Ummmm....

On Tuesday, I read a New York Times article discussing a study that had shown that people who drank three or more cups of coffee a day were less likely to develop Alzheimer’s disease later in life. My grandpa has Alzheimer’s, so I was very interested. On Wednesday, I attempted to put this new information into practice. By noon, the world seemed to be vibrating and I had passed through “sharply focused” on my way to “so wired I might as well be drunk”. On Thursday I cut back to two cups of coffee and decided that the shaking of my hands was all in my imagination.

Not that any of this has much to do with anything. The ridiculous, wired sensation was at least a novel way to experience my job, which usually gives me the feeling I’m being slowly wrapped in grey cotton wool while white noise plays on the radio. It didn’t make my job more interesting, but it did elevate my illicit web-browsing guilt to a new level of paranoia. Think The Fugitive, except that instead of murdering his wife, he’s accused of browsing the Gold Box deals on Amazon.com. Oh, and poor Dr. Kimble was innocent. Never mind, bad example.

But at least I can use the ill-advised coffee buzz as an excuse for my complete lack of creativity lately. For the last thirty-six hours, anyway. Before that… well, I’m sure my brain was doing something very important. Like playing Lego Star Wars. Or driving.

Irregardless. Oops, tangent. A friend (and reader) of mine rails against this word, but I like the sound of it. Also, it escapes my main grammar-in-writing rule, because it’s near-impossible to misunderstand. Only the pickiest of readers will actually stop to consider whether I mean “without regard to” or “without without regard to” (as the etymology of the word suggests), and those who decide on the latter have made a decision to willfully misunderstand. Nevertheless, ten minutes’ worth of internet research has convinced me it falls into the same category as words like “ain’t” and “conversate”, so I will endeavor to stop using it in writing. Although not in conversation. Only idiots, foreigners, blowhards write exactly like they talk, and it’s never a good idea.

Regardless of caffeine adventures and video games, then, I’ve got to kick-start the creative juices into flowing. (Note: I made no promises regarding mixed metaphors.) While summer sees the fruition of many geek-related activities, preparation and planning must begin much earlier. And this spring sees a number of geek-fests of its own, including my local Renaissance Faire, the Paley Center Television Festival, and the series finale of Battlestar Galactica.

Which means it’s time to break out the sewing machine, the recipe books, the reams of scrap paper, and (sadly) the credit cards. I’ve already got a selection of Renaissance wear, and at this point I’m more likely to buy than try to create things from that period, at least for a while. And I don’t think anyone wears costumes to the PaleyFest. Wait, no – I just remembered. One girl did come as Buffy from the Prophecy Girl episode at last year’s Buffy reunion panel. The dress was perfect, but she was a brunette, which seemed puzzlingly half-assed. You’re willing to wander around the Arclight in costume when 95% of the die-hard fans – I’m talking people who spent the night on Sunset Blvd. to be first in line kind of fans, here – show up in street clothes, but you can’t commit to a wig? What’s the point, then?

But that still leaves the series finale of BSG. I’m throwing a party, and costumes will be mandatory. Anyone not wearing a costume will be forced to wear a sign labeling them a Cylon, and then tortured in other ways I haven’t settled upon yet. I’m willing to be somewhat lenient – guests can show up in drab, dirty clothes and claim to be colonists from New Caprica, or slutty, hippie-esque outfits and quote Baltar – but if they can’t even make that effort, they deserve ridicule. And of course I will be willing to help anyone who asks nicely.

So far, though, my efforts to outfit everyone I know as a member of the Colonial Fleet have hit several major snags. The first: undershirts. Anyone who watches the show will recognize the distinctively shaped, black-over-grey double undershirt that the characters seem to wear under every variation of the uniform. (Some people claim that the top shirt is actually a very dark olive-drab, but I've studied good pictures and I still think it's black. But color is less important than shape, in this case, since the shape is what you'll recognize from across a room.) Not only can I not find anything close to the black over-tank - which I understand, since it was obviously custom - but I can't even find sleeveless grey undershirts in the right shape. I may end up removing the sleeves from normal t-shirts and re-hemming the edges, but that seems like an obscene amount of work for the most basic piece of the whole outfit.

But considering my entire BSG costuming effort consists, at this moment, of a pile of undershirts, sports bras, and workout wear on my bedroom floor, and a little bag of patches bought much too dearly on eBay, I'm sure my trials have just begun. Stay tuned for seams and seething, accessories and aggravation, and the despair of dyeing!

Pictures to follow, but only in the event of success.

SemiGeekGirl congratulates everyone on surviving the first full month of 2009!

Boobs, boobs, boobs

I figured that since this was probably the only time that title would be even remotely appropriate, it would be a shame not to use it.

About two weeks ago, I found a lump in my armpit, near my right breast. Now, if you're a guy or you've never seen a movie on Lifetime, that may not mean much to you. For the rest of us, it means breast cancer. It doesn't matter that I'm still eight years shy of the recommended screening age, or that there's no breast cancer in my family history. It still felt like there was a blinking neon sign over my head that said CANCER.

But don't worry - this isn't a cancer story. Twelve days later, I've seen two doctors, had bloodwork, ultrasounds, and a mammogram, and it turns out I'm fine. I have a swollen lymph node: my doctor said my options were to wait and see if it goes away in three months, or have something called a "needle biopsy". I'll be seeing him in April.

And before I begin my rant in earnest, I'd like to exempt my gynecologist from it. He saw me promptly, answered my questions, returned all my calls within 24 hours, and was quick to inform me of my reassuring test results. But that was the only bright spot in a twisty and depressing medical labyrinth.

I've never been a fan of socialized medicine. I'm a capitalist, and something in me rebelled at having to pay for other people's health care. But unfortunately, a capitalist health care system only works if the costs of health care are reasonable compared with a middle-class (or even lower-middle-class) income. And that just isn't the case. For my two doctor's visits, I paid $45 dollars each, my usual copay. It was ninety dollars I would rather have spent somewhere else, but nonetheless it was not a problem. But my insurance claim lists the actual cost of those two visits at $500. If I didn't have insurance, that's what I would pay.

Five hundred dollars? I don't have that kind of money to drop at a moment's notice. I could put it on a credit card, but what about the next time? And that's not even counting the ultrasound, mammogram, and bloodwork. I expect to pay about $200 for all of that, but going by the same formula, the full cost would be approximately $1000. So without insurance I would be out fifteen hundred dollars - all to find out nothing was wrong.

And the money isn't the only problem with the system. I had to visit three different offices (two of which required valet parking, but that's a Los Angeles problem, not a medical system problem). None of these places communicated with each other. I had to fill out nearly identical forms at each place. I was asked the same questions over and over, and occasionally, I was asked if this test had been requested by my doctor. No, I just do this for fun. It's not like his signature is on the requisition form or anything! Oh, wait, it is.

I think I was asked if I was pregnant seventeen times. I'm not, that I know of, but as I haven't taken a pregnancy test since the last time I had sex, I can't be one hundred percent sure. Birth control isn't perfect. I also explained that - to medical professionals - approximately seventeen times. I was also asked, rhetorically, if I could wait - for a test, for a reading, for a doctor, for a technician. Given that I was on time for every appointment, and that all of these places are open pretty much nine to five, Monday through Friday, my answer was usually, "I guess... do you know how long it will be?" This was often met by a supercilious stare, and the question, "Why? Do you have to be somewhere?" Yes! Work! You know, that thing you're doing RIGHT THIS MOMENT.

All in all, my experience wasn't terrible. Nothing was wrong, and no one charged what I couldn't afford to pay. But at this point I feel like both of those things were pure luck, and that terrifies me more than I can say. What if, next time, something is wrong? I had enough trouble getting through all of the forms and appointments and bureaucracy this time - and I am blessed with good insurance, decent income, and a job with flexible hours. I can't imagine navigating the system while ill, and worried about my job.

So I'm laying my capitalist principles by the wayside. Bring on universal health care. Because our system sucks, and I don't want to move to Sweden.

SemiGeekGirl wishes you all the best of health... and promises to return to geekdom in the next post. Hail to the new Commander-in-Chief!

All I want is a command center

So I was combing the internet for any advance hint of the hotel list for this year's Comic-Con (fruitlessly, I might add - and as I searched back through archived blog posts from last year, I realized that there's not likely to be any news until the 31st or so. This despite the fact that reservations will almost certainly open on February 6th), and while I found pretty much zilch, I still built upon that in my OCD way.

I might not have mentioned that I do, at the moment, already have two hotel rooms reserved in San Diego for the entirety of that weekend. One is at a perfectly nice hotel that I have no desire to stay at, and the other is, well, somewhat out of my price range. As in, I could stay at this hotel for four nights, or I could take a round-trip flight to London and stay there for four nights. I'm actually vaguely appalled that I made that reservation... but I haven't yet decided to give it up, either. But the actual goal for this year's Con is to obtain a room at the convention rate. If I haven't made it clear why this is quite such a coup, let me spell it out: the difference between what I've agreed to pay for four nights and what the 2008 convention rate for four nights at the same hotel added up to is over a thousand dollars. The difference between how far my less-than-desirable hotel is from the convention center and this hotel is approximately three-quarters of a mile. It boggles the mind.

But it's also not the point. While I'm sure hotel drama will figure into this blog several more times, in this instance it was more about the process. As I sat there, comparing last year's rates with my Google map of all the downtown hotels, contrasting amenities and fees and quiet versus convenience, I started to sketch out my plan of attack for the morning that reservations open (and close. Last year, they had as many people logging on in the first five seconds as they had hotel rooms available).

I thought, okay, well, clearly what I did last year is not going to work. Me, sitting at work, trying to pretend to be working when my entire being is focused on getting through the most frustrating reservations process on earth, for an hour. Not really optimal for getting a room, or for working, funnily enough. So this year I've already decided to call in sick. Or call in with a doctor's appointment, maybe. If I feel like dragging myself in for half a day, afterward.

At first I thought I'd just do it alone. I can sit at my boyfriend's Mac, with my laptop on my lap, and my cell on my shoulder. But that might still not be enough. So then I decided to enlist my mom. Her eyes aren't great, so the internet is out, but I figured we could program the number into her phone, and I could write my credit card number out really big, and she could call too. But then I realized that since we would both be on the phone, a hundred miles apart, we'd be unable to communicate. If one of us got a room, we'd be unable to tell the other to give up. And what if they offered her options I hadn't prepared her for?

My next idea was my boyfriend. If he calls out sick too, then we can each be on a computer and on a phone. And we can talk, if we need to make decisions on the fly. But was that really enough? I thought, what if I get one of my friends who is between jobs right now to come over with her cell phone and laptop? I would have to make a big chart with the hotels and my order of preference, and another with my credit card number, expiration date, etc.

Which is when I realized that I need a command center. You know, your basic room, filled with screens and consoles and charts, shaped roughly like the bridge of a starship. I could hire all of my friends, and we would each have a phone line and a computer and some art supplies, and we would mobilize for each new project. Hotel reservations for Comic-Con? No sweat. A dinner party for ten next Saturday? Just pick a theme. Costumes for a Renaissance fair wedding? Let us know if you need peasants or gentry.

It's my ideal habitat. No wonder that stupid career assessment said I would do well in the military. I guess it wasn't just the snappy uniforms.

A Whole New World

So, unforgivably, it's been almost three months since I updated this blog. And as it turns out, quite a bit has happened. Let's start with the big things.

First, there was Halloween. I spent eight hours at work in a fabulous 16th century cream brocade dress with boned stays and ten yards of skirt. The shoes pinched, my hair spent all day slowly escaping its updo, and the corset-style bodice was not conducive to sitting in an office chair for that long. I looked fabulous, and won nothing. The prize went to my coworker who came as a giant can of Red Bull. To add insult to injury, they forgot to send out an email when they began the luncheon/prize-giving, so a third of the office (including me) missed half of it. Not good form at all.

I then went home to change into my Rogue costume and head out to a party. Note to anyone else who likes dressing up - changing costumes halfway through a day is always a good idea. Sure, you might have to start over on the hair and makeup portions, but it's a basic truth that good costumes are almost never comfortable. Changing costumes halfway through is like trading shoes with a friend when you're walking around Europe: sure it still hurts, but in different places. It doesn't sound like much comfort, but trust me on this one. You'll be grateful.

Anyway, my boyfriend and I hopped in the car and drove over to pick up another friend who lived on our side of town, knowing that parking sucks in Hollywood. I was driving, since that meant it would be my bf's turn to drive back and I could drink. Now, normally, it takes half an hour or forty-five minutes to get to the apartment where the party was. On Halloween, it took two and a half hours to get there and find parking. We could have driven to San Diego. On Hollywood Boulevard (several miles from the famous, glitzy section of it, I might add), traffic was moving approximately ten feet every two minutes. Once we'd discovered how bad it was, we couldn't even give up and go home, because getting out was just as bad! Never again. Needless to say, we were in a foul mood by the time we arrived, and not even booze could fix it.

Luckily, the next night was another Halloween party, much closer to home. Someone came as Captain Hammer, which was awesome. (If you don't know who that is, shame on you.) Someone else came as Slash from GNR, but he looked more the the Guitar Hero version than the real thing, which I thought was hilarious. And I contributed Slayer Cake, which was super-cool, if I do say so myself. (Well, it looked super-cool anyway. It tasted disappointingly generic.)

After Halloween came my birthday. It contained nothing geek-tastic to report, except that we did play HeroQuest on the hotel room floor and D&D in bed later. I heart geeks!

Note: I just realized that "playing D&D in bed" might mean something different to some people. Just to clarify, I did mean the actual game, with character sheets and dice, etc. What went on afterward in the bed had nothing to do with D&D.

We got back to town on Tuesday the 4th, in time to watch the election results roll in. When CNN called it for Obama at 8:01 PST, I turned to FOX News to make sure they agreed. Then I switched back to CNN and cried. I know lots of people who said they cried tears of joy when it happened, but that wasn't me. I didn't expect to cry, and for a moment I couldn't figure out why I was. And then I realized it was relief. I had been so terrified that we as a country would continue in the same stupidity we'd espoused for eight years. I hadn't known how afraid of that I was until I didn't have to worry about it anymore. And so I cried. Then we opened a bottle of champagne.

I also had a fantastic birthday party at the Edison, my favorite bar downtown. Everyone got very dressed up, and I got to have a little Cinderella moment as I descended the steps to the bar in a slinky black dress and a host of tuxedo-clad men looked up at me (we later discovered the British Embassy was having an office party there that night). Good times.

And that was November. The rest was work, and putting away the sewing stuff for a while. Our roommate moved out, so we redistributed all the furniture. On Thanksgiving, my car failed catastrophically on the way to dinner with my bf's family; I spent the majority of the day driving and riding around Southern California, getting my car towed, getting to my parents' house to borrow a car, getting back to dinner in Lake Elsinore, and getting home.

Car trouble proved to be a theme of the Christmas season. Once repaired, my car developed a mysterious ailment that caused it to die and strand me at stoplights for minutes at a time. Subsequent trips to several mechanics failed to address this tendency, and I've been borrowing my mom's car for three weeks now. Combined with all the usual Christmas activities and end-of-year craziness at my job, December passed in a long, stressed-out blur that I'm only now recovering from. It definitely had its bright spots, but sadly, they weren't enough to elevate my memory of the season.

All right, enough of this diary-style rambling. I sucked, I'm back, and we can return to business as usual - rants, geekdom, costumes, and absurdities. Did I mention that the other night I dreamed I was a Jedi, with the face and body of Mila Kunis, having an affair with Bale Organa from Episode III of Star Wars?

SemiGeekGirl wishes you all a belated Happy New Year and best of luck in 2009!