my own… but at least I wasn’t losing vacation time, as many people on my flight were… nor was I going to miss out on a day of work, like others. So it’s not all bad.

Could be worse.

Secretly, I try to be positive. But the minute I let it out, I have to quickly backtrack and go back to being negative. It’s a bit like that cliché of ‘Nothing can possibly go wrong!’ and it just invites a giant party of Things To Go Wrong. It’s a law, or something.

So I spent two months avoiding all sorts of things I promised myself I wouldn’t avoid, just so I wouldn’t have to sit and watch myself tappity-tap away on the keyboard, voicing all the horrible things that could (and probably were) going wrong.  It’s one thing when I let these things kick around in my brain. It’s quite another when I let it out to play.

Anyway.

I needn’t have worried (as my boyfriend was so good to pointedly not give me the ‘I-told-you-so’ treatment). On May 12th, a packet arrived at the house letting us know that our application was successful. We were instructed to take our passports to our local Immigration Office where I would get a Stamp 4, good for 12 months… and a shiny new GNIB card.  Oh, also? Yeah. A nice €150 charge for said shiny card. Four years ago, that charge was €50 less. I hoped for something a bit extra for my additional charge. Nothing big. Maybe just a gold star.

No dice.

But getting everything taken care of was relatively smooth and quick this morning.

After, I know a lot of people who would have done something to celebrate. Fancy dinner? Drinks? Something special. Not us.

No,  we celebrated by sinking into domesticity: My boyfriend bought a loaf pan to make bread. I gave in to my girlish pampering urges and bought a PedEgg. If you haven’t seen these… count yourself lucky. It’s essentially a cheese grater for feet. Only, it doesn’t just shred all the dead skin off your feet into a messy little showering of foot dander. No it treasures these filings. And keeps them safe. So when you’re done (effectively shaving your foot skin), you can crack open the egg like a happy child at Easter to reveal the vile surprise.

Gross-out factor aside, I actually found I enjoyed the job it did. After only five minutes, my heels (which are usually in dreadful shape) looked and felt much better. I tried to ignore the clean-up process as I went through it. Until my boyfriend made a comment about ‘foot porridge’ and ‘skin oatmeal’ when seeing the egg’s contents.

The PedEgg has been hidden in a drawer where I soon hope to forget about it, and the horrifying images my lovely significant other has given me.  And all I can really do is step back and realize: I asked for this. I went to the Irish Government and I told them of my desires to remain in this country essentially so my boyfriend could poke fun of my experiments with foot care.

Living the dream.

But that’s really what brings me back to the start. Why haven’t I written? Some of the first part (laziness) and mostly the second part (terror) … not really so much that I’m afraid of what people might think if they see this, no… Part of me thinks that people won’t even care to see. And I need to just take a deep breath and roll my eyes at my own silliness. All kinds of people write all kinds of blogs that all kinds of other people pay attention to. And I convince myself that no one’s going to give a damn what I do or do not say. Then I wake up one morning (this morning, actually) and there’s a comment someone’s left me somewhere else stating that they haven’t heard from me in a while and they wanna know how I am. Rather than take this as some sort of sign of ‘Oh! People care!’ my first order of business was to get somewhat annoyed. How dare someone else try to demand info out of me. How dare they try to break my silences. How dare they care. Pff! The nerve!

This, of course, is somewhat absurd. I recognize that. Which is more or less why I’m here.  I got so good at procrastinating and promising myself that I would write here more once I left my jobs… but I left them months ago. And this is the first time I’ve even tried to write here. Sure, half a dozen entries sorted through all up in my head… but what good are they if I don’t let them out anywhere?

‘But what if no one cares?’ that tiny voice whimpers. It’s the same reason I generally don’t have much of a social life. The fear that no one cares. Even if they tell me they care. Even if they SHOW me they care. That whimpery little voice wants to know why. And the ‘why’ is kind of a loaded question. If someone was to ask me ‘well, why not?’ I would have all sorts of elaborate excuses. Who doesn’t?

But I think the main reason I’m here and vomiting out all this rambly verbal diarrhea is because it doesn’t matter how many people care. Even if only one person cares. Even if that one person is me. I need to care.

So hi. This is me caring. Or trying to. It’s been a while since I have, so I’m feeling a little rusty. For anyone around here who isn’t just me–patience please.  If I want to feel like others don’t view this as a waste of space–I have to stop seeing it as a waste of space.

I say ‘people’ when I mean, in this case (and most cases), ‘my boyfriend.’ See, I have a boyfriend. He’s a very nice boyfriend. I’m terribly fond of him. But between you and me, Internet, he disappoints me sometimes. And I’m okay saying that now, because I realized recently that I don’t hold that against him. I’m not mad. It isn’t his fault he disappoints me. It isn’t even my fault he disappoints me.

It’s Hollywood’s fault.

The unreal expectations I have seen lumped upon real-life relationships come largely from the fabricated stories. In Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, Chuck Klosterman writes ‘No woman will ever satisfy me. I know that now, and I would never try to deny it. But this is actually okay, because I will never satisfy a woman, either.’ He goes on to to claim that someone needs to take the fall for this fact.

He blames John Cusack.

I admit that I admire his conviction here. And his courage. I could never blame John Cusack. Because I, like other women I know, have a small piece of my heart that is utterly retarded for John Cusack. Or the idea of John Cusack. In this instance, ‘John Cusack’ is a collection of his film rolls. Mostly Say Anything. But anyway. Moving on.

Getting to the point, Romantic films, I think, are ruining relationships. Largely Romantic Comedies–damn their frilly enjoyability. It’s this idea of perfection, even in that darkest-hour moment of imperfection we view in these fabricated lives. Boy meets girl. Boy likes girl. Boy and girl have an almost moment. Boy invariably fucks up, leaving girl devastated. Boy realizes he’s an idiot and has to fix things. Boy miraculous fixes things. TRUE LOVE FOREVER. THE END. ROLL CREDITS. Of course, there are variations on this. Sometimes it’s Girl meets boy. Or Girl meets girl. There’s the ever-popular Boy and Girl hate each other until they have that moment of clarity at the end of a soulful montage where they realize that actually, they love each other.

By all accounts, these movies are just plain silly. I love them all the same. But they’ve given me (and not just me, I expect) some rather unreal expectations about what ‘love’ should be. And rationally, I know and understand that THIS IS NOT REAL. And these expectations are, in fact, completely unreasonable.

However, Irrationality occasionally takes over and just screws with everything. FOR EXAMPLE! (And Internet, marvel at how I recount to you what an idiot I can be… just… marvel)

1) Around Valentine’s Day this year I had such a hard time with life (woe is me). I was lonely, and sad, and depressed, and… oh, my boyfriend isn’t around online… oh–he’s not around still, hours later. OH! He must be coming to surprise me! (What?) Yeah! He’s totally booked a secret ticket for a secret flight to make a secret visit! (You…. you know how stupid that is, right? It’s not like he’s an hour-drive away, or even like… an hour by plane…) NO! That’s totally how it is! Any minute now he’ll turn up on my door with flowers, and candy, and love and kisses! (Uh….?) Just you wait! Just you wait and see! HE LOVES ME. IT’S TRUE. THIS IS TOTALLY HOW IT’S HAPPENING.

(Needless to say, this is not how it happened. As it turned out, he’d gone out with a friend of his to a film or just to hang out or whatever–But somewhere inside, I still had the nerve to feel let down, and moderately hurt. Seriously–I was disappointed and hurt that he didn’t happen to conform to what my ludicrously unreasonable imagination came up with in a moment of Hollywood-love-story-irrationality. Go figure.)

2) In spite of this Very Important piece of reality–within a month or two, when I was feeling horribly down and depressed again and my boyfriend was once again absent for a day–did my mind leap to ‘out with friends’ or ‘maybe at the cinema’? No. No it didn’t, Internet. Once again, I had the whole scenario mapped out in my brain. I was going to make a day of it! Moping and fretting and feeling generally sorry for myself, and then…! Then the doorbell will ring, and I’ll open it, and There He’ll Be. Even with Rationality calmly pointing out the obvious flaws in all my irrational logics, even with PROOF from last time… Yes, Internet. I was still disappointed when it turned out to not be true.

After that I managed to wrangle my overblown and irrational expectations into line. But the very fact that I ended up in this position twice (or even once for that matter) has bothered me tremendously since it happened. I’m happy to report that my brain finally got the message after the second “let down” …but I’m still bothered. I ended up thinking about love and relationships for a while. My mind strayed to watching female friends feel disappointed in high school because they set up ‘tests’ to see if their crushes would come through for them–and they failed these tests. And rather than realize the fact that setting someone up for failure is stupid and a waste of time… they’d get MAD at the guy for failing.

Why? Do we want people to ‘fail’ our tests so we can bust out the drama and feel sorry for ourselves and throw the terrifically over-blown pity party? Are we looking for that one moment when the person we’re testing does come through? And then we feel like it’s magic and love forever and always. The End. Roll Credits. I’m asking myself these questions about my own situation from earlier this year… and I can honestly say I don’t have an answer. I truly don’t know if I really wanted to build up to this one perfect moment and hear the swelling music montage–or if by some form of insanity I really wanted to gear up for one hell of a funk.

I just don’t know.

What I do know is that we’ve been together for nearly three years. He’s had my opportunities to have a big ol’ peek at my crazy side…(and he certainly has gotten many eyefuls of crazy) and he’s still here. And that, honestly, means more to me than anything.

Ladies and Gentlemen… I have been up to my neck in porn.

Maybe for some of you, that sounds terrifically glamorous and sexy. But I can tell you it’s often hilarious, sometimes disturbing, and generally I come away from it feeling a bit used and dirty. Now, before any family members who may have stumbled across this have some kind of massive coronary: NO. NO I AM NOT MAKING MY OWN PORN.

Anyone who knows me (or has the hideous misfortune of following me on Twitter or Facebook) knows that I have an online job. It’s for real, too. No pyramid schemes (though, isn’t that usually the first clue–when it tells you it’s not a pyramid scheme??), no scams, no lies. The short version is… I get paid money to look at websites. Pretty sweet.

I got off to a rocky start in this job. But since mid-April, it’s been going fabulously. So well, in fact, that I was asked to move into a side project back in June. The nefarious ‘Adult Project’ All the fun of my usual job–but with total porn saturation. Over saturation. It’s rather mind-boggling.

There are things I’ve learned since I took on this task. Things I didn’t really want to know (such as… the very large market for granny porn), things that have hurt the delicate soul of my inner child (graphic images of cartoon characters from my childhood comes to mind…), and things I’ve found appallingly amusing (I will leave this spot blank for your imaginations to think up something. And then I will sit here and tell you that what I’ve seen is far funnier).

My pornographic education over the last month and a half has shown me a vast array of craziness and filth. A cornucopia of smut so wide and varied there’s sure to be something for everyone. Even if your tastes are really, really obscure–there are hundreds of thousands of people out there probably just like you and at least one of them has set up a site sure to make your nethers quiver with some sort of delightful anticipation.

And as open-minded as I try to be, and as much as I realize that some things I find sexy someone else might be completely repulsed by… there are some things in porn I find I just cannot abide.

Name calling. Particularly referring to women as sluts or whores. I find it particularly irritating because it seems as though the men are either called ‘men,’ ‘boys,’ ‘studs,’ or simply ‘dudes.’ There’s something so completely average about it. Just a guy. Some guy. And while I do see women referred to as women, girls, babes, chicks, etc… I see things like slut and whore far more often. They’re called dirty. Nasty. Filthy. I’ve yet to find anyone that finds these monikers remotely enticing.

And because I really don’t want to get stuck in a rant that leaves me wanting to burn my bra and stop shaving my armpits, I will quietly leave that there. I don’t know why the industry feels it necessary to saddle women with these terms. I just noticed that it happens a lot. And it’s started to grate on me.

But to counter… I stumbled across the projected salaries for porn stars. And it’s not unheard of for women porn stars to pull down over $100k-250k in a year, while a male porn star of equal notoriety will only garner somewhere around $40k.

Moving on.

Another thing I’ve noticed… porn is often completely hairless. The ladies are completely smooth and unblemished. It’s almost like plastic. Though, occasionally there’s still some ‘grass left on the playing field’ I’ve noticed that it’s far more likely that anything with any amount of pubic hair will be labeled AS ‘hairy’ and it could be just a well-groomed strip, to something that resembles a sloppy bird’s nest or a hair shrub Edward Scissorhands attacked in a fit of drunken rage. So again, I suppose it’s all a matter of perspective. One man’s ‘hairy’ is another man’s barely-there. And another man’s hairy is actually three porcupines fighting their way out of a wig on a woman’s lap.

Despite the variety though, so much of it is all the same. Same motions (duh), same sounds, same facial expressions… Generally the same sort of ending (Everyone gets theirs in the end!) But I find myself wondering in these long sex-saturated hours if people ever get bored with it. The sounds in particular leave me rolling my eyes. Most of the time it’s like the women all share one voice. It borders on the whiny side of high apart from the occasional jarring exclamations of ‘Fuck!’ that slip out… unless of course there’s a blow job happening. Then it’s the same kind of noises, muffled by cock and punctuated by slippery gagging sounds. Pretty. Gets me all hot and bothered.

…Wait.

If anything, the whole experience has gotten me to think about what it is that I find sexy or erotic. What trips my trigger, and why? Admittedly, I don’t get to think on it much as the next click of the web browser generally startles me out of my thoughts and forces me to concentrate rather than daydream. I never get very far anyway. I have a huge list of ‘no, not that’ and only a vague list of ‘okay, maybe’ But that’s really it. Or possibly that’s all I’m really willing to share while both my parents are still alive and fully capable of finding this and reading it when I least expect it…

Come to think of it… yeah, it’s probably that.

Except, I’m actually here to admit to the internet that I failed. I didn’t make it. I made it quite a distance… but my feet told me under no certain terms would they continue the abuse I was putting them through unless it was in the direction back towards the car. Even then, they decided to get their revenge by tangling up in a tree branch on the path back down causing me to pitch forward and break my fall with my face.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Dave and I set out with his friend Al around half eleven yesterday morning. We reached our start point by about 1:00 p.m. and set out. It was actually a really nice day. We made a few stops along the way, and out of shape though I may be, I was quite pleased with how well I kept up. Admittedly, after a bit of uphill wandering, I was pleased to see we’d have a nice field to cross on fairly level ground for a while.

Or so I thought.

See, I didn’t have proper hiking boots on. I didn’t know I’d need them on my trip to Dublin. and I figured, quite foolishly, that a mountain in Ireland may very well be like a mountain in the US. Only… you know, smaller. More of a large hill, really. Dry, maybe a bit rocky. But nothing overly serious.

No one warned me that the mountains in Ireland are squishy. ‘Boggy’ I believe was the term Al used. At it was at that first squelching mis-step that I really wished I’d had different shoes. But of course, by this point it’s too late. Struggling only worsens the issue as after my left shoe is slowly filling up with water, I try to move elsewhere with my right foot, only to step in another squishy patch and instead of one wet foot I have two. Blast.

But I didn’t want to let it ruin my day. So I kept squishing along in my damp shoes and soggy socks. A mis-step here and a slight miscalculation there led to one or more incidents of my ankles turning in ways they shouldn’t be allowed to. I was allowed ample stops and we had a small picnic lunch and it was actually really nice.

And after a fair bit of hiking, and many assurances that ‘it really shouldn’t be that far now’ Al took off ahead to scout things out a bit while Dave stayed behind with me to help me find the best way to go with my slippery inadequate footwear. The ‘it isn’t much farther to the top’ thoughts are what kept me going. Until Al popped back a moment later, chuckling, and stating that he’d been a little bit too liberal with the term ‘very close’ Dave and I got to where he was and saw what he meant. There was a whole other big part to hike up to get to the top.

And that’s where I told them I was going to stop. I said I knew myself quite well, and I knew I’d had enough. I told them they were quite welcome to carry on without me, but I’d be waiting for them right here, on this rock. And I plunked down, and even took my shoes and socks off for emphasis. The plan was, I’d hoped, to wring out as much water from my socks as I could and maybe get them a bit drier. There was a good breeze and a fair bit of sun. Surely my socks could dry out on a breezy day while on a warm rock in the sun, right?

Wrong.

Dave and Al set out, and not five minutes later an army of grey clouds marched in. My warm rock quickly felt cold and pointy. I didn’t want to put my socks back on and stuff my feet into clammy shoes… so, in a panic, I started waving my socks around in hopes that the extra movement through the air would somehow help. Alas, this was a foolish thought. My socks didn’t dry faster and all I really accomplished was making myself look ridiculous. Eventually the chill running through me won and I was forced to put the slimy socks back on and stuff my feet into my cold, damp shoes.

The hike down was filled with a bit of manic excitement. We were tired, but quite happy to no longer be hiking up hill. Though, we needed to take extra care picking our way down. As I demonstrated with my earlier comment about breaking my fall with my face.  But the worst of it, I think, was when we hit the main path/road back to Al’s car. We knew we were close to the finish by that point, but there was still about 20-30 minutes of walking left to be done until we reached the car. Brutal. We got back to Al’s car right around 7:00 p.m. and quickly headed off for home.

Of course, I actually feel WORSE today. Going up and down the stairs at Dave’s house causes screams of protest from my knees. If I wander a few steps and then sit down my feet feel as though someone’s set them on fire. I hobble about like someone three times my age. Still, I’m glad to have tried it yesterday. Hoping to feel in less pain soon.  Dave’s mother asked me if I’d ever do it again… and I told her I’d really like to.

Of course, there’s no way in hell I’ll try it again unless I’ve got some hiking boots.

Probably. I don’t know. Maybe some people enjoy being in airports. Maybe I’m just projecting. But I will stand here and admit something freely:

I hate airports. I hate them so much. I like to travel to new places–but it’s often the ‘travelling’ portion I loathe with a potentially unhealthy vigor. I’ve never much liked flying. I don’t like the way my stomach churns uncomfortably upon take-off. Or how it often drops suddenly near landing.

It’s not so bad that I need to be sedated or anything. But there’s a very thin veil of sanity keeping me from screaming about ‘that noise doesn’t sound right’ and ‘oh god! a fiery doom awaits us all!’ (Perhaps I’m being a tad dramatic? Who knows. It’s how I feel.) Even so… I really don’t have a lot to complain about. Airlines may have occasionally mangled my luggage–but they’ve never actually lost it. Curious baggage handlers ‘just doing their job’ may have rifled through my stuff to make sure it doesn’t contain any explosives, but they haven’t stolen anything.

Flights have been late, delayed, moved, etc–but never actually cancelled. I always make it to my destination. Even if it’s a couple of days later than it should be.*

But waiting around in an airport during long layovers almost always puts a damper on my mood. Like now. My flight arrived at JFK right around two in the afternoon local time. My flight to Dublin won’t depart until 10:30 tonight. I have a giant 8-hour window to fill. I have books, movies, a DS lite, some TV shows, my laptop, the internet (obviously)… and yet I’m hopelessly bored and restless. I just want to hop on my flight and go.

People sometimes tell me that it’s not where you’re going that’s important, it’s the journey (I’m butchering what they actually say here, because halfway through that empty comment I’m stricken with such rage that I’m using all my energy not to punch them in the mouth for uttering such lies). I don’t always do so well on the journey, you see.  And honestly, I don’t think that particular phrase is all that useful for airports.

I’m okay though. I don’t get pissy about my situations. A little downtrodden and worn out from just waiting… but I know that this is just how it goes and it’s best just to roll with what happens. I don’t really want to turn this into a big preachy blog of THOU SHALT NOT BE A DICK IN AIRPORTS… but honestly, apart from (possibly) retail stores… airports are full of the unhappiest customers ever.  If there’s something to bitch about, it will be bitched about. Even if there’s nothing to bitch about–rest assured, internet, someone will come along and MAKE something to bitch about. And then bitch about it.  And while I have no doubt in my mind that there are equally sour employees skulking about in airports and various airlines… by and large, unpleasantness seems to radiate from those people that believe, somehow, that the universe is out to screw them.

Screaming at someone behind a counter isn’t going to change the fact that your flight was grounded because of bad weather at your destination. Or that your flight is delayed because of a multitude of reasons. My most-recent encounter of airport passenger dickwadery took place about six months ago. To set the scene for you… We were waiting for a flight to Minneapolis. Our plane arrived a little late, passengers were hurried off as quickly as they could manage, and all the usual inspectiony things were taking place.

Internet, they found a crack on the outside of our plane. A crack. On a list of things to see on an airplane during an inspection, I throw this one firmly into the NOT GOOD category. So, naturally, our concerned airline provider had all kinds of people looking at it to see if it was repairable, if we needed a new plane, if it was a miracle that the previous flight on that plane had no trouble whatsoever, etc. The woman at the desk was as in the dark as we all were. No one was giving her much information, and she seemed the nervous type. She did her best, told us what she knew, and updated us as information was revealed to her.

Here’s the thing, eventually we were told our plane was being taken out of service. BUT, they’d found us a new plane, and we needed to move gates. So We got up and wandered to our gates. We were told we would board and take off as soon as we could. Okay? Promise that yes, we have a plane, a flight, and we’ll take off as soon as we can.  Apparently, that wasn’t good enough as a middle-aged asshat decided he needed to vent his spleen at the new woman at the new gate. Screaming about how he’d sue the airport if we didn’t get out tonight because he’d lose his job.

I wanted to know what his dickishness accomplished. It didn’t seem to make him feel any better. The more he yelled, the more he seemed to rile himself to yell louder and longer. It didn’t speed things along. And he was needlessly rude to that woman behind the counter who had absolutely nothing to do with the crack in our original plane. Roaring at her wasn’t going to accomplish ANYTHING other than show people what an absolute prick he is. It’s not like she could go out there with a tiny bottle of superglue and patch the crack herself. I’m so sure if he lost his job it’d be because he missed a flight because of reasons beyond his control and not because of his shining people skills.

But this wasn’t really meant to be a complaint on airports. This is just what being in one does to me.  I guess I just get antsy. I look at this time going ‘Yay! I’m on vacation! I get to go and have fun!’ and it doesn’t really feel like the fun is starting while I’m trapped in the limbo between my starting point and my ultimate destination of Super Happy Funville*

Still, It could be worse I guess. I could be that guy.

*This has only happened once, and it was because of treacherous winter weather in Minnesota–which is ALWAYS a hazard. I was flying out of a teeny tiny airport near my College in order to fly home for Easter. The airline kept us updated on my flight information, and they got me out as soon as they could. Rather pleasant, actually–as I got to stay with my aunt in the meantime.

*Or, ‘Dublin’ as I expect it’s more commonly known

That’s what I get for writing about it for not one, but two theses involving the walking dead. There’s a reason for each though. Interestingly enough, ‘Zombies’ aren’t an obsession. I think they’re interesting… I loved studying the whole popular culture aspect of Zombies when I was at TCD… But you won’t find me stock-piling food, water, and other supplies while I wait for the inevitable undead apocalypse. So there you go. There’s a rather good explanation for how I ended up writing about zombies once… and a decently logical explanation about how I ended up writing on the topic a second time.

Spring of 2008, Dublin. Our lectures had finished for the Popular Literature course and we were all supposed to be giving some thought to what we’d like to write for our dissertations. I was completely stumped for most of this time. …Sci-Fi! …Horror! … Fantasy! I never narrowed it down, really. And the day we were supposed to meet with our lecturers to discuss our potential topics inched closer and closer. Panic took over and all topic ideas were immediately met with me telling myself ‘NO! Self, You’re a FAILURE! How dare you think you could pull this off!’ And then I’d go slightly catatonic and stare at a wall blankly for 20 minutes or more. Good times.

And the day came. And I had to sit in a room with three lecturers. Two of which I was (quite irrationally) positive hated me. I was a mess. All my ideas were stupid! I was stupid! They would surely see this and kick me out immediately! I sat in the room, facing all three of them. Firing squad. This was it. One asked me what I’d been thinking about for a topic….

And internet, I swear I saw my life flash before my eyes. And I found myself thinking ‘Good lord, is there nothing scarier than this moment?’ And internet–you won’t believe me… but I then answered myself. Out loud. ‘Zombies!’ I was so startled. My lecturers kind of were for a moment too. But, I’d blurted something out… I really needed to back it up. My mind immediately fled to Resident Evil (Dave had been making me play RE4).. I knew there were films, and also books. and I babbled all of this to them (while probably dribbling all down my front) and continued on about how I was curious about the differences between zombies in games and zombies in cinema, and zombies in novels and how it all compared to the original folklore zombies. I finally stuttered to a halt and waited for the crushing rejection.

I saw they were smiling.

‘Oh God,’ I thought. ‘They’re going to take serious pleasure in tearing me a new asshole for being such failure as an academic. A failcademic, perhaps.’

It took me a good solid minute to realize they were smiling because they liked the idea and not because they were relishing in stomping on my tiny, tiny academic dreams. No one had tackled Zombies in the program before… so it’s not like there was a minefield of dissertations standing between me and a good topic. I thanked them for their time and approval, and I stumbled out of the meeting, not really knowing or understanding what I had just stumbled my way into.

For the next six months I completely immersed myself in the topic. Movies, books, games… So much so that I had a rash of bizarre zombie nightmares and had to take a break from it all for at least a week. The more I watched and played and read the more I learned. And the more I realized that Zombies are possibly the most versatile of any monster. Zombie outbreaks can be the result of weird Space bacteria, atomic radiation, angry monkeys, the-flu-gone-wrong, demonic possession, and my personal favorite: Just because. And more than the multitude of whys and hows that people came up with: it was the fact that people came up with it to begin with. I found a recurring theme (apart from the flesh eating, I mean). So often people who came up with their own ides did so because they saw what someone else did and they thought ‘man, that’s awesome… but here’s what I’d do.’

Bam. New stories. New ideas. New layers. I loved it.

Don’t get me wrong: I saw some pretty weird shit (Seriously. Zombie Strippers. I don’t think I need to say more…but I will: See it. It’s that fantastically twisted), and I read some pretty awful stories (plot-wise and story-wise they could have been FANTASTIC… but they were so poorly edited, if edited at all, that it completely destroyed my interest*)

But I also saw some pretty great things. And the debates. Sweet hell, the debates I ran across were epic. Reasons certain films were zombie films, reasons why they shouldn’t be, what is a zombie, should they run, etc. I loved it. And after everything I’d read, and everything I’d watched… And my thesis which pulled it all in together, I thought I was done.

Enter the second program.* And it came time for me to think about submitting a piece, and I had nothing to ‘fall back on’ I had no stories or partial novels lurking around that I could use. I had to start from scratch. And all the comments authors and filmmakers and game designers made about how they saw something and said ‘yeah, I wanna do that–but I wanna do it like this.’ I saw it… and I wanted to make my own way to do it.

At the time, most of the novels I got my hands on didn’t really have any normal people. Average, everyday people with no special skills or training. Most of the stories I read involved people with military training,. Access to guns. A predisposition to some strange paranoia that the world may go to hell in a handbasket so they may as well stay prepared. Stories with generators. Lots of ammo. A decent amount of supplies. People who were good planners.

And my thought was… what happens if you take that all away? Yeah, it gets a little Night of the Living Dead and stuff… but it’s happening in a society that knows about Night of the Living Dead. And zombies. And how improbably ludicrous it is that the dead have come back to life.

So that’s where my second dissertation started. And I mean, I still have it kicking around on my hard drive. I’m still at the first OHHOLYCRAP moment that takes place… I’m unhappy with how it turned out for what I handed in, and I’ve been meaning to go back and give it yet another make-over and tweak with the presentation of it before I carry on… but I do intend to carry on. I can’t leave the story unfinished.

The year following my first Master’s program, I heard from my old thesis advisor that another student decided to write her dissertation on Zombies. Quite recently I heard from a lecturer at QUB that he knows of two BA students also writing about zombies. Felt kind of nice to hear that I wasn’t the only one, I guess.

But that’s it, really. In all honesty, I had little to no interest in zombies before my thesis. Hated ‘em, actually. A friend used to delight in scaring me stupid by making horrible groaning noises in the dark. It’d send me into a fit of nightmares for days on end.

Which I actually find kind of interesting now. I still have zombie dreams–but I can’t qualify any of them as nightmares anymore. They’re just a little bizarre and absurd. My favorite was one that involved an Undead Morgan Freeman leading a horde of ravenous zombies after me, all the while telling me in his calm, soothing Voice-of-God tone that I had to give myself up to become food for the undead. It was my duty. And I’ll be damned–but it made perfect sense in the dream, and I actually listened to him. I woke up feeling somewhat perplexed.

The most recent occurred this week, actually. I had a dream that the zombies were surrounding a group of the living in an old warehouse. And we had to get away from them. Someone suggested the rafters… because, obviously, the dead can’t climb things. SO we all took to the rafters. No one had any food or supplies. Yet the rafters had toilets, kitchens, and taps with running water. Yet it was the total lack of ANY supplies–no one even thought to bring up a Twinkie for a snack later–and my brain just went ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa–that’s not possible. Not even one snack? There’s just no way.’ And I woke up.

I tell ya…

So there it is. This is how I got into what it is I’m in to. Or one of the things I’m in to, anyway. Fear, mostly. ^_^ Fantastic motivator. And while it bugs me that so many people have so happily crammed me in a box labeled ‘THIS ONE ONLY LIKES ZOMBIES’ I wouldn’t really change anything. I’ve had fun.I plan to continue.

*Clearly this is not the end of the story. Or else I wouldn’t be posting this..

*I won’t name names, because Lord HELP me should I ever get my shit together and write a novel and be lucky enough to have it published I sure as hell don’t want this to come back to bite me in the ass. Metaphorically speaking. Mostly.

*Which, I might add, started before my first one finished. So here I am, scrambling to finish my thesis while struggling to start a completely new program–in Creative Writing. Oh-ho-ho. It seems so painfully obvious now. I can’t believe I missed it the first time around.