Passports, sandwich-wrappers, and monster love affairs

She’s baaaaaaaaaack…….

That’s right.  After sending me on a wild goose chase that would have given Sam and Frodo a run for their money, Zilla returned this morning.

She’s been snoozing since eight, but I suspect I’ll get an answer as to her whereabouts later this afternoon.

Here’s what I know:

-She’s wearing parachute pants that are neither worn out enough to be vintage, nor from this decade.  I suspect foul-play with that busted up time machine of mine.  It would also explain the armor on her right arm, which is either from a Gladiator television prop chest, or the real-deal.

-Her passport has stamps from various countries, including a short-stint in Pakistan earlier this year, which I can assure you-I have some questions about….

-She appears to have acquired real-estate, scuba, skydiving, pilot, taxi, and rickshaw licenses.  Two of which expired in the late nineties.  One of them appears to have expired at some point in the early 16th century, but the bite marks make it hard to tell for certain.

-She has a tattoo indicating a romance has transpired between herself and what appears to be a mythical creature yet to be identified.

-Her backpack has sandwich wrappers from at least five different airports.  There is also an unopened bottle of pickles inside.

-I can’t be certain, but I think she’s lost weight.

-Her journal is hard for me to read (those twiggy branch fingers of hers to blame), but it seems she has either won the lottery in the past, is planning to do so in the future, or has drawn up an assassination plan for JJ Abrams.

I’m going to be having long chats with her in the upcoming days to get her stories and find out why on earth she found it acceptable to leave for such an extended period of time.  Unacceptable, I assure you.

Regardless, I wanted to let you all know as soon as she got in.

Obviously, we have much to discuss.

I’ll be traveling around to your blogs in the next weeks to catch up on your news.

Feels good to be back.

Rawr.

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.

Taming the lioness

He looked like Johnny Depp.

He was writing in the corner of the coffee shop.

I was 22, I was single, and he was smoldering.

It was a recipe for disaster.

Donning his white t-shirt, faded jeans, and leather jacket, the perfectly messy bed-head and unshaven chiseled jawline were far too overpowering for my bad-boy prone nature.

When he sauntered over and gave me the napkin with his handwritten poem, smiled, and asked me to dinner, I stammered a yes while gazing doe-eyed at him.

silly doe, you have no idea what you're doing...

 

For the record this was not the first nor last time my idealism would get me into trouble.  But that is neither here nor there.

Three days later I met him at a restaurant.

Donning stilettos, dark jeans, a sexy top and my own leather jacket I met up with Casanova at a bar.

It took him approximately two minutes before it began.

At first I didn’t think I had heard him correctly, so like an idiot I leaned in across the table.  Pressing his lips next to my ear, the guy I had gazed so longingly at whispered this into my ear:

“What’s it like knowing you have the attention of every man in this room?  What’s it feel like to be a woman with that much power?”

Leaning back and glancing around, I double-checked my outfit.  No one appeared to be noticing me.  The restaurant was near campus, so the place was crowded with hot girls, I was hardly a rare commodity.  Keeping a safe distance from his cigarette whispers, I responded:

“No one here is looking but you (clears throat, blushes a bit-silly young Ryan).  So should we order some wine or-‘

I got that far before he unleashed an intense monologue.  Shakespeare could not have written a longer pile of metaphorical nonsense.  During this speech, I slowly lowered myself in my chair-willing the table to come to life and eat me in one solid, painless bite.

The opening line was barked with such intensity I did a double take at my formerly sexy tablemate:

“Ryan, you are like a lionness”

Clearing my throat, I tilted my head to one said and began to ask a question but was instantly interrupted again-

“Every man in this room.  Every one of them, including me, is your prey.  You move, we watch.  Wanting to be devoured.”

Let’s take a moment to note his voice was loud.  Seriously loud.  Loud enough that now people were starting to stare.

I’m pretty sure most of my fellow diners just wanted their chicken wings to arrive, but his volume made them turn their heads-which convinced him of his initial interpretation-that they gave a damn about what he said.  Not true, but lets just agree-this guy was delusional.  The sauntering bad-boy (who was rapidly becoming a typical freak my magnet loves to attract), seemed to picture me as this creature:

Stoic, graceful, proud. Ability to kill in an instant.

With growing embarrassment, I was feeling more and more like this version of his story:

Naive, idiotic. Maintaining ability to follow moron to dinner.

When he started referencing the primal nature of fornication as if he were the first man to conclude this theory (neanderthals the underworld over simultaneously turned in their graves); I left to go to the bathroom.

I couldn’t bring myself to sit staring at him while he uttered words like raw, natural, wild, and animalistic in reference to what he had hoped would be our after dinner plans.  Each whisper was so creepily rehearsed I was sure he’d given himself a peptalk in the mirror earlier in the evening.  Locking eye contact, he tried to stroke my cheek with his forefinger while proclaiming his desire to ‘tame’ me.

Wrong girl Tarzan, wrong girl.

I called my best friend from the bathroom, scheduled the appropriate emergency phone call for five minutes later, and returned to the table.

At this point I had been in the restaurant a total of ten minutes.

He may have looked like Johnny Depp.

He may have been a writer.

But even at 22 I could tell-this tribesman was far from warrior.

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.

Demonic cookie breath, sundress, and my love of burritos

Last summer I was haunted by a demon.

I know what you’re thinking.  My imagination is ridiculous, I’m overly-dramatic and prone to campfire-style tales likely to scare no one but myself.  I’m not saying you’re wrong-I’m just saying that last summer a demon in a floral print sundress followed me.

Ok, not in total abundance, more like a two-sighting occurance.

But still.

It started when I went out to lunch with my cousin Molly.  We went to a Mexican restaurant to catch up over chips, salsa, and burritos.  Things were going fine until I left to find the bathroom.

The restaurant is located inside a near-vacant strip mall.  In fact, I think the only thing in the mall is the bathroom, and the lone bench sitting next to the door of said rest-stop.

That’s where I first saw her.

No blinking. Just eye contact.

Sitting on the bench, floral church-going dress, long, wavy blonde hair framing her beautiful face.

I started towards the bathroom, when her eyes locked with mine and I knew something was off.  Mostly because she was creepily chewing on a Nilla Wafer while fiercely maintaining eye contact.

Demon fuel. Dude.

Holding it to her mouth, she nibbled away on the treat while never looking away as I worked my way towards the door.  The torn box sat on her lap, eagerly providing her with cookies while she sat with no apparent purpose other than to stare.

Let me point out how weird it is to be eating Nilla wafers this close to a Mexican restaurant.  I can’t pinpoint the exact reason, except that the sweet cookies are most likely mass-produced from the tears of children.  Enchiladas on the other hand, come from a happy place filled with sombreros, ponchos, and laughter.  Given the two options, obviously a demon would choose the cookie.

That was my evidence of her being a demon by the way.  Cookies next to restaurant + creepy eye contact + sundress=demon.

Since I am brave, I just decided to pretend that I hadn’t noticed our eye contact and went to the bathroom.  On my way out she had upped the creep-factor.  Now sitting so that her body faced the bathroom door-whereas on my way in-she was facing the Mexican restaurant-she continued gnawing away on the tears of children.

Obviously, I hurried back to my burrito.  I tried to act casually, but knowing me-the glancing over my shoulder definitely gave away my fear.  Not that it matters, demons can smell that stuff a mile away.

After we finished eating, Molly had to go to the bathroom.  I said I’d wait for her outside.  Happy to discover that the woman had left, I sat down on the bench while awaiting my cousin, breathed a sigh of relief, and was just convincing myself that my imagination needs a make-over when I looked out the strip mall door and saw:

Demon woman standing outside glass door, about an inch away from the glass, still munching away on the Nilla Wafer, and again-holding eye contact.

Needless to say, this was not a highlight of my afternoon.

Regardless, I sighed relief when Molly emerged from the bathroom, and we got into her car and left the scene of what I’m sure was about to become a Satanic-epicenter of evil.  Who knew such things could happen outside the Happy Taco.

Skip ahead two weeks later, when I flew to Madison, WI to be in my best-friend’s wedding.  On the morning of the big day the bride-to-be and I stopped in a pharmacy for some things before getting ourselves ready.

We were waiting to pay for our items, when suddenly, P.J.(bride) noticed that the woman in front of us was acting a bit-odd.  I didn’t notice because I was too busy debating the pros and cons of eating skittles before squeezing into a bridesmaid dress.

Zilla bridesmaid fuel. Sweet.

Regardless, the woman left the shop before P.J. had a chance to comment.  On the way out of the pharmacy, the woman-who I then spotted just outside the door, was a blonde in a sundress, creepily holding eye contact with me.

Even though she wasn’t identical to my Mexican restaurant demon, she had those same eyes, and this time she got worse.

This time she walked up to me, got way too close to my neck and whispered:

“Stop doing that.  It’s hurting me”

She then proceeded to hold eye contact with me while backing away down the sidewalk.

P.J. laughed pretty hard, but I knew deep down-this demon woman was stalking me.

So if you happen to see her lurking in the cookie aisle of your local grocery store, be careful.  I clearly didn’t receive her message and I’m sure she’s just waiting for the right person to receive her Nilla-wafer whispers.

As for me, I’ll be in the Mexican restaurant.  Look for the girl hiding under the sombrero.