Remember remember the 5th of November, zombies, and my potential viking master

Today I’m hoping to see a zombie.

I flew from Paris to Manchester yesterday with my boss.  We’re staying in Huddersfield, and according to a brochure I found in the hotel lobby, the Dungeon of York promises ghosts.

Ghosts, and potentially zombies.

The ghosts have been lingering around York since 1551 when the putrid plague brought forth pussing boils, rotting corpses, and the lingering scent of all things horrifying.  Creatures and items which fall under this category include (but not limited to) ghosts, snakes, witches, bigger ghosts, vampires (the real kind, there will be no mention of that series here dear readers), Lord Voldemort, Hannibal, anyone dedicated to killing in the serial fashion, beets, and of course, zombies.

What better method of zombie creation than a horrendous plague?  The bodies are already there, and I don’t imagine zombies hump, so their reproduction must somehow be linked to disease.

Hence, my assumption there is such a thing as the zombies of York.

Also a logical conclusion is that they are lingering just outside this hotel room in the woods across the street.  I can practically hear them shuffling through the leaves in search of innocent blood.

Ok, so if it was really innocent they were after, maybe I wouldn’t be their girl.  Let’s say-American blood.  Yea, I bet those York zombies can’t wait to take a bite out of a Yank.  Which would ultimately make me a Yank-York-Zombie, and last time I checked, that’s not on my to-do list.

Also, I’m on the ground floor so they wouldn’t have to climb to find me or anything.  They’d basically just have to cross the street (crosswalk provided for their safety), break my window, and create a whole new monster for their clan.

Great.

The York Dungeon evidently also hosts an exhibit on something called the Bloody Vikings.  Next to the blurb: “Keep your wits about you as the Vikings go bersek in York-where will you run when the Vikings raid?”, is what looks like a bloody gladiator with a really mean face.

This is not the face you want to sit next to on public transportation, that’s for sure.

Still, he’s far more attractive than the plague-zombies, and I’m guessing if he bashes in my window, I’ll probably have to be some kind of gladiator-slave-wench.  If that happens, I hope Hollywood is involved in the costume design because I am going to need some serious hair and makeup maintenance to pull of that look with any kind of dignity.

There is also a labyrinth of shadowy mirrors.  I’m not entirely sure what this entails, but it claims to be from the lost Roman legion, and judging by the screaming child in the image, it is either related to murder, or David Bowie invented spandex in the Roman era.

It’s a shame I don’t have time to go to the museum itself to do more research.  I’d like to be properly prepared for all of the horrendous horror which may quickly find its way to me today.

There are a lot of gruesome shenanigans that have occurred in York at one time or another.  It’s amazing anyone would choose to live here.

Maybe I should purchase binoculars to search f0r the zombies from the treetops.

You know, for anthropological purposes.   I wouldn’t want to get too close, but I can hardly pass up the opportunity to go zombie-watching.

Strainer on head, corn-chip baths, and new pants

Future me popped up today.

I really hate it when she does this.

Standing there with what looks like a strainer woven with pipe cleaners on her head, she puts her hands on her hips and clears her throat until I acknowledge her presence.

As if I’m not busy enough sorting out current self.  I’m expected to entertain future Ryan just because she falls in love with a mad-scientist sometime around 2019 and steals his time machine after she finds him in bed with her tailor?

Sigh.

She never has anything positive to say.  Just a whole lotta judgement about what 29 year old Zilla is doing with her life.  Well you know what?  We can’t all be mad-scientist muses.  It’s a select group lady, and clearly; I’m not there yet.

The first time she showed up she was 84 year old me.  She got all offended that I couldn’t recognize her.  Also, she smelled like Fritos so it’s good to know that they serve those in whichever asylum becomes my home in 2064.

Today was 53 year old Ryan.  Rocking stilettos and massive jewellery.  I couldn’t get her to tell me how she came to own such lovely possessions, which was annoying.  She smelled good though, so the descent into bathing in corn-chips clearly doesn’t happen until much, much later.

She told me to keep writing and to be more responsible.  I raised my eyebrow at her on the latter point, but she pretended like she didn’t notice.

No one wearing kitchen supplies as a helmet has the right to lecture me on responsibility.

She wouldn’t tell me winning lottery numbers (claims she wouldn’t remember them even if she tried-of all things, I find this most believable).  She wouldn’t tell me if she has children or if they drive her crazy.  Though the long sigh and nod of exhaustion indicate a daughter capable of my own antics in my future.

She laughs menacingly when I ask her how many times she’s been married.

Which of course I find comforting.

The only thing she’ll tell me is to keep writing.

Seems to have done her some good.  Her sense of humor still dominates her personality.  She deleted the first draft of this post.  Her expression while doing so indicated she thought that was downright hysterical and thus merited a victory dance.

53 year old Ryan dances no better than her younger version.

Then she popped out of the air while giggling.  The last I heard was a shout that sounded like:

‘stock up on tight pants in 2011.  You’re gonna need them!!”

So it’s really not my fault that I went shopping this afternoon.

Was just taking the advice of someone older, wiser, and more sophisticated.

I’m pretty sure that’s a universal law.  Just like gravity and (evidently down the road) time travel.

So that’s why I have new pants.

Who can blame me?

Houston, we have a leg-warmer problem.

Someone alert hospice care, I’ve lost my dignity.

I knew things were getting bad when I mistook my reflection for Jane Fonda before leaving the apartment last night.  I thought, ‘no matter Ry, this is part of the character.  Part of the girl named Rachel you’ve decided to portray to anyone who approaches you tonight’.

This, evidently, is my idea of a good time.

Rachel, the aspiring actress/waitress who couldn’t wait to ‘understand’ British culture.  Rachel of the no IQ.  Rachel, the blonde girl with a propensity for hair twirling, loud giggling, and repeatedly asking: “wait, what does that mean?”.  Rachel, traveling Europe with her oldest and longest friend.

Loyally at my side, Man_Shopper too had chosen a persona.

Kayti the Starbucks barista.  Kayti with the chip on her shoulder.  Kayti the indy girl full of Ani references and eye-rolling.  Kayti, Miss too-cool-for-school.  Kayti from Boston, traveling with her oldest friend-despite said friend’s irritating qualities.

She looked like a rock chick.

Dark, mysterious, sexy.

I looked like an 80s escort.

Pasty, curvy, moronic.

Seriously, I even had leg warmers.

Rachel's accessory of choice.

Granted, I had voluntarily clad myself in 80’s attire for the evening, so it’s not like there’s anyone else to blame here.

Blasting Pump up the Jam (full with video-courtesy of youtube), she and I took our time getting ready.  Hair, make-up, and jewellery choices were all discussed at length.

When we got it perfect, it was time to go.

Bellies full of sandwiches, make-up piled on faces, Kayti and I headed off to Camden town with a mission.

I desperately wanted to make a man wake up the following morning and say to himself:

“Dear holy God, I think that was the dumbest girl on the planet.  Cardboard brains.  How in the name of Manchester United was I able to stand the conversation?”

I vowed not to break character.  No sarcasm would pass through my thick lipstick.  No sir.

Man_Shopper wanted to research how differently men would react to her if she were someone else.  She has a dating blog, so this was a prime opportunity to play a different part.

I didn’t have a cool excuse.  I just love to play.

So off we went.

It never once occurred to me that no one would approach us.  My narcissim is too great for such a thought to enter my brain.

But yet…

Sadly….

That is what happened.

Operation Hot Sister was an EPIC FAILURE BECAUSE NO MAN APPROACHED US, LOOKED AT US, OR DID SO MUCH AS NOD IN OUR DIRECTION.  ALL-CAPS USE TO EMPHASIZE THE HUMILIATION OF REALIZING ONE HAS LOST ONES MOJO.

Gone.

Finito.

No characters.  No conversation.  No free drinks.  No eye-flirting.  No. Anything.

Just the two of us idiots, tequila shots, and late-night sandwiches.

The longest conversation we had with any man was at Subway when we ordered foot-longs to devour our sorrows.

So that’s it.

Ladies and gentlemen, we no longer turn heads.

I’m sure there’s an argument for karma somewhere in all of this nonsense.  Just as soon as my ego recovers, it’ll warrant further investigation.

One things for certain though.  Tomorrow, I’m gonna wear the sexy tight pants I bought today to make myself feel better.

Zilla down bloggers, Zilla down.

If you want her version of the events, click here please.

Buckets of bird, battlefields, and my hunger for vengence

Eating drumsticks makes me feel like I’m in an epic movie.

sponsor of middle earth

I imagine myself roaming fields littered with orcs, monsters, dragons, and other fantastical beasts while ripping the flesh off the bone with my teeth.

Which is why this is not the greatest food for me to eat in front of other people.

I just get too excited.

Every bite bursts forth an orchestral soundtrack, images of battles, mead, and big-breasted barmaids.  Usually in this scenario I picture myself in worn armor, unsheathed sword in one hand, drumstick in the other.  Blood and dirt streaked across my cheek, head of a beast underneath my mighty foot.

Needless to say, this makes trips to KFC a bit awkward.

Thank God for delivery.

Now it’s just the one witness who stands by in silence while I hand over payment in a velvet-pouch.  Shaking the hand of the good man who ventured forth to bring me the feast, I nod my head in somber gratitude for all those who fell during whichever flick I’ve had playing in the background.  Smiling greedily, I then take the bucket of bird into my private lair for consumption.

Tonight, for all who fought against Mordor, Lord Voldemort, Troy, and the Sheriff of Nottingham (both animated and Alan Rickman)-I raise this leg to you.

Good eve, bloggers.  Good eve.

teenage wasteland: wishing I’d been a punk rocker in my prime

Last Sunday I discovered that when surrounded by London’s original punk rockers, it is difficult to appear cool and collected.

But pear cider helps.

I was invited to a show at the Scala to watch Agent Provocateur, Chiefs of Relief, Bow wow wow, and Adam Ant.

Clearly, my air-guitar skills were no match against the professionals.

I mean really, these were band members from a scene I only wish I had been cool enough (or old enough for that matter) to be a part of.  Trust me, had I been British and a teenager in the late eighties, I would have plaid-skirted it up with the best of them.

As it was, I happened to meet them at 29, over beers, in the VIP bar of the show.  Not a teenager anymore by any stretch of the imagination, but definitely still awestruck to be in the same room as a former Sex Pistol and the many talented punks I was happily watching onstage.

I chatted it up with some of the band members, but tried to remain as quiet as possible for fear that my obvious lack of knowledge regarding music would deem me intolerably boring.  I’m pretty sure I just looked like a groupie anyway, so for the most part the band members ignored me.

I mean seriously, I’m a wandering menace.  They are punk rockers.

My narcissism does not reach so far as to question who is cooler here.  Come on.  There is no question.

-Insert that doe-eyed stare that always gets me into trouble here-

So to report to any of you who still have a place in your heart for the Brit punk scene-let me state, these guys are awesome.

I even got in a discussion about Obama with one of them.  Which I can assure you, I did not see coming.

For the record, musicians are my kryptonite.  Doesn’t matter if they’re old.  Doesn’t matter if I’m not even attracted to them.  They rock, they know it.  I know it.  I end up gazing.

In my next life I am coming back as a rockstar.  Maybe in a Zilla costume, but a rockstar nonetheless.

All the pear cider in the world can’t bring on the confidence of standing onstage, fist-pumping, leg-kicking, and collecting admirers.

God. Bless. Punk. Rock.

The Golden Corral, a boot mug, and my childhood dream

When I was four I wanted nothing more than to join the rodeo.  My grandfather took me to my first one in Eastern Washington, and from that day forth I ran around the backyard in a blue t-shirt bearing a cartoon bull crossed over with an x.

No-bull was my motto.

My grandfather at one point in his life had been a dentist, but had grown up on a farm, and in later years would breed ostrich.  With bow-legs, pointy boots, and a big roaring laugh-his very presence sparked my cowboy interest.  But it was the first trip to the rodeo that really sealed the obsession.

Sitting next to my broad shouldered gramps in the stadium, coke in one hand, hot dog in the other, I witnessed the event with complete fascination, and vowed to myself that one day-I too would be a great cowboy.

Lone ranger. Image of all things awesome.

It didn’t occur to me that I would make a better cowgirl.

After that trip to the rodeo, I set about lassoing various objects in the backyard with my jumprope.  The old stump next to the fence, my tricycle, and on occasion our snoozing german shephard all fell victim to my hand.  Sticking a long piece of grass out of the corner of my mouth, I tromped about the lawn riding imaginary horses, bulls, and tipping my baseball hat at passing wildlife (birds, flies, and once again-our dog).

One evening my grandfather showed up to take us out to dinner.  I was ecstatic because:

1. My grandfather was a real-life cowboy.  Perfect for studying so I too could master the art of bad-assery.

and

2. Eating out with Gramps meant I could order soda.  The forbidden fruit of my childhood, I would have sold my soul on any given day for a swig of Coke.

On this particular eve, I asked my him what his favorite restaurant was.  His response would rock my already cowboy-infested mind.

The Golden Corral.

Where real cowboys fill up.

The dark walls, the western theme, and the good-old fashion American cuisine made this establishment my grandfather’s favorite restaurant.  So of course, I was happy to pretend that I too, had spent my four years on Earth loving the Golden Corral.

It didn’t take long for me to fall in love with the cowboy themed restaurant.  The emotion was hastened by an item that would become a part of my upbringing. An item filled to the brim with that delicious, sugary, caffeine-infested cola my young brain so desperately desired.  An item that was refillable, gloriously shiny, and best of all-mine to take home after the meal.  Let me introduce you ladies and gentlemen, to the boot mug.

Beverage receptacle of choice for the true cowboy.

For anyone unfamiliar with the joys of drinking out of a glass mug when your four year old mind has already convinced itself that you are a real-life cowboy; let me sum it up in one word:

Perfection.

Sitting there at the table, I could barely wait to get the mug home and drink everything I would EVER drink in my future out of this mug.  I vowed that all milk would miraculously taste better out of the boot, that juice would never be so glorious, that even water would somehow become exciting.  Picturing myself sitting on the lassoed stump in the backyard, backwards cap, no-bull -shirt, and mug in one hand-I was sure to send a cowboy message to the neighborhood.

Flies and birds beware, there was a new sheriff in town.

Begging my mom to clean it the next morning so I could use it, I quickly discovered the greatest feature of the boot mug.  I had failed to notice at the restaurant because I had been swigging my Coke from a straw.  The next day in the backyard however, the mug sang to me.  That’s right-it sang.

Well, burped really.

I discovered as I casually meandered the lawn in search of wandering cattle, tumbleweeds, and bad-guys; that when I drank from the side of the glass with the handle-the mug would loudly bubble.  Which, when I closed my eyes, could easily be interpreted for the sound of gunshots.

Instantly the boot-mug became my joyous dinnertime companion.

Bubbles of milk spattered my freckled face as I chugged for the satisfaction of hearing the pop.  Gasping for breath at the end of each swig, I’d giggle in delight as my parents sat sighing at the dining table.

It was the missing piece to my cowboy persona, and from then until six months later when my profession of choice changed (that’s another post), the boot mug was my best-bud.

I haven’t been to the Golden Corral in years, but for the sake of all young budding cowboys, I really hope they still give away the boot mug.  It is truly the accessory of choice for anyone willing to repeatedly lasso their tricycle.