Dynamic Duos

Okay, I had a minor freak-out Wednesday night about having a loose, festering flap of skin on my gums last night post-wisdom teeth removal but it appears that's all for naught. It was gone by Thursday morning and my jaw is beginning to feel much better - even if eating food is still rather difficult.

Being rather limited to my activities has allowed me to return to back to some good old reading - namely Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey/Maturin series. I've read The Mauritius Command and am working my way through Desolation Island. I'm a little disappointed at the lack of Diana Villiers but maybe that's for the best - she'd probably just make Maturin really upset (more upset at her than he already is now) and make me totally pissed off. So a little break from Villiers drama probably isn't such bad thing for the series.

One things I'm really glad to have back is the epic bromance that is Aubrey and Maturin's relationship (bromance is totally the wrong term for it, but there's only so many times in my day that I get to use it, so forgive me). Seriously, these guys have a fantastic friendship. The way they interact with each other is really amusing and, well, real. They're a really powerful duo, even if they don't always get along, and I think that's one reason I find the books so fascinating.

And being the Doctor Who geek I've become, I can't help comparing Captain Jack Aubrey and Doctor Stephen Maturin to Captain Jack Harkness and the Doctor from Doctor Who. Admittedly, I haven't seen A LOT of Doctor Who with Jack Harkness yet (only season one) but the interaction I've seen so far between the Doctor and Captain Jack is pretty fantastic. Also, picturing a cross-over between the two series is awesome - I think both Captain Jacks would have some pretty fun conversations (especially with Aubrey's tenancies of being a ladies' man, and Harkness being flirtatious with anyone and everyone). And both Doctors would have some pretty great discussions, I think.

Doctor, meet the Doctor. Captain Jack, meet Captain Jack. Let the weirdness of this moment commence.

(Side note - do you know how hard it was to find an picture of Jack in the Doctor together without them snogging? Rather more difficult than I'd presumed :P)

Friday Night Paint Fight

A NOTE TO [Львица]: Sorry that there's random shit in here I didn't tell you about as to why I was uncomfortable. It didn't hit me until I was thinking it out. I'm not trying to cover up stuff, I just didn't realize that THAT'S why something was bugging me.

Anyway, continuing for on for the rest of you...

So [Львица], [The Question] and I went to a "paint party" called Dayglo at a joint called Epic on Friday night. I really had no idea what to expect - I must confess, other than a little trip to the Gay 90s on an empty Thursday night last year, I've never been clubbing. At all.

I'd say this event totally made up for it. I spent half of Friday  trying to figure out what to wear. The dress code was supposed to be white shirt, all white if possible, but blue jeans were okay. It's incredible how little white I have in my wardrobe - I actually had to borrow a shirt from [Львица] as all of mine were dress shirts and thus not paintable. The club wasn't strict about the rule but everyone was mostly in white. This was to allow for the full affect of the paint to take hold. See, what happens is everyone gathers on the dance floor and the DJ plays music and, after like an hour and a half of being in the club, you get paint squirted at you, in this weird meshing of several different art forms. It's pretty cool and it was a major life tile experience. Except for one, little tiny problem...

See how dedicated I am? Blogging while still covered in paint :D

Okay, two. Or three. I'm such a schmuck, making something as epic as this sounds grounded in my reality. But you want my take? Here it is. I like dancing - I'm not the best at it, but I do like it. However, I'm not a fan of how in clubs, you never have room to move without being on the edges and then it's just awkward. This was that to the extreme. At the beginning it was totally fine, we had lots of room. Then, as more people came in and pushed forward, we were slowly being squeezed in a vice-like fashion to the front. I escaped to the back for some fresh air, ran into [The Question] and regrouped with [Львица] Then it was back to the dance floor for the same process - more vice-like squeezing, this time with some guy trying to dance with me, which I was cool with at first. DISCLAIMER: I HAVE NEVER ACTUALLY DANCED WITH A GUY BEFORE. Unless you would count the uber gay guy who attacked me at a Halloween dance last year. And that was more dancing around each other.  I guess I should mention that little fact since I didn't realize it until just now. Well, another life experience made. And what follows is definitely an experience.

This guy starts dancing with me and I'm fine with it until all of the sudden he leans forwards, sniffs my hair or something, then licks the back of my neck. I realize now that, even if he'd been someone I knew, even if I'd know what he looked like, even if I HAD wanted him to do that, I probably still would have been freaked out. I just don't like people touching my neck - unless I really, REALLY trust them. God knows why; I tend to forget until people touch me my neck without asking and then I flip out (like a friend of mine from high school, [uber gay] used to pretend to strangle me - don't ask - and one day I just tweaked out). Great little imbedded phobia there. So, needless to say, having a random stranger repeatedly lick my neck was not cool. I started to push his hands away and then he grabbed on - hard - and tried to do the same thing again. So then I shoved his hands away and tried to flee, positioning myself near [Львица] and [The Question]. That worked at least. Until another guy came along later and aggressively tried to dance with me, but by this time I was sick of people touching me and I moved away. I realize that this is partly due to the fact that  "Aunt Flo is visiting" and any touching below the waist is totally unwanted. And I had a really unsettling dream the night before to put that sort of thing in a bad light (I won't make you suffer the details; it was creepy, moving on). But also, there is a difference between putting your hands on my waist and putting your hands on that area where my legs meet my torso (whatever the anatomical word might be). Yeah. So, my feeling that men are pig right now is not totally without reason (obviously not true, but I'm worn a bit thin, so bear with me).

Then the REALLY intense mosh pit began, where I fell and got pulled up by my some very kind girls, got my face squished between two bros' shoulder blades (dude, there were a lot of bros there. There were so many bros that they had to dance with each other, I swear) and lost an earring (the second one in a week. Damn it!) Then I got the weight of at least two quarterbacks forced on me as people swayed backwards and forwards in this... well, mob, basically. A big, sweaty, music-obsessed mob. A big sweaty mob that carried a man dressed as an alien in a plastic ball across the crowd (that was pretty incredible; the ball went right over my head). Then I got splattered with paint - which was SWEET - the wet, gluey-kindergardeny smell of the paint sweeping across my face in bold neon pinks and blues as music thundered in my ears and people cheered. Then I fell over and got crushed by people which was NOT SWEET as I had to scream at them until they got up off of me. But I did get the proud honor of walking through downtown Minneapolis with paint smeared across my face, watching the cops slug a guy who was harassing them, studying the long lines of people filing into clubs and seeing [Львица] get mistaken for Kate Winslet (by a possibly drunk man, but nonetheless, an easy mistake to be made :D). Go to paint parties - people will mistake you as someone famous. It can happen.

I fought aliens with Kate Winslet. Win!

Now my body is aching, I can feel the parts in my back that got twisted in weird directions and had weight forced upon them that I couldn't support. I still smell the faint scent of paint lingering in my nose. It wasn't an AWESOME party - it needed WAY MORE PAINT. And more space. Then it would have been fricken amazing. I did have fun and it was definitely and experience. I guess going to events like that just makes me feel like a freak, because I'm not really into clubbing, I'm not into huge parties. I'm not that sort of college kid, and I guess some people think I'm not really experiencing college if I don't go and do that shit. Well, I went and did it. But it's just not... ME. I totally support the people who can whip out on the dance floor and tear the place up. It isn't that I don't feel secure enough with my body to dance, it's that I don't feel RIGHT dancing there. It's like my body wasn't built for those sort of moves - I don't have super curves, my arms hate getting involved, I'm super short. I'm just stubbornly old school - I like swing, tango, waltz - ballroom dancing. I swear I got time warped out of the 1940s or something. I also don't know how to deal with guys like those at the club. I want guys to take the lead, but not to force their tongue on the back of my neck. At least I'm strong enough to push them away - but how someone could put up with that if they didn't want it is beyond me. It was DISGUSTING - and the dude totally needed to shave. In short, I guess I don't feel like myself there. Which makes me feel bad. [Львица] really likes clubbing and she doesn't know anyone who she'd feel comfortable going with. But I feel like I don't know anyone who doesn't want to go clubbing. That's the "college" thing to do - where girls meet guys, where you stay up on hip pop culture stuff. And by not going to that, I feel like I'm missing out on so much.

But college isn't the same for everyone. It's can't be. We were just talking about in my psychology class how we overestimate things, like how many of our peers drink or how many people do certain things. I suppose the people who go to clubs are just more talkative about it than the people who maybe go swing dancing or just go for a pint at the bar. Or maybe it just sounds more exciting and so the clubbing people are more apt to share it than the people who just had a night dancing to big band. I don't know. All I know is that I shouldn't feel like a freak for having these opinions, and yet I still kind of do. Alas, my own weirdness confounds me. But there were elements to clubbing that I liked - the feeling of the bass reverberating in the toes of my shoes, the synchronous movements as everyone on the dance floor moved in the same way, the appearance that I had just fought aliens as I walked home with paint smeared across my face. There are parts of it there that I like, but too much of it feels... not accessible or understandable to me. But that's culture - there's parts I'll understand, and parts I won't. And the parts that don't fascinate me in their own way.

Men blah blah blah Women blah blah blah

This is the first thing I saw on Facebook this morning, from a guy I met on the Scotland trip:

[manly-metro]: My man movie script is complete {a whole slew of guys are tagged, including [No-Mr-Darcy]} and assorted others let's film this bad boy soon. Please and thank you.

Then, this afternoon:

[No-Mr-Darcy]: a freshmen ran half way across the mall to shake my hand and tell me i was awesome. Why? BECAUSE I WAS WEARING A KILT! >:D MUHAHAHAHA!

Things I'm still right about, Part 3

1) Men are stupid. Not all men, but a baffling high frequency surround my life. Like the guy in my neighborhood that was climbing a ladder that wasn't propped up against anything and then fell face-forward on it into the ground while a guy and girl just stood in the yard and smiled. Or how about this little gem that showed up on my Facebook page today:

[No-Mr-Darcy]: Just built a bookcase with [timmah!]...horrible experience.

[timmah!]: how was I supposed to know I couldn't stand on it?

[No-Mr-Darcy]: *speechless*

Actually, my point gets better. Here's a later status:

[No-Mr-Darcy]: very manly day. Had a grill out with the chums, brats and burgers. then helped [Bromandawg] get a bat out of imholt.

You remind me of me... but bitch, please

I could kill Diana Villiers right now. This brings about two problems:
1) I want to kill an individual.
2) I want to kill an individual who is fictional.
Which, ultimately, brings me to a third problem:
3) I am jealous of a fictional individual.

I should explain. Diana Villiers is a character in Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey/Maturin series (aka, the series that the movie Master and Commander is based on). Diana is a fascinating character, especially given the time period she inhabits. She's a short, dark-haired smartass who goes horseback riding and fox hunting, plays the piano even though she can't read music and won't listen to her aunt's plans for her life. She grew up in India, fell passionately in love with a man who did not make a "profitable" match, but whom she married none the less. After he died, she returned to England, a black sheep in her family of gentle lambs. Needless to say, I love this maniac. She's the sort of character I've been dying to see in Regency era novels ever since I first met Elizabeth Bennet. Don't get me wrong, Jane Austen's Elizabeth is fabulous; I like her a lot. But I always longed for a character that incorporated both Elizabeth's free-thinking and Emma Woodhouse's sharp tongue. With Diana, I get the perfect match. Which, interestingly, creates the sort of girl I try to be.

Love and Loss, or: too much info about my personal life, Part 2

II.

You see, while I was abroad, I met a guy. I know, I know – shocking. Something that is so normal is big-ass deal for me. Seriously, all of my guy friends, save one or two, since elementary school have been gay. So meeting as straight guy who seemed to like me and I liked and who wasn’t a douche and whom I actually had stuff in common with was a miracle. It seemed too good to be true. It was.

[X] was convinced that he liked me after I mentioned to her that I liked him. Which I conveniently realized at the end of the trip, when it was too late to do something. Fail. But when I returned home, I friended him and wrote him a message, asking about the rest of his trip. He was polite, but not forward – if he liked me, he wasn’t doing anything about it. So, after taking some advice from [X], I asked him out for coffee. Which he agreed to. I couldn’t believe it. I was high on delight and hope.

By this point, some of my friends were already referring to him as my boyfriend. I didn’t like this, as nothing had happened yet, but one friend said it was “inevitable” that we would be going out.

So we went to coffee. It was fun, sweet, charming. But I wasn’t sure I’d gotten my point across. He seemed to recognize that it was a date, but I wasn’t sure that he got that I liked him. So I told him via text that I had a good time and that he should let me know if he wanted to do something again. I basically got an “ok” and that was it. Frustrated, I waited a few days and, rolling with the advice of a pal from the Scotland trip, asked him if he wanted to do anything that weekend (okay, so the friend said to call him but I felt more comfortable with texting. As said before, I apparently don’t know how to use a phone). He said he was busy so I asked if he wanted to do something after my trip to Indiana to see family. He said he’d have to see. I was not happy, to say the least.

So I went to Indiana (which is a story in itself) and came back home, waiting for text, a call, a message, anything. Nothing. I refused to text him – mostly from the bidding of my friends, who said it was his turn to do the work. And besides, he’d shown no clear signs of liking me – which meant anything I did would look rather clingy and desperate.