So long as he's a Southerner and thinks like you.

Weddings are hard.



I'm sure marriage is too, but I know I can manage. Remaining vigilantly aversive to consumer debt, merging numerous family factions (even within my own clan), and deciding on an appropriate hair style is difficult.



It doesn't help that weddings are so...ugh...weighty. Simply being a bride exerts a certain superiority that I'm not comfortable with. There's so much competition. I don't like the idea of 'snagging' a man, as if they're small animals harvested for their pelts. I don't like the idea of making people worry about registry gifts. I don't like the idea of spending $5000 on ugly/boring dresses so I can say, "I'm able to spend $5000 on an ugly/boring dress, doesn't that make me...."



What? Special? Pretty? Fertile?



All I want is to hang out with my friends and family. Eat good food. Sing some songs. Dance a paso-doble. Wear some sweet wooden wedding rings. No power trips. No 'higher than thou's. No freak outs.

NOTE: CN once asked me where I find my pictures. The simple answer is good ol' Google Image search. The long answer often involves the Library of Congress image archives; I'm especially fond of their current Bound For Glory online exhibit. State universities often have impressive online collections as well, such as Virginia Tech's Imagebase. Propaganda cards from WWI are always a good browse as well. The above wedding images were found at the Lafayette Negative Archive (I hope my non-commercial use of them works out okay).

Take the cannoli.

Food Network Superstar Mario Batali...



...plus Simpsons cult favorite Comic Book Guy...



... equals Italian Food Guy.

Please give me a job. Preferably with fringe benefits and no dress code. A provided uniform would be nice though. Thank you.

Saturday Night Triple Feature Picture Show

Amazing Super Mario Opera:



Fantastic Super Princess Peach:



Uber-violent Super Kill Bill:



I &hearts Super Mario by-products.

Raucous. Caucus. Streptococcus.

Howard Dean and John Baldacci stopped by today. "It's time for caucus! Hooray!" they declared.

I kindly informed Mr. Dean that he had the wrong Brooks family member, since I was lacking a pick-up truck with a Confederate flag affixed to it. Yet, it would be ill-advised for him to seek out said family members.

"They don't like Yankees."

"Or doctors."

Mr. Dean started crying big-weepy tears. So I played some Audioslave for him. He rawked out hardcore-like. In his moment of vulnerability, I distracted him with a ball of tin foil.



Mr. Baldacci said the Party needed a strong democratic force like myself. I told him that Voltairine de Cleyre didn't like adjectives. He looked confused.

"Dude, 'democratic' is kind of an adjective."



I said I needed a recipe for pasta carbonara. Then we started debating whether or not Mr. Dean's Dr. Dynasaur program was referring to Triceratops (my choice) or Compsognathus (his super lame-ass choice). We agreed to disagree. Then, we shit-talked about Sen. Susan Collins visiting Antarctica with dreamboat John McCain.



Me: "Show-off."

Mr. B: "Mega-Bitch-O-Tron."

Me: ...

Me: "Didn't you get to visit Cuba?"

Mr. B: Um.........No.

Me: Worst. Seriously.

Then I turned him into a ball of tin-foil with my mystical unicorn horn.

NOTE: The above fable inspired by a real-live phone recording-bot that interrupted my cup of coffee making.

Girl Historian.

Last night, I talked to my late grandfather's nephew. He lives in Lynchburg, Virginia on the "family farm".

I didn't know about him. Or the "family farm".



Yesterday, I found my family tree online. I was homesick. Things happen.



My great-great-great-uncle died during the Civil War at the age of 26. I had a great-great-aunt named Queen Victoria. My great-grandfather had 18 children. 15 survived.

I'm invited to the next family reunion, whenever that is.

I feel like Margot Tenenbaum. Only not adopted. I'm secretly terrified of my kinfolk, but simultaneously eager to hop a train to Altavista.



I want to show them that I can properly use a hatchet. I want to show off my Yankee fiance. I want to sing songs from the Carter Family. I want to gain 20 pounds from biscuits with sausage gravy and smoke harsh cigarettes. I want to stick my life between the pages of a Bible. I want to crochet a granny-square afghan.

Yet, this does feel a little like that episode of 'Saved By the Bell'.

Tee-Vee.

I'm listening to W praise the prospects that alternative energy holds.

This means I have 120 channels in my room now. This is a dangerous thing.

Last week, I was crippled by the "Now what?" The only solution for this syndrome is a combination of ice cream, time travel, and irrational irritability. My time traveling destination was split between 1997 (VIA VHS copies of 'Friends') and 1984 (VIA the Summer Olympic Women's Gymnastic competition).

If needed, you can simulate the experience below.



Now I TiVO every episode of 'Murphy Brown' while I wait for Bushie-poo to say 'composting toilet.' Preferably, "composting toilets pave the path toward economic prosperity and national security, along with the protection of family values."

He hasn't said it yet. But he will.

Dr. T, Medicine Man will be visiting The County soon to study Northern Maine dialects. This makes me feel less unemployed, since I can now justify my compulsive reading of Mark Abley's 'Spoken Here' by referring to it as "research". I will be his assistant. I will carry a pocket-sized notepad. I will make sure my hair smells nice.

I now have an answer to the "Now What?" Just in case, I have plans to conduct mass mailings to the Commander in Chief regarding the virtues of compost toilets. This is the backup plan. No pun intended.

Parallelism.

At times I worry about my parallel twin. Like a phantom limb, her life struggles to remain active. Conscious. She is the product of a crucial decision. The type of decision that can make one a criminal, a mother, a billionaire, or a corpse.

She was born when I walked out of the recruitment office.

She lost her virginity in Turkey. Got over her fear of guns swiftly, but with a nasty vomiting incident. Still prefers knives. Smokes a pack a day, but hides it well. She's quiet. Never cries. Excels at crossword puzzles. Has broken two ribs. She's 24. There's a diary hidden VIA a false bottom of a suitcase. It's a reference, should she forget a day. She doesn't. Rather, she quickly remarks where she was on 9/11 ("...drinking coffee in my apartment in Kansas City....") and has an elaborately woven memory of her 21st birthday. Her last name is different than mine.



She lies about 6 years of her life.

Yet, we're similar in a number of ways. These common factors keep us united. Her soul grazes mine. She asks for my hand.



Every time, I walk away.

She's crafty.

Throw rug, completed:

Rawk Candy Mountain earrings, completed:


Blues the Cat (her brother's name is Rhythm, because Matt's parents are adorable) likes the rug.



She lamented to me about her inability to enter into the crafting world, due to her lack of thumbs. We speak kittyish. Because I don't get enough sunlight and may be coming down with the crazies. Or scurvy.

Neither Rhythm nor Blues is the feline reincarnation of Joseph Stalin.



That would be Badu (I think it's supposed to be more of an onomatopoeia thing, but I enjoy Erykah's musical style too much.).


Don't worry, I'm heading down state to socialize with people and complete Phase II toward getting a real job this weekend.

Until then, I'm going to listen to more French garage punk, make more earrings inspired by Titanic, and eat a Lean Cuisine pizza. Probably all at the same time.

Life goal #794: completed.

Yesterday, in paper form, I was quite seriously asked the following question:

"Have you ever knowingly engaged in any acts or activities designed to overthrow the United States Government by force?"

Answer: No



Unless by "force", you mean "dancing." In which case, I apologize.

I'm pretty sure that's the most I can tell you about this experience. So I'll leave it at that. Forever.



[NOTE: To the United States Federal employee conducting my background check and who subsequently found this writing (well-played!): The above post is likely protected under the Constitution. Besides, nearly everyone knows that you ask this question, which is how being asked it became life goal #794 when I read about it in my American History college course (I got an 'A' in it, because I'm an asset to my country. ... Alright, a high 'B'. You got me. Asset doesn't start with 'B' though, does it?). The displayed pictures of Mata Hari are meant to convey my passion for history. In addition, they provide wedding dress ideas. Please don't make a blushing bride-to-be cry.]

I went to college for three reasons.

1) I love massive debt drinking.
2) To write lengthy essays about robots.
3) To express sympathy for the title character of Ibsen's Hedda Gabler.

Suddenly, it all comes together to form a wondrous epiphany.

Speak of the devil.

"I do things by instinct and I've had this instinct about music ever since I was a kid in West Virginia."

Excuse to embed video like the cool kids are doing.

On our summer-road-trip-travaganza, Matt and I had big plans to hit West Virginia.

Why? Mostly because they have apple butter and banjos. Plus, a wee Di once lived in the town of Hurricane ("Hurruh-kun", not "Hurry-cane") with my toddler-years best friend named Reber.

Mom said, "When you come back down from those mountains, your car'll be falling apart."

Dad said, "It's a pain in the ass gettin' up in there."

He suggested taking I-81 instead, a Virginian pathway frequented by truckers, and stopping at the Luray Caverns, a place that stirred up boyhood memories of awesomeness and wonder.

Wonder, indeed!

They also have an antique auto museum (free admisson!!):



And a maze (The answer to the riddle is "A-maze-ing movies"! Har!):



Yet, as much as I wish I was being sarcastic, Luray Caverns rawks. Seriously. They have beer at the Stalactite Cafe and ViewMasters in the gift shop. Everyone who visits is a bit of a dork, from awkward pre-pubescent boys and girls giving gleaming (see also: orthodontic treatment) grins in front of the Stalacpipe Organ...

...to twenty-something lovebirds using cheat tactics in a garden maze and conversing about constructing a 3-D display from handy objects around the home.

Case of the Monkey Days.

Snowy/rainy. Only goal of the day is to successfully make it to town and purchase a can of creamed corn. Rest of the time: knitting, listening to DJ Shadow, and inevitably reading something.


Over the weekend, I found myself in the woods with a hatchet in one hand, a tree in the other...decked out in Matt's "vintage" (i.e., from when he was ten-years old) Greenpeace (i.e., warm) hoodie and self-crafted chandelier earrings...asking the fatal question of one's quarter-life crisis:

"Do you think I'm boring?"



Winter makes me insecure.

Reading is awesome.

Librarian, yesterday: "I'm sure glad to see young people who like to read."
Us, yesterday, thinking: "We're sure glad that the library likes to sell books from the basement for 25 cents each."

Such as:







You can learn more about Sterling and color pictures of raccoons here.

Lost. Not the show. The generation.

I finished 'The Sun Also Rises'. It's due back to the library today, but I probably would have finished it even without the deadline. I confess that the only Hemingway read prior was 'The Snows of Kilimanjaro'.

Expressed opinions have varied, from a 19-year old Portuguese snowboarding Jehovah's Witness telling me that 'Farewell to Arms' was the only book I needed to read to less specfic remarks of Hemingway being "y'know...a real dick."

All I know is that some sort of emotional internal combustion propelled me through Ernie's look at gender identity, classism, post-war nativism, absinthe, hard-boiled eggs, wine skins, bankruptcy, and attraction. While it could be said that our generation won't have its "Great War", it's hard to ignore the significance the Iraq "war" has had in destroying the spirit, creating disillusion, and driving "leaders" to vomit remarks calling for nationalism...Social Darwinism gone awry...again.

That might be reading into it all a bit much. Who knows.



And as I admire how remarkably attractive young Hemingway was, I realize a backup plan if I should face a brutal loss on Jeopardy!

P.S. - Reading too much from the 1920s has placed a monocle and top hat on my diction.

That rug really tied the room together, did it not?

It's highly recommended in freezing climates to take part in some sort of craft to maintain sanity. Since I've already mastered past winter hobbies (i.e., self-destructive drinking, video installation art, etc.) and since I enjoy Northern Maine's low crime rate, I've taken to knitting rugs. Well....a rug.

This deserves the mentioning of Marden's Surplus, where you can get fat quarters for 59 cents each and a copy of The Basque History of the World for $7. Yet, the origin of such items is often mysterious, hinted upon only by the slight smell of smoke or a whiff of flood damage. I guess I expect my goods to have a rough and tumble life.

By the way, thanks to all the warm wishes and welcomes I've received in such a short span of time! Y'all=Best.

Thank you, now stop being so damned adorable.

You had a song featured in an animated film about cute and honorable cats that walk and talk. Your hands are too small for a guitar. You sing like you talk. Your albums and singles are only available as incredibly pricey imports, and, yet, I still contemplate buying everysingleoneofthem.

You enjoy layering your clothing. Me too!!!

Di+Ayano Tsuji=BFF

Yeah.

It's been awhile, but not too much has changed.

I'm engaged. I'm certified. I'm living the life of an elderly lumberjack, and I feel fine. I live with the feline reincarnation of Joseph Stalin. I'm shooting for jobs that I'm overqualified for. I invoke the Quebecois. My greatest goal is to get on Jeopardy! Soon. So as to maintain momentum.

I'm feeling like a child star, as long as by "meth" you mean "apricot juice".