I HAVE MOVED!

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I am here.

And be sure to bookmark the new URL. Or better yet, just subscribe so you don't miss a moment of my rambling. Click above or go to www.GlitterandCombatBoots.com and click on "subscribe".

I'm lazy. I get it. Happy Holidays.

Thanks for coming back. If you don't want to sit through me talking, below that is a video of a goat that sounds like Jerry Lewis.

American Beauty

Things happen exactly as they are supposed to.

I often forget that.

I tried to watch American Beauty years ago, getting to the almost-end, just as Mena Suvari tells Kevin Spacey that this would be her first time, and he wraps her in a blanket.

I can't remember why, but at the time, the movie was turned off and I never got to see the end. And I knew Kevin Spacey would die, I just didn't know why. Or how.

Several years back, I dated a guy that listed this among his favorite movies. But, despite my asking, we never watched it together, and we broke up a short time later.

It would never have occurred to me that I wasn't supposed to see the end. Not either of those times, anyway.

I tried to watch it twice today, once this morning, the second this afternoon. However, the DVD on my computer wasn't playing along with me. So I went about my day, and finally cozied up with a martini and a leather chair this evening in front of the flat screen in my house and watched it in its entirety.

And now, I'm sitting here with tear-stained cheeks and vodka and olive juice on my tongue, and I understand why the universe didn't let me see the end until now. I don't think I was ready.

Its impact was significant, and I think that has a lot to do with where I am in my life right now.

I've never been married, I don't have kids. I don't have a house of my own, or a well-paying job. Most of the relationships I've had in the last 5 years have been an absolute disaster, because I can't seem to find myself attracted to the ones that matter. I'm almost 35, and I have no real social life to speak of - partly due to the fact that I prefer to be solitary, but also because I forgot how to be how other people think I should be.

I should be lonely, I should be lost. And for a long time, I was. But I don't feel any of those things now. I love that I'm here, and I love what I've become. It certainly isn't where I expected to be at this age, but I admit that I don't envy the things I don't have. I'm working on myself now, and I can't say that I've loved myself as much as I have these last weeks. I've found that surrounding yourself with people and things often distract you from feeling things and discovering yourself. And, though I didn't ask for it, that's where I've been for the last years. And it feels really, really nice.

I don't know if martinis replenish tears, but I'm having another anyway.

Thank you for reading, and I hope there is happiness for you to uncover as well...

My Plot to Marry Seth MacFarlane

I pretty much knew it was love, oh so many years ago while I was watching Adult Swim. It was late at night, I may or may not have been drinking, and this beautiful gem of a man was channeling Masterpiece Theatre. He was seated in a home library, surrounded by shelves of old books on mahogany shelves, fireplace cracking behind him. His rumbly voice a sweet, soft growl as he sat in a high backed leather chair, tucked in a silk smoking jacket and a pipe resting between his soft lips.

The connection I felt was instant. Pure and primal, and went way beyond the previous one-sided, childish sexual feelings I felt for Zach Braff and Chuck D. This time, the feelings tore through my body and fractured my foundation. I vowed to have him.

Up until recently, I didn't have much of a plan. Honestly, I still don't have a plan, but I'm more hoping that I'll get lucky and fall into spending eternity with him without having to do much work to get there.

The other idea is to find out if he's already married, in which case I can just abandon the whole thing.

I actually had my chance to ensnare him across a crowded ComiCon. He was sitting at the Adult Swim table signing an autograph for a woman twice his age. I stood idly watching from about 30 feet away, silently breathing in his magnificence. I considered my plan of attack. Would I continually walk past his table until he asked me if I was lost? Perhaps. But that would run the risk of him finding me retarded. Would I ask to borrow a pen. Or maybe his cell phone? That way I could dial my own number on it, having his number show up on mine, and cementing my number into his call history? Better still, I could accidentally pour a bottle of water on my shirt and ask if he had a clothes dryer. Or maybe he would let me borrow the shirt he was wearing, and I could absorb his smell in its fabric, admiring his soft, pale skin as we stood alone, right in the middle of the convention center.

As I pondered my options and gazed longingly at him, he looked over at me. And I froze, paralyzed that I had been caught drinking him in with every ounce of my being.

Unable to look away, I waited for a glimmer of secret understanding between us. And moments later, he gently raised his palms and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, "Okay, dumbass, don't stand there like a mongoloid. I'm sitting right here, so just come over and say hi. You're obviously smitten with me."

I did what any reasonable woman in my position would do: I ran away.

I look back now and realize I should have pulled the wet shirt stunt. But I can't turn back time, and I can't deny that my chance may never come again. But this post is a vow to myself, and all of you reading, that I can overcome fate. If my destiny won't put him in my path again, I will put myself in his. I will seek out that which was meant for me and only me. And I will not let any obstacle get in my way. And I will also bring a smoking jacket with me in case he doesn't own one, because having him wear nothing but that would be super hot.

I don't know how, or when, but he will be mine. And if I should fail, I can always try and marry Todd McFarlane - he would be a decent runner up due to his similar last name and that he also has ties to the animation community.

If anyone can help me with my charge, please reach out to me. I accept paypal for those who wish to donate to the cause, and I would welcome any contacts that may be childhood friends or babysitters or anyone who might have spare keys to his apartment. And my law enforcement connections (*coughjenniferaaronandbeccacough*), if you guys could run a clear and list, a criminal history, and check counties in Los Angeles for locals on him, I would appreciate it.

Until then, I am going to brush up on stalker How-Tos and dream of that honey-voiced demigod, his silk covered arm reaching out to me from across a geek-filled ocean of comic book collectors.

I am at least 18 years of age (CLICK TO ENTER)

So, I got a new job. Few of you know, most of you don't. I was going to say not to read this if you are worried about thinking of me differently. But truly, if this post changes you, I'm shocked we were friends in the first place.

I got hired a few weeks ago at an online adult DVD rental company. It's X-Rated Netflix, if you want to look at it that way.

I had a lot of reservations about working here, mostly because, like many people, I had preconceived notions about what working with adult DVDs would be like. After that, I got worried about how it might look to have this job on my resume if it didn't end up working out here. I started to worry about what people might think, and then realized I really shouldn't give a shit. If I'm okay with it (and I found out that I am) then everyone can be happy for me or piss the hell off.

I'm sorry to say (mostly for Aaron's sake) that it's very much like any normal office. Unless you stopped to look at DVD covers, paperwork, or boxes of promotional material, you might think you were working in an insurance office. A very laid back, fun insurance office, maybe. But nothing that slaps you in the face with porn every time you look around.

I handle customer service, and creating multiple shipments every day. It's a routine, and has more to do with order and timing than anything else. If someone in shipping gets held up, it holds me up, and then everything's off for the rest of the day. Likewise, I can hold them up if I'm not careful.

But it's pretty low stress, and a comfortable place to be. The people that work here are fun, the boss is very cool, and the two guys I work closely with are pretty fab. In a way, it's a very normal job in an abnormal environment.

When I told a friend I got hired, his response was, "Oh yeah. That fits you." Naturally, I needed clarification. He pointed out that throughout my adult work life, I'd had nothing but unique jobs: radio, auto parts, 911 dispatcher, prizing and marketing website. I hadn't really noticed that before, but I have to admit he has a point.

It's not like I go looking for strange jobs.

The one thing that has been a little weird for me is dealing with people who have worked in this environment for a long time, and aren't fazed by much anymore. I'm sure at some point, I won't giggle at DVD titles, or be shocked by photos and video scenes. But at the moment, I'm in a bit over my head.

For example, my boss was across the room the other day asking me about a particular shipment to a customer.

"Which shipment was it?" he asks me.

It took some great courage and a few moments to get the words out, but my answer was, "Anal School Tryouts and Ass Intruders Volume 17."

Since then, I have seen some titles that put the above to shame, and I suppose I will get used to it eventually. For now, I try to keep the snickering to a minimum. It isn't easy.

Those of you who know Aaron can imagine how elated he was to find out where I got employed. He was the first one I told. I don't think I have ever heard Aaron so happy. As he put it, he felt like "a fat kid in a candy store." And it is because of Aaron, and in his honor, that each day I take a photo of a different DVD cover and sent it to him from my phone - Aaron's DVD Cover of The Day. If anyone wants to be part of the mailing list, send me an essay of any length on why Aaron should let you be part of ADCD and he can approve or decline based on his own criteria.

I know Aaron was hoping for multiple blog posts about my job, and I'm sure they will be forthcoming. I don't know how much is too much at this point. I could do a giant post about all the things I learned the first week I was here, but I'm still in shock from most of it.

Now please excuse me while I get back to work and locate Horny Ragin' Asians.

Evidence

As promised, photos that go with this blog:

The Package

I stopped by my post office box today to find out I had a package waiting for me. I wasn't expecting anything, but I was hoping that it might be addressed from The North Face. And it was.

For those of you who aren't familiar with the beginning of this story, you can read it here.

Immediately, I grew very excited. After all, they sent me something apart from a letter telling me to piss off.

Minding the warning that I shouldn't open the box with a knife or box cutter, I gently sliced the seam and wondered what color my replacement garment would be. Black, maybe? That's a safe bet, a neutral color that everyone likes. Or maybe it could be orange - I love orange.

It was cornflower blue, the very same color as my beloved yet deceased predecessor. In fact, it was the exact material. My old jacket sent back to me.

My excitement flatlined, and I knew, walking out to my car, that I would find a note inside from North Face telling me that I could keep what was left of my jacket and go directly to hell. At that point, I would have preferred them to keep the jacket and send me nothing.

Upon further inspection, I pulled out a sheet of paper explaining that they had sent me a bottle of Revivex from Gore Tex to re-waterproof the outer lining. And, to my utter amazement, the inside of the jacket had been entirely re-seamed.

Honestly, the condition it left me in was laughable. My dad got to see it, actually, and it truly looked like a wild animal had gotten to it. The inside was gutted, and the part of the lining that wasn't torn from the jacket and pooled into a ball in the bottom of the washer was clinging lifelessly to the inner hems, taping glue cracked and powdery hanging on every edge.

From a business perspective, I imagine it took more labor and money to bring this jacket back to life than it would have to send me something else they had in stock. I never really considered that they would take the time or effort to do it, but they did, without explanation or confirmation that anyone read my story that I was so very proud of.

In a way, having a brand new inside is like placing an 80-year-old's skin on a 17-year-old's body. By the time it wears out for good, the outside will have been around tenfold longer than is probably appropriate.

I've taken the steps to reproof the outside of my brand new, ancient pullover (did I mention that it's a pullover? They don't make them like that anymore.) Now I just have to wait for it to rain.

Guerrero Negro Part 6: Liquor and Produce

Our last two days of the trip were the long stretch back home. We drove 40 miles down an shabby, dirt, out-of-the-way road to a town called San Luis Gonzaga to find a radio transmitter on a bird captured by Bridget that had stopped 'migrating' some time ago. There were some speculations between her and my father (read: a long standing bet) about why the transmitter never migrated. Was the bird dead? Did the transmitter fall off? Was the bird still alive and didn't leave the area for whatever reason? Something else?

Bridget had an aerial map with coordinates that the transmitter had been at frequently, and we searched the area for either the bird itself, a bird carcass, or a lost transmitter. It amounted, if not on a living animal, to a needle in a haystack in a way. Until I found out what transmitters cost. And I imagined looking for a bundle of bills amounting to $4000. I would hunt around for that much money in a wetland.

We didn't end up finding it, but not for a lack of looking. The mystery, and the bet, still stands.

After heading back on the same road we came in on (the only road out of the town), we headed back north towards the border. We stopped at a cheap motel, with water hot enough that it could flay the skin off of your body. I couldn't figure out how to turn the lights on or work the outlets in the morning, only to find out that the generator was turned off during the day. Trying to wrap my brain around that one, Bridget's voice chimed, "Yeah, why would anyone need electricity during the day?"

We stopped at a neat breakfast spot with a cozy, inside chiminea that we circled around with our morning caffeine.

Once we found the Otay Mesa border crossing, we found it much faster than the normally three hour long wait at the main crossing. We were tired, dirty, and ready for an early night and the sight of our own beds.

Bridget is a biologist that has worked with my dad previously. Working with my dad was lots of fun, but it was very nice to have some additional estrogen around. Bridget is a riot, and she added a rad dimension to the trip for me.

She was talking about a store (owned by a friend, relative, or stranger, I can't remember) called Liquor and Produce. We couldn't determine which came first in the store. Perhaps a produce store needed more clientele, or, because the store was in Utah, that it needed to add something more wholesome to the product list. Either way, once we discussed the random nature of those two items being sold together, we noticed lots of places and things that went together but probably shouldn't. And now back in the US, I'm still finding amusement in the odd things that are sometimes paired together.

This last post contains more than a pair - a smattering of the random bits of the trip that I wanted to share that didn't fit anywhere else. It's my liquor, produce, spaghetti, and blankets (bonus points for those who got the Mitch Hedberg reference).

First, a few more photos of The Hotel California, including the dreaded room 13 that Bridget and I shared, and some photos of the hotel in San Quintin that I had kite surfed at with my dad that we revisited:








A snack I found on the trip up but was too grossed out to try:



A giant cactus (notice the two, itsy, bitsy humans standing at the base - it's that freaking tall):



Some random birds (the one of the quail was taken by Roberto Carmona):






Salt, salt, everywhere. No wonder I felt all fat and swollen the week I was there. Plus, I added salt to my food - out of respect for the company, of course. Here is salt that we saw in its many forms, and a little bit of its effect on the environment:









Tonito, one of the resident coyotes, caused quite a havoc finding his daily meals. Here are a few of the gifts he left in his wake:





We got to hang out with some very friendly Pronghorns that were bred as part of a repopulation program. Though they had alfalfa to last for a millennia, they clearly had the taste for human blood. And my sweatshirt:



An example of liquor and produce - The Ecology and Workplace Safety Office. Because nothing goes quite as well together as shorebirds and wetland ecology, and paramedics and firetrucks:





There are very strict rules at the bunkhouse. My personal favorite is rule 2d - No drinking liquor in the rooms - uh, wish I would have read that at the outset. Oh, secondly, no scandals. Scandalous behavior is only allowed off the premises, please and thank you!



Diligently working:














This one lacks a bit of the actual weirdness of a beak's true flexibility. Still, nature rocks:



I really loved the people I met. Definitely changed the whole tone of the adventure:







Ending out lineup is a video of one of my favorite people from the trip, Martin. He works at the Exportadora, and was the one who allowed us to go out on the whale count. His spanish was nearly impossible to understand, but what I did understand was hysterical.

I had heard that Martin was the security manager at the Salt Company, but evidently there was another Martin, a Martin Garcia who was Martin's boss. Martin commented (and this had to be translated for me) that his boss looked amazingly like Squidward from SpongeBob Squarepants. I never got to confirm or deny that, but I did get a sampling of Martin's impression of him. And Martin, if you're reading this, I know you asked me not to put this on YouTube. You didn't say anything about Blogspot, mi palomilla:



The only proper way to end this post is to go eat a freshly made salad and three fingers of whiskey. Oh, and make sure not to do it in your rooms, or cause a scandal doing so.

Guerrero Negro Part 5: The Process

We woke up early, had breakfast, and geared up to head to our last capture site of the trip. Everyone had been happy, well-fed, upbeat, and the entire trip went off without a hitch thus far. Which, of course, means that we were due for a snag. And that came in the form of an untimely flat tire.




The Isuzu Trooper that we spent most of the journey in, the same vehicle that Roberto and Victor broke down in on the way from La Paz, had held up fairly well since the breakdown. Despite Roberto's ballsy driving, not shying away from the nastiest of dirt roads or tight corners, we had yet to experience any issues once the car actually made it to Guerrero Negro. It was a miracle that a flat tire was all that was to come. Although "flat" wasn't terribly accurate.

More like shredded.

The sight of what once was our tire was fairly disconcerting, until I realized what our 'new' tire looked like. I envisioned driving on tacks with an inner tube, and feared plunging into a ravine somewhere, mounds of salt preserving my rotting corpse. To my delight, it held up nicely, and I didn't have to worry about seagulls picking at my remains.

After changing the flat with the bare minimum tools to do so (I took the lug nuts off, thank you very much) we hopped in our cars and back down the road.

On the day of the last capture, I decided to remain out of the fray to at least try and capture some of the process on video. While it doesn't convey the true chaos and adrenaline, it gives you an idea of what happens right before the net fires, through the events of the data circle.

This particular day didn't quite go as planned (I found that is usually the case.) We had barely decided on a spot for capture, and were merely hoping for success rather than expecting it.

We had all rounded up and were put in three groups. One group was to walk across the net area to the other side of the dike we were on, one group was to stay close behind the detonation point, and one would remain on the near side of the dike's edge.

I was placed in the first group, and we were all headed out to cross the net area when birds started pouring in unexpectedly. Everyone dropped to the ground where they were at and waited, nobody even close to their intended positions. Victor, chief net detonator, actually had to crawl military style to get to the detonator. Very covert. It was a stroke of luck, but one that came before we were ready.

The videos (two of them, due to photobucket restrictions) begin from there, and they sum up the few hours to follow, from the birds arriving, the net being fired on through the end of the capture day:





Once we got back to the bunkhouse and washed up, Bridget and I went out shopping. We ended up buying some delicious snacks and some Oso Negro vodka (which came with a set of bonus Stanley screwdrivers, which I hope Bridget has put to good use around her house) and we proceeded to drink it with mango and pineapple juice. That lead to the bigger expedition of late night pool playing. Those of us who were still standing headed out to karaoke until, if I recall correctly, close to 4am. And yes, I sang. And also yes, it was in spanish.

Needless to say, it was difficult to wake up the next morning. We all had a final breakfast together in the bunkhouse dining room and said our goodbyes. It was so great to meet and work with all of those people, and sad to say goodbye.

We headed out on our 2-day drive home, stopping in a town on the other side of the Baja coast to look for a lost bird transmitter. More on that, and the last installment of Guerrero Negro, entitled Liquor and Produce (courtesy of Bridget), to follow soon.