The DMV and the LotR

Lots of happy jumping and dancing and squeaking and yelling goin’ on ’round herr. I dun got my license this morning. Clear the damn roads. I’m not even going to complain about the five hours I spent at the DMV yesterday only to find out I couldn’t even take my road test. It’s all good, baby.

Got to hang out some with Dulin last night, as we rented the second Lord of the Rings, then drove to the theater to see the third one. I’d be lying my ass off if I said I found the movie all good and cute and fun. It’s been said (link courtesy of Dru Blood): the very obvious black/white/dirty/clean/pretty/ugly dichotomy in Lord of the Rings, which didn’t really sink in with me until the final one, was a bit disturbing. And a bit ugly. Seeing it was worth six bucks (I love being a student), but I will probably be hesitant to fork over the buckaroos to buy the remaining two movies of the trilogy I don’t own.

Viggo Mortensen is still a sexy beast, though. Mrowr. (Way cuter than that Bloom kid.)

I’m a happy, happy camper. I am, however, stuck camping, with nowhere to go in my car with my license with my itty-bitty bit of gas.

[Listening to “Flow” [Sade / Lovers Rock]]

Fondue: melted; or "I have a penis, and it needs rubbin’!"

The above are (thank goodness) much less related than one would think.

I departed the family abode Tuesday afternoon to hang out with Michael in his spiffy new (to him) Astro-something van. Our friend Rackrent was stuck at home baby-sitting her sick brother, so we dropped by to visit and give her my Christmas gift. Somehow, she ended up coming with us on our fun and aimless journey–the more the merrier, I say. Well, to a certain extent. But her presence was welcome.

It was decided, sometime after picking Rackrent up and purchasing a Christmas gift for a family member of Michael’s, that we simply must hit The Melting Pot after dinner. ‘Cuz apparently dessert is the best thing they serve. And it’s priced like they know it. The server was funny, and spoke in a manner much like The Family Guy’s character Quagmire, prompting imitations from Michael, and much giggling from me. So we had our milk chocolate and chocolate s’more fondue, and Michael turned it into his Christmas gift to us. Which is great, because that so would have been my Lord of the Rings money (or my driver’s license money!), so I am mucho, mucho appreciative. I have, however, been put off sweets for at least a month, I swear.

(Quick interjection to tell how North Carolina’s DMV system hates my fucking guts. So Monday I’m driving around, cramming the handbook for my exams, etc., etc., right? Go the DMV Tuesday mid-morning, when the lines are shortest and there aren’t but ten people stuck waiting outside, and a DMV worker/officer (?) comes out to tell us the computer system is down, so they can’t perform any work that would require looking things up on the system, like issuing permits or licenses. Oh, and by the way, it’s a state-wide failure, so no other DMVs can do it either, and they don’t know when it will be fixed. Of course, the DMV was closed the remainder of the week, so the next possible testing day is Monday. Grr.)

Following our Melting Pot fun, we dropped Rackrent off at home and headed to visit Chris in his dorm at UNCC. So began several hours Chris-filled fun. I finally saw that End of the World movie people have been linking to and laughing about. That narrator’s voice just killed me, although I didn’t particularly find the sequence of events funny. Odd, just odd.

Oh-khay, so… Upon arriving at the family abode at something till 03:00, I find Mother-dear and the Rat wide awake. Apparently, the Rat came down sick with the flu just a few minutes after I left that afternoon, and was fighting through an ever-rising fever, making everyone’s life miserable. Oh, joy. I did actually feel sorry for her, because she looked like shit, and must have felt worse, given her subdued manner. Do you know what it takes to subdue a four-year old?

Christmas day was a moderately uneventful for me, except that, despite numerous reminders, I managed to forget Michael’s brunch that morning, and arrived an hour late. Oh, and I managed to convince my mother to let me drive to the video store to pick up Bend It Like Beckham for my our viewing pleasure. I want my fucking money back on that, too, because as soon at the pre-wedding parties came up in the movie (when the sexy, sexy coach came to convice Mr. Bhamra to let Jess play in the finals), the DVD froze in several places on just about every damn remaining chapter of the moobie. Fuckers.

I, of course, opened all my Christmas gifts before Christmas, being the impatient biz-natch I am. Ali got me Spongebob Squarepants pajama pants; also in Ali’s package (although these I know my mother picked out) were a wonderful vegetarian cookbook, and this nifty bead eye-mask that you heat up or chill depending on the type of headache you have. Très cool. The old people (again, my mother) got me some books (yay!), more pajama pants (you can never have enough), and a foot spa therapy kit (odd, but cool). A very nice Christmas, all around. I haven’t fought with anyone (although the Old Man did get a bit hinkty when I was practicing driving and wouldn’t stop at the gas station so he could stock up on beer, but he should have known better), I got to see old high school friends at the brunch, I got to try The Melting Pot, and I got to see most of Bend It Like Beckham again.

And I’ll be getting a license soon!

[Listening to “Push the Limits” [Enigma / LSD: Love, Sensuality and Devotion]]

Want a bagel?

Yesterday morning, someone began to seriously toe the line of friendliness versus sexual harrassment with me. He’s a nice guy–we say hello whenever we see each other and he asks how my day is going. If he seemed to fixate a bit, I chalked it up to the fact that he seemed to be a bit… I don’t even know what the politically correct term is–“developmentally challenged”, perhaps? Slightly retarded, in other words.

Yesterday morning, however, while I was getting breakfast, he came up to me and began to make really odd comments, on repeat. The conversation began innocuously enough: questions about where I was spending break, if I was looking forward to going home, if I was looking forward to coming back. Saying I better come back from break, “‘cuz it would be a shame for such a pretty, pretty girl to leave Rose”. Several similar statements regarding my looks were made, with a definite sexual overtone before I managed to grab my done bagels from the toaster and get the hell away.

Right. So. I was a bit creeped out. Just a bit. Thought about talking to his higher-ups, thought about getting serious with him–he’s apparently one of those who thinks I’m all smiles and giggles, and fuck if I know how he got that idea. Thought about just telling him I was uncomfortable with the way he talked to me. Not sure how that last could go–somehow I suspect there would be pleading me not to tell his higher-ups, like I’m some kind of goddamn blackmailer.

But there is the distinct possiblity that it was just too early in the morning, and I read into his (definitely) effusive praise more than was there. It happens. Well, not usually to me, but I’ve heard it has happened to other people. I’m usually not effusively praised at all.

I suppose I shall just sit on this. (And twirl? Nevermind…) I’ll probably forget all about it over Christmas break (which is actually why I wrote it down here, so I wouldn’t), and things will be cooler when I return. Because things just fix themselves like that. Much like potentially killed potential friendships in which you are left with no damn idea where things stand, because, dammit, you didn’t put a request for a read receipt on that e-mail, but the stony look at dinner–or the pointed not look–leads you think the e-mail was either destroyed upon reading the subject or identifying the sender, without having been opened, read, or considered for discussion.

Um, yeah. Just like that, too.

[Listening to “Carnival” [Tori Amos / Mission Impossible 2 [Soundtrack]]]

Ten thousand, eight hundred. Plus a few.

If I can write that many words in 16 days on this website (not counting this), why can’t I muster the passion to write 1200 measly words on Letters from an American Farmer? I can’t keep betting “the next one” is going to be more interesting, because then I’ll be thoroughly fooked at the end of the term.

I will definitely be writing on Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself”, though. I’m going to change my position on Whitman a bit, as “Song of Myself” redeemed him in my eyes. Some parts I really liked: the areas describing war, one particular way he described a slave that was beautiful, and, most of all, the… completion… that existed once the poem was done. When I finished, I stopped to think about the poem, and it was like, “Wow. It really is a portrait of a man. In some places in was full-frontal nudity as well, but most of time he kept it to a portrait…” I now have Ideas for an Essay. Bruhaha!

[Listening to “Turn Around” [Enigma / LSD: Love, Sensuality and Devotion]]