Inverse Candlelight

I Left My Underpants In Chicago: The BlogHer Post Part The Second

Where were we, my precious little squirrels? Ah yes, we were at Thursday night, wherein people were graciously introducing themselves to me and I was introducing myself to people by saying incredibly clever things like "Buh? Duh. Um. Hi!" I am very very talented socially. So since I again, didn't have a nametag or ya know, a ticket to the event, really the only things I could attend were the People's Party (for everyone) and the MamaPop party, for which the whole trip was made possible. At first I was colossally bummed that I couldn't go to see the speakers or the discussion panels, but given my utter fright of socializing, I think it was for the best. (Buh? Duh. Um. Hi!)

It was after I had released myself from the People's Party throng that I was wandering, alone and bug-eyed, when I got a text from Snarky Amber. She was alive! And in Chicago! And not lost anymore on the train! Hooray! So I ran downstairs (yes, dammit, I RAN, and I didn't even fall down) (in heels) (Thank you, I'm pretty impressed too) to fetch her. The rest of the night we clung to each other in the huge crowd of people, and socialized, and met people, and took lots of smoke breaks.

Here's the thing. Smoking is grand. Now now, hear me out. I'm not talking about the actual ACT of smoking, that, as we all know, is grotesque and filthy and bad for you and YES, I'm aware of all this. But! It also is a way to meet people, since we are a (pardon the expression) dying breed, so Amber and I were able to meet a bunch of lovely people by going out to smoke every eleven minutes. This was better than the waves and waves of people inside, and I think I was able to even crack a non-terrified smile at one point.

Later on, the MamaPop crew met up in one of the bars and chilled out, and that was great. Not that we didn't want to hang out with other people, FAR from it, but that party was crazypants, and it was nice to just hang with all the people who write for the site. Oh! But before then!!! And here's the part where I gush about people from the internet: Amber was hungry, I was hungry, and there was no food that we could locate...UNTIL!!! A lovely couple overheard us and offered us the pizza they had carried back from a restaurant. Dudes! People GAVE us pizza! I LOVE PEOPLE IN THE INTERNET. I'll pay that forward one of these days, cause that ruled.

And that was Thursday. I'm forgetting everything, but that was what my brain retained. If I didn't write about you specifically and we met? Blame my lack of brain cells. I was sooooo happy to have met all the people I did, and honestly bummed that my own shyness kept me from meeting other people. I'll work on that for next year, promise.

Tomorrow? SPARKLECORN.

I Left My Underpants in Chicago: The BlogHer Post Part The First

The trip did not start well. My flight was delayed, and when we finally got to Chicago, we had to sit on the runway for 30 minutes because there was lightning and the ground crew wasn't allowed to bring us the fifteen freaking feet to the gate. Bah.

I was a bundle of nerves, of course, because I am...not so great when faced with interacting with other real, live human beings. My eyes bug out, I become mute, and sometimes I trip over gravity and fall down. Not so much with the socializing, Banshee is. But I met up with PooBou, who had EVER so graciously waited for my late ass, and is also very very pretty, and we grabbed the shuttle to the hotel. Right away there were introductions on the shuttle, and I met some lovely ladies whose names I immediately forgot because I SUCK. Anyway, we got to the hotel and I dashed, trying to get to the SocialLuxe party. This, of course, did not happen, as I was unaware that it was in an entirely different building and AW HELLA NAW I wasn't going ANYWHERE except this here hotel or I could get lost entirely and a Chicagoan might eat my brains. Or a zombie. Whichever. Point was, I wasn't goin' noplace else. So here I was, alone, terrified, in my third pair of shoes of the night (for everyone who guffawed at my 2 day, 5 pairs of shoes packing, y'all can just suckit, cause one pair IMMEDIATELY fell apart upon putting them on so haha, good thing I packed an EXTRA PAIR of black heels, yes? Yes. Okay, two extra pairs. Stop looking at me like that.

Point was, I was ALONE. And terrified. And not...so much having an actual ticket to BlogHer. No big ass nametag for me. I was an infiltrator, a mere civilian in the face of Those Who Had Nametags And Could Actually Do Things. I was there for the MamaPop party, and that was all. No panels, no speakers, no nuthin but staring daggers at bloggers I was too shy to say hi to.

And just when I was about to freak with actual tears and everything, I saw her. Y. Yvonne. Joy Unexpected. She was SO pretty and she...recognized me!!! And hugged me!!! And I knew everything was going to be okay. She was also with Lena, my MamaPop colleague and another ridiculously pretty person, and I think I breathed for the first time since I entered Chicago's time zone.

We found the rest of the MamaPoppers as they were coming back from the SocialLuxe party, and I met all the lovely people I didn't meet back in Vegas, and smooshed and hugged everyone, and the rest of the night was a blur of parties and meeting people and OMG SOMEONE ELBOWED AMALAH'S BABY and Snarky Amber finally got un-lost in Chicago and lept into my arms and all was well. Except the elbowing of a BABY. That, folks, was deeply uncool.

I'm tired. Are you tired? Let's take a break. More tomorrow.

The Post Before The BlogHer Post

Y'ALL. I am back from BlogHer and have loads to tell as soon as I sleep. OH THE SWEET SLEEP. Stay tuned for: Unicorn Ass, The Best Party Ever, Loads And Loads Of The Awesomest People Ever, Owie Feet, Terrifyingly Purple Drinks, The Chillaxest Baby, and SO! MUCH! MORE!!! Exclamation Points!!!! But I'm crosseyed now, so y'all will have to wait. Needless to say, BlogHer 09 was the bomb. Diggety, even!

One thing I've got to say: If I didn't say hi to you, or looked like a deer in headlights with the staring and gaped mouth,  I AM SO SORRY. My shyness is paralyzing. Even with My Hair (needs caps cause it is an entity in and of itself) and My Boots and Veil (MamaPop party, I AM SUBTLE) I am so shy. And terrified of looking the fool. Which I am sure I didn't look like STARING AT PEOPLE.

God, I'm awesome.

Real post later!!!!!

BOOBS! Now That I Have Your Attention...

As many of you know, I leave tomorrow for BLOGHER. Woo! Yay! So I thought I was all set, with my steampunk outfits and eleventy pairs of shoes, when this happened. Ladies? Yeah, you see what I mean:

Yes, that's my bra. And that's the underwire. ESCAPING.

Of course, I had to have a little conversation with my bra, and I captured it all on Twitter:

@missbanshee: Zomg, underwires have JUMPED out of bra. Mass underwire suicide. Almost put eye out. CRISIS IN THE UNDERWEAR DRAWER!!!

@missbanshee: Get back in my BRA, underwire!!!

@missbanshee: It's official, bra has gone to meet the choir invisible. This is an ex-bra.

So what did i have to do? Other than whine? I had to go buy a bra. Now I hate bras, to be quite honest. I rarely wear one, actually. Yes it's true, if you meet me, there is a 75% chance the girls will be breathing free, since I just...I really hate bras. I'm small enough that I can manage the no-bra, and believe me, I take full advantage of it. But I'm going to BlogHer, dammit, and only grownup girls go to BlogHer, and DAMMIT I'M A GROWNUP, I WILL BUY A BRA.

So I go, scowling, to Kohl's to buy a stupid bra.

Me: I need a bra. Black. With non-suicidal underwire. That's all I request of you, Kohl's.
Kohl's: Here's a twee little blue gingham bra that matches nothing, but is so cute, omg.
Me: NO. Bra. Black. Underwire. Size 36B. This is all I need from life.
Kohl's: Here's one so big you could wear it as a toque.
Me: HA! Okay, NO. Bra! Black! 36B!
Kohl's: Sorry, we don't carry that.
Me: Not...in black? Well, I guess a lacy one wouldn't be TOO bad...
Kohl's: No. We don't carry anything you're looking for. Nothing. Not in your size, not in that color. Nope. Sorry, beesh.
Me: I CANNOT GO TO BLOGHER WITHOUT A BRA. I AM A GROWNUP.
Kohl's: No bra for you. How about one that isn't nearly your size, but is conical in shape? You could look like MADONNA!
Me: Listen, asshole. I know I said I would be a grownup, but if you don't show me a bra, color: Black, size: 36B, with an underwire IMMEDIATELY, I will FLING myself on the ground and throw the biggest braless temper tantrum EVER. I WILL CLEAR THIS STORE, BITCHES.
Kohl's: Well, we don't want that.
Me: Show me the goods.
Kohl's: FINE. Here's exactly what you were looking for. We were hiding it. Just for funsies.
Me: DONE! *flees store, almost accidentally shoplifting bra*
Kohl's: You'll be back. We're not telling you that you forgot to get Spanx. HAHAHAHHHAHAHA!
Me: What?
Kohl's: Nothing. Carry on.
Me: Okay! Yay! Mah bewbs have a carrying device! ON TO BLOGHER!!!!!!

what? that's the end. you didn't think I'd post a pic of me in a bra, did you? Silly monkeys.

Talk to y'all after BlogHer!!!!! MWAH!

My Short Non-Career in Adult Entertainment

I got an email from a male friend the other day with a picture attached. He wrote "Is this you? This really looks like you." Before I looked at the picture, I was about to write "yeah, it's probably me, I've taken thousands of pictures of myself for the Year in the Mirror thing, it's no big." or perhaps "Nah, it's not me, but thanks for Googling me, weirdo" But then I opened the picture.

Y'all? It was porn. Porn! And the girl? Well holy Chrizzie on a pogo stick, it really DID look like me. It WASN'T, of course, but damn if I don't have a tattooed, black-haired doppelganger wandering around the offices (do porn places have offices?) of Suicide Girls with MY FACE! Hey! Hey, that's MY face, not yours, give it back, and put some trousers on!!!!

Okay, FINE. I WISH I looked like this girl. Flat belly, cute butt, MY FACE. And Suicide Girls, for the uninitiated, is not some wacky cult where everyone offs themselves, but a really cool group of "non-traditional" pin up ladies that I really dig. So if some chick was going to go and have MY FACE, I'm glad she did it for the SG and not some gross crappy porn site.

So I got to thinking, should I email Suicide Girls and try to meet this chick? Why not? I mean, we've got so many things in common - nose, eyes, cheekbones...we're practically twinsies and we we don't even know each other! So I came up with this letter:

Dear Suicide Girl Who Looks Like Me:

Hi! You don't know me, but glance at the mirror and you'll get a good idea. I'm Miss Banshee, and you have my face. Or maybe I have YOUR face. How old are you? I'm 32. I have a strong suspicion that you are younger than I am, more or less because that flat belly you are displaying? Yeah, enjoy that. Cause once you hit 30, it'll never be the same. Also, our bellybuttons are different. May I suggest getting yours pierced? It's super cute, and that will make us even MORE alike!

Anyway, I hope that you get lots and lots of fan mail talking about how HOTT you are, cause that would make ME feel really good, and since I'm not posing for ANYONE in MY underpants, I'd like to live vicariously through you, if you don't mind. Do you get fan mail? Is a lot of it from prison? You must live such an exciting life! Me? I work from home in my jimjams, most days, so yeah, let's concentrate on you.

Now, having my face is a responsibility that I implore you to take seriously. I have no quarrel with the Suicide Girls, in fact, I think they're totally kick ass. But that's it, missy. Don't go getting into all that other porno crap, please. That's dirty, and have you seen those guys? You'll get a germ for sure. And I don't want my doppelganger to be swarming with germs. That's just icky.

Okay bye, Not-Me! Have fun, be safe, use a rubber, and if anyone emails you asking if you're Miss Banshee, just direct them to this site, wherein there are no pictures of me in my underpants, but there ARE lots of other things. Like gummi clams and cats.

Kisses!
Miss Banshee (the not-you)

Too Weird To Warrant A Title

Me: I had a thought.
Common Sense: Oh no.
Me: You know what would be the worst gummi product ever?
Common Sense: I don't want to play this game.
Me: GUMMI CLAMS.
Common Sense: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!
Me: Clams. Of gummi.
Common Sense: Please stop, I beg of you.
Me: And they'd be gray.
Common Sense: I hate you, I really do.
Me: Seafood gummis would probably be a fantastic idea in general, actually.
Common Sense: You're still talking. Why are you still talking?
Me: I'm TAKING THIS TO TWITTER.
Common Sense: Excellent. I'll be...anywhere other than here.

Me: Hello Twitter! Guess what? GUMMI CLAMS!!!!
Twitter: Bleh!
Me: Gummi clams. I can't stop thinking about it. Discuss!
Lorcasaur: Overcooked clams are basically gummi. Never in MY house, though.
Velma: I just threw up in my mouth.
KristaBat: Clammi Gums.  Hahahaha.

Me: AMBER! GUMMI CLAMS! It's the taste sensation sweeping the nation!
Snarky Amber: It's a mystery why you are not a candy mogul.
Me: I KNOW! Gummi crustaceans for everyone! Gummi cockles and mussels and SOFT SHELL CRABS.
Snarky Amber: Are you taking your pills like you're supposed to?
Me: I can't stop thinking about it. I can't.
Snarky Amber: Oh, look at the time. GOTTA GO.
Me: Gummi clams!
Snarky Amber: I don't hear you!
Me: *sulk*

There is neither a point, nor a decent ending for this entry. But it's in your head now, just like it's in mine. And when you least expect it...

See? I didn't even have to say it, did I? You're welcome.

MOOAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHHAHAHAA!
(ahem)
(sorry)
(gummi clams)

Reinforcements

Yes, yes, yes, it is I, Lulu, here with the idiot fat one, and we are stepping in for the human female today. You see, the human female's mood took a turn for the worse today, and I caught her writing a several-hundred page missive about betrayal and loss and embracing inner rage, and I said "Excuse me, human female, but this simply cannot do. No one wants to read your psychotic ramblings, so why don't you go watch some Harry Potter movies and let Lulu take care of the blog, okay? Because seriously, you've gone off the deep end, and anyway, who knows more about inner rage than ME? I will write. You suck your thumb and watch your movie. There's a good human female."

Of course this also means I am in charge of...Oh fine, here, say hi, Stewart.

HI HI HI HAI HOOMAN BEANS! Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! It's ME, STEWIE!!! Okay Lulubelle Lulybells LuluSMELLS, what are we writing today? What are we going to tell the hooman beans? Are we going to tell them about all the gross things I do all the days and into the nights? Like when I -

NO. No, we're going to do nothing of the sort. We're going to talk about absolutely anything but that. Let us talk of the issues we're having at night, shall we? About this whole "family bed" thing we've been roped into? About how the human female has been, shall we say, emotionally delicate as of late, and that she herds us like CATTLE into the bedroom at night and heaves us onto the bed, prattling on about how "Mommy's tiny little angels are going to sleep with MOMMY tonight, yes they ARE" and all other sorts of drivel? Let's talk about that.

Lulu. You LYING. You lie like a big LYING THING!!! You LOVES sleeping in the big bed with Mama! You so full of lies, your whole face gonna fall off from telling LIES. Lies and kibble, that's all you're full of.

Beans. We LOVE the beeeeeg bed and sleeping with the mama. It's so comfy! Specially cause we streeeeeeeetch out all over the end of the bed so we like SLINKIES and then Mama has to have her big body pillow that she latches onto like a spider monkey, so the bed is PRETTY FULL, HAHAHAHAHA, and we always start out with enough room but Lulu and Stewie GROW LIKE BLOB during night and Mama get all twisted around big pillow and covers and somehow always end up falling out of big bed, WHOOPS!

Stewie and Lulee never fall out of bed. That cause we take up all middle part, where it's BEST. Mama can have edges. She like them. Edges like crust of peanut butter and jelly sammich. Kids don't like, give to Mamas. IT'S A RULE I JUST MADE UP HAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHHAH!

That's it. No more from him. How did we get from sleeping arrangements to peanut butter sandwiches? This is what happens when you let that dolt do the writing.

So yes, the sleeping arrangements have worked out pretty splendidly for the feline contingent of the household, although the Human Female keeps grumbling about how one of these days she's going to accidentally hang herself with her iPod headphones and it would be nice to have more than a kleenex sized portion of the sheet and blah blah I don't listen to her, you get the idea.

So if you humans were concerned about the sleeping arrangements in the house, don't be. I, Lulu, am quite comfortable and get at least 20 hours of solid sleep in per day, and I get all the room in the big bed that I require due to my gorgeous Rubenesque figure. The idiot one is fine too, in the sleeping department. Everyone is fine except for the human female, who has three limbs off the bed as of now, and if you'll excuse me, I'm going to watch the inevitable fall. And laugh. Because that's what I do, bitches.

Say goodbye, Stewart.

GOODBYE STEWART!!!!!

Till next time, humans, I remain,
Lulu

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!!!!!!

Chariot of Crap

Check Engine Light: HI! HI! LOOK AT ME! I'M ON! Orange! Orange! Orange!
Me: Shh.
CEL: Pay attention to meeeeeeeeee!!!!!
Me: Hush. Go away.
CEL: Still here! Better check that engine, cause I'm the check engine light, and I am ON, BABY!
Me: La la la la la.
CEL: Okay, maybe I'll go away.
Me: Oh good.
CEL: PSYCH! Still on! Check me, check me, check me OUT HERE I AM, WOOT!!!!!
Me: Wah.

So yeah, my check engine light is on. Frabjulous. This probably means nothing, right? RIGHT??? I mean, it's a loose wire, it's a glitch in the Matrix, it's just teasing me, it's a KIA, and that's barely a real car, anyway, and the engine is made of lollypops and unicorn glitter, and it just wants to be recognized for all the hard work it does, right??? I recognize you, engine! I love you! Please don't be broken, my little KIA of joy and traveling. Please, I can't handle that right now.

Check Engine Light: Listen, I know you've had a RILLY bad week, and that you're still terribly sad and incredibly angry, and everything absolutely BLOWS right now, and you need me to take you to get more Kleenex and ice cream, but I...am on. You should do something about that. Sorry to be an attention hog, but...Pay attention to me. For realsies.
Me: SOB.

You see, not only can I not afford to have anything wrong with my car, but I simply cannot bring it in to be repaired because my car is The Place Where All Crap Goes To Die. Seriously, my car is jam packed with so much CRAP that really should not be in a car, or anywhere except a dumpster, but I just...don't clean it. I don't clean my car! THAT'S what the light probably means, it means "Check the engine, the only place that isn't covered in books and cds and empty cigarette packs and Red Bull cans, because it simply will not tote you around anymore until you clean up that STY that you call the "back seat."

Check Engine Light: PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE pay attention to me!
Me: I'll tell my daddy.
CEL: Your dad's a mechanic now?
Me: Well, not technically, but that's what girls do when their check engine lights go on, right?
CEL: Did you hear that?
Me: What?
CEL: That was the sound of a million feminists groaning.
Me: I'm calling my daddy. He'll get rid of you.
CEL: I'm here! I'm orange! I'm shining on like a crazy diamond!!!!
Me: Wibble. This is all a plot to make me clean the car, isn't it.
CEL: May? Be? Or maybe I'm fixin' to EXPLODE!!!!!
Me: Well at least I wouldn't have to clean you then.
CEL: You're hopeless.

Common Sense Steps In

*BAM! BAM BAM BAM!!!*
Me: What in the holy fu-
*BAM!*
Me: What are you doing?
Common Sense: Who, me? *BAM!!!*
Me: Yes, you. What in the name of Merlin's boxer briefs are you DOING?
Common Sense: I'm kicking your ass. *BAM*
Me: YES, I can SEE that you're kicking my ass. May I be so bold as to ask WHY you are kicking my ass?
CS: Cause you need to go. *BAM!*
Me: OW! Okay, what? Where do I need to go? Will you STOPPIT?
CS: No. I simply cannot. *BLAMMO!!*
Me: GodDAMMIT, where the hell do I need to go so damn bad?
CS: On. With. Your. Life. GO THERE. *BLAM!*
Me: On...with my life. Yeah, I was trying to avoid that.
CS: I KNOW. That's why *I* am here. To kick your ass back into your life. C'mon.
Me: I don't want to talk about it.
CS: I know. And I know you're sad. Sad as hell. And ANGRY. Furious! Congrats on not smashing all the dishes last night.
Me: Heh. Yeah, I really wanted to do that.
CS: Well, as the one who would have cleaned it up, I'm muy glad you didn't.
Me: Would have been spectacular.
CS: Would have been sharp. You don't do well with sharp. No emergency rooms for you, missy.
Me: Yeah, yeah, the dishes are safe.
CS: Look. You have amazing friends. You have people, dude. People who love you, people who are gonna get you through this. But you have to want it. And if that means I have to kick *BAM!* your white tattooed ass *BLAM!!!* all the way there, so be it. But you're GOING to get through this, and I won't *BAM* hear anything more in the matter.
Me: FINE! Fine. Just...stop KICKING.
CS: Get back to being funny, the internet has had it, Miss Gloom and Doom.
Me: I'm still gonna be sad. AND angry.
CS: That's fine. But you're also gonna get moving. Even if I have to kick you the whole way.
Me: Duly noted.

so many thanks to everyone who left such lovely comments. I love y'all, I really do.

Wordless.