That Which Got Cold by Accident

Does anyone remember “The Iceman”?

People tell me I look young. And most do not believe me when I do tell them my real age. I suppose this sounds like a blessing. Truth be told, at times it is. Many others it is not. This bit of information is very important to this blog entry. I figured for a long time that I have some good genes in my family. I have come to find that genetic dispositions are not the case. I know many women who would give anything to find the fountain-of-youth. But, I believe my parents actually found the answer. Believe it or not, it's free.

Most of you may not know that I am from a state in the great white north. I wasn’t born in that state, but I essentially grew up there. This is not insignificant. Why? Because winters are freakishly cold. They are what I call “abnormally arctic.” No humans (or even animals for that matter) should have to sustain these sub-freezing temperatures.

For example, the state I grew up in has consecutive days of zero to subzero conditions. That is not normal. It’s just cruel and unusual. And, let me reiterate the crotchety coldness of the cold in this area of the US in case you underestimate: the average mean temperature for these winters is between 14 and 18 degrees Fahrenheit (-10 degrees Celsius to -7.78 degrees Celsius) during the winter, which is 8 months long. This does not even factor in the wind-chill either. I can’t even begin to go there. . . .

I’ve been irrevocably damaged!

Where is the Texaconsin Diva going with this? Let me begin by telling you a story. I like being cold at night. I believe I sleep better. Also, I don't sweat. I'm too much the princess for that. Or this odd phenomenon could be reminiscent of my childhood, teen and young adult years in the great white north.

As I embark on this narrative, I need to tell you that my family moved when I was 11-years-old. What were traumatic about that specifically were the winters. Especially at night.

Each night during the months of cold, I slept with an electric blanket set to high, 4-goose down comforters and a 20-pound ancient; some might even classify it as antique, blanket made by my great grandmother's own hands. That blanket was a tank built to last and was one tough coverlet. Each winter morning I dreaded to push that first leg out from the covers. It was freakishly freezing in that room. For example, if I went to my room at night with a full glass of ice water, in the morning there would be the same amount of ice in my glass. The ice cubes did not change. The ice cubes did not melt. The ice cubes remained strong in number. There would also be frost growing up the insides of my windows every. single. morning. One might think this is absolutely horrifying. And also, that I am exaggerating. It is. And, I am not.

Read on.

Why, you ask, did I not do anything? I did. I told my parents each and every winter day that my room was a bit nippy. Their collective response was along the lines of, “your room is furthest from the furnace. It’s going to be the coldest.” Which did not make much sense of anything to me, because my brother's room was right next to mine - neck-in-neck - and his was always deliciously warm. But, for years and years and years I settled in to live this way each and every winter. Believing my parents words as if God Himself spoke to me.

.. . . . Shoish! I am not a drama-queen! . . . . .

A few years later, I moved out. A few more years later, I moved to a city south of our current Longhorn City. . . .

Four years after that, which was five years ago now, I found myself having a conversation with my father on the telephone. He had called me. He was laughing and asked, “Remember how you always said your room was cold in the winters?” I had some trepidation in answering, because I was not entirely sure where this might be going or even where it was coming from and I grudgingly said, “Yes . . .” My father continued, “Well, your mother and I were cleaning out the basement the other day and we found vents for each of the bedrooms. The vents are the one’s that provide the heat from the furnace to every room in the house . . . .”

I began to shudder as I understood what was about to befall me as my father continued ". . . . yours has been entirely shut since the day we moved in here when you were 11-years-old!” He started giggling uncontrollably once more as I heard my mother in the background, "I told you not to tell her."

Um . . . . COULD YOU REPEAT THAT? !

You see, I’ve been pre-eternally preserved in growing up in the great white north winters by sleeping in a sub arctic sub zero temperature bedroom.

It has nothing to do with having good genes.

Committing suicide is the worst way to find out you're a superhero.

Hi! I'm butting in on my own blog for a moment. How's everyone doing with their Princess withdrawal? I would like to thank all you lovely people who are totally saving me by doing guest posts. I really appreciate it. And seriously - send me an email with an address and I will send you a thank you! You don't have to write anything else in the message- just an address and you'll get a special treat!

And everyone, please show Goth some love in the post below this one. He's totally a sweetheart super cool and ultra intimidating guy for doing one for me!

Anyhow, I'm still immersed in work craziness, but I had to come out of hibernation for a moment to talk about something. Something very important to me that I just HAD to share with all of my darling bloggies.

You see I found a boy.
A hot boy.
A cool kind of broody boy.
A boy who won't ever leave me.

You wanna see him?
I thought so.
Everyone - meet Blake.
Blake Undying.
Isn't he dreamy?


You see Blake has a wee bit of a problem- as much as we love each other...well....he kind of wants to die more. The problem? He can't.

Let me tell you a bit more about him:
"In a world where crime is rampant, business has corrupted the intent of democracy, and humanity is spiraling ever downward into chaos, Blake is tired of the grind.

A man mired in mediocrity, Blake decides to turn his back on the world and end it all, only to find that he cannot die. Ironic amusement gives way to desperation when repeated suicide attempts reveal to Blake that not only is death denied him, but he is slowly becoming harder to kill. He has been shot, stabbed, blown up and electrocuted, to no avail. Though each brief foray into death ends in failure, it still hurts every time.

His doctor is baffled, the government can't stop him, and his ex-girlfriend can't decide whether or not to return his calls. Blake's last hope is to use his abilities to become a superhero in the hopes of attracting a nemesis as evil and ingenious as Blake is indestructible, to finally find a way to put him out of his misery once and for all."

So OK, just maybe I've been single a bit too long and I have to invent imaginary boyfriends for myself. And maybe even in my imagination they would still rather commit suicide than be with me. Hmmm- perhaps I shouldn't have quit therapy.

So the story on Blake? One of my oldest and dearest friends from University has created him.
And Blake Undying is now in contention with fifteen other properties to win a grant from the Harold Greenburg Fund worth $15,000 for the development of the property into a screenplay.

So because I think it will be ultra cool to have a friend who has a comic book, and a movie deal, and because he promised me a free ComicCon pass if he wins and I want to be a supportive friend, I am totally asking you a favour.

Go become a fan at his facebook page, visit Blake's website and become a fan there too, and hey- we're all bloggers right? Go read Blake's blog! The boy really does have some adventures. I mean there was this one time that he was eaten by a bear....

So help a Princess out everyone. Get in on the ground floor of supporting a guy who might become the next Stan Lee. Read through a few chapters of Blake Undying and tell me that it's not about to be the next big thing. Go on- I dare ya!

OK- back to hibernating. I'll be back on the 16th everyone!


xo

A Gothic Interlude

As my lovely Princess is taking a short break, she asked me to contribute - feel free to contact the complaints department which is located on floor 69 of the Bat Cave.

Goths and holidays don't really go together - the temptation to stuff annoying small children into overhead lockers appears to anger even the most ambivalent parent.

It would also appear that the general populous take everything except their brains on holiday.

I'm sure there is possibly a valid reason to take a 42 inch flat screen TV on holiday with you but, Mr & Mrs Fajoukalot - you might want to wait until your country has discovered electricity.

However, it is not for me to criticise the intellectually bereft - I will just stand in line, mentally envisaging your death from a pack of rogue hamsters.

When one does make it as far as the chosen destination of your holiday, it's peaceful to relax, have a long drink and marvel at the serenity that surrounds you. Generally, this is best accomplished at about 4am whilst the British tourists are snoring peacefully in their own vomit.

Waves of serenity will sweep over you as you contemplate the wonders of nature.

Occasionally, strange questions might linger tantalizingly on the edge of your enlightened spirit but, Jack Daniels can eradicate any foolhardy attempts to improve your wisdom.

As the owl alights silently on the tree to your right, you can raise your glass silently in homage and acknowledge that it would be rather unfortunate if you were a mouse about now.

At roughly 6am, the dawn tourists will descend upon the breakfast bar like scampering hyenas and you know the time has arrived to go to bed.

With a smile you can fall into the welcoming bosom of your bed and, if you so choose, envelop yourself in the comfort of your partners arms.

Well, that's how holidays work for me any-hoots.......

Grand Bisous Princess
XXXXXX

*tips hat and wanders off to the bedroom of Love*

haiku for the corner shop

the piggie market

cookies in the redwood grove

remember the smell. closed

I grew up in what would nowadays be called 'the country'. It was a 25-acre cattle ranch in the middle of rural Aptos, on the coast of California. My parents rented a house on the property from the rancher and his wife, and when I was about 12 or so, they bought half of the land and the house it stood on. Looking back, I suppose it was an idyllic place to grow up, but to me and my brothers it was just Home. (Or, as some of my friends called it, "The Compound". Perhaps a little more cult-y than I would have gone, but I see their point.)

We were 3 winding miles from the nearest shop, the 'corner store' of its day - nothing as elaborate as a supermarket, but they had a deli counter, a hot meat case, and plenty of staples*. It was in a Redwood grove with several other small shops - a florist, a coffee house, a video store, a beautician. The area was an after-school gathering place for the kids from the Junior High, an early morning stop for the caffeine-addicted teenagers on their way to the High School. The Piggie Market sold sundries, groceries, and chewy gingerbread cookies in the shape of (what else) a pig. 

I am reliably informed that Piggie Market is now closed. The downturn in the economy, the rise of internet shopping, the superstores within easy reach have probably all contributed. The Market had its time - and a good one at that. I haven't thought of it in years, but now it all comes flooding back to me, that little shop nestled in the trees. Another piece of my childhood gone (did it ever even exist?), and from 6,000 miles away, I mourn. 

* By 'staples' here I mean things that should probably be in one's pantry, not small pointy pieces of metal. I don't think they sold office supplies. 

Surfin' Safari on the Sea of Galilee

Hey, gang. Karl here from SecondHand Tryptophan. Glad to help out here at The Princess Diaries. My schedule is all loopy now, since I recently got a job, so I'm pulling out one of my classics from the archives. Hope you enjoy it.

There's this professor at Florida State University who believes that Jesus of Nazareth did not, in fact, walk on water. Instead he walked upon a slab of ice. Doron Nof - and yes, that's his real name - says that a patch of ice floating in the Sea of Galilee would be all but impossible to distinguish from the lake water around it.

I love how Jesus is made out to be a biblical David Blaine.

Rather than say Jesus didn't exist, Mr. Nof says well, maybe he did exist and he surfed across a lake on a chunk of ice to impress the apostles. Right. He found a big piece of ice...on the Sea of Galilee. Then he got on it, shoved off and hoped he'd cruise in a straight line and arrive at the boat full of apostles. That sounds plausible. Ah well, what do you expect from a guy named Doron Nof? This is the same professor who said (14 years ago) that the parting of the Red Sea by
Moses could be explained by wind and sea conditions.

Still, it's interesting to think about:

Jesus (to himself): Hmmm...after all that healing and exorcising, how am I going to follow that up with the guys? This messiah thing is really a lot of pressure. Hey, what's that? It looks like a big ol' sheet of ice. Don't see many of those around here. Hey...wait a second. I wonder...

Paul (in a boat on the Sea of Galilee): Look how choppy the water's getting. Man, if we were on the shore we could be catching some real gnarly waves.

Matthew: Maybe if we finish our meeting early, Jesus'll let us take the rest of the day off.

Paul: You think?

John: Yeah, and he can do that water-into-wine thing again. Did you see that at the wedding? Man, that was friggin' wild.

Matthew: Wonder if he can do that, except make the water into beer.

All: Oooooooooohhhh, beer.

Peter: Hey! Look! Is that a person?

Mark: Where? Oh, that? Dude, that's the middle of the sea. How could it be a person?

Matthew: It does rather look like a person.

Thomas: I doubt it.

Peter: Well, you would.

Thomas: What's that supposed to mean, eh?

Peter: All I'm saying is that you wouldn't believe a knife was sharp until you cut off your hand with it. And even then you'd want to put your other fingers in the bloody hole just to be sure.

Thomas: Listen, I believe in sound evidence, OK? What's wrong with a little empirical science?

Peter: Seriously, that's a dude, dudes.

Matthew: Wow, you know something? I think you're right.

Mark: What, walking across the water? How could anyone do that?

Peter: It's Jesus.

Thomas (laughs): You've got to be kidding. You think Jesus is walking on the water?

Peter: Why not? He's the Son of God. He can do anything.

Thomas: I don't know about anything.

Matthew: He expelled that demon from that man the other day! How do you explain that?

Thomas: Head cold. The guy blew his nose and said he felt better.

Matthew: Ridiculous! He was possessed, Thomas!

Thomas: Did you ever actually see the demon? No, didn't think so.

Peter: It is. It's Jesus.

Mark: Yep, sure is.

Matthew: Incredible.

Thomas: Huh, whaddya know?

Jesus: Hey, guys. What's up? Wow, this is some weather, huh? Calm down, water, calm down.

(The water calms.)

John: Great, so much for the surfing.

Matthew: Jesus, how are you doing that?

Jesus: What? Oh, standing on the water? No biggie. I am the Lord, after all.

Peter: Yes, but...how can your body's density not bring you below the surface of the water and cause a certain amount of displacement - ?

Thomas: Now who wants empirical science, eh?

Jesus: Listen, we don't have time for this. I've got dinner to serve and I heard there are at least 500 people with reservations.

Thomas: Wait. What is that? Is that...? Are you standing on...ice?

Jesus: What? (coughs nervously) What are you talking about? Of course not.

Thomas: I think it is. Look, it's flat.

Peter: Well, all of the water is flat right now, isn't it? He just calmed it.

Thomas: No, no...see right there? It's like there are...edges.

Jesus: Thomas, you haven't been smoking those strange poppies again, have you?

Matthew: Wait, I see the edges, too.

Mark: Oh yeah...right. I see what you're talking about.

Jesus: Where on Earth am I going to get ice? This is Galilee, for my sake!

Thomas: Well, you can just conjure it up, can't you? Or freeze a pail of water or something.

Judas: I don't think I've ever seen ice. What is it, anyway?

Jesus: Kiss off, Judas.

Mark: Wow, I have to say this is mighty suspicious, dude.

Jesus: Listen, are you all going to let me on the boat or what? I have to conserve my energy so I can turn water into beer.

All: Oooooohhhh, beer.