Stephanie the Blogging Stick Stealer

I have a problem. Due to a bureaucratic error with our birth certificates, my problem has the same first name as me. But for the purposes of (1) avoiding confusion, as well as (2) reclaiming my tiny corner of cyberspace, we’re going to call her middle name, Stephanie.

Stephanie, my pyro-klepto evil twin sister has boundary issues. This has never been a mystery to me. When we were kids, she was always stealing my Buffy action figures. On top of that, she hasn’t really been the same since her girlfriend left her right after she became a novice at the convent at Lilith Cathedral. What little I overheard from their closing fight went something like this:

“Beb, we can work something out…”

“YOU’RE GOING TO TAKE A VOW OF CHASTITY DUMB ASS.”

Poor girl.

And when I say “poor girl” I do not mean Stephanie.

Because this time Stephanie went too far…

Stephanie stole the my Blogging Stick.

But before I go into that, allow me tell you something else about Stephanie. We may share the same face and first name, but we are not the same person. Perhaps one of the strongest points I can use to illustrate this is in how Stephanie became a distance professor. As a supporter and defender of the Constitution of the United States and the Constitution of the State of California, I wouldn’t try to burn down a library. I just wouldn’t. It feels a little too Fahrenheit 451-ish for someone who’s supposed to be a champion for the First Amendment.

That’s right: Stephanie tried to burn down the library at Saint Thecla’s University. Could we say that it’s ironic that a Buffy Studies professor would try to set ablaze to an academic institution, what with the (SPOILER ALERT) razing of the school gym at the end of the Buffy movie and (ANOTHER SPOILER ALERT) the destruction of the high school at the close of season three? No. If we were to use the term “ironic” accurately, we really couldn’t. It would be more accurate to declare the irony that lies in the faculty’s passive-aggressive decision to tell her she could stay on staff so long as she stayed Very Far Away from the campus. They may have put this forth to get rid of her, but they also put it forth without taking into account the phenomenon of online learning. Thus, my sister still teaches for them via the ultra-modern loopholes the Internet provides. All because no one had the balls to outright tell her, “You’re fired, Stephanie.”

Now she’s in Mount Shasta.

Hijacking my blog.

That bitch.

Hence, some of the things I’ve been writing recently have not been written by me. Getting crossfaded and promiscuous as a means of lassoing people into the faith? That’s all her. I am the paradigm of nice, mainstream-Protestant values, thank you very much. Alienating any possible Unwashed Hippies from the general blog audience? Well, that’s not the me either. Because I have tact. The logic that numerous consecutive Hot Toddys are the only thing that’s better than one Hot Toddy? Do I LOOK like an alcoholic to you? (Please don’t answer that.)

Like I said, the things she writes are not things I write. If one day you type this URL into your web-browser and the name of the blog has been changed to “LOUD SEX AT THE NUNNERY”, you know that my evil twin is at it again. If you read something here along the lines of,

“Seeing how many times I can make a military recruiter repeat themselves is definitely on the list of my favorite pastimes.”

or

“I don’t always back up into park vehicles, but when I do, I drive away quickly.”

that’s not me. That’s Stephanie. Unless it’s nothing you find offensive and/or prompts you to sit me down at your kitchen table for an intervention because you’re worried about the state of my soul*, then it is I to whom all credit is due. Especially if you find it wildly clever to boot – those parts are all me.

Now that I have unwittingly retrieved the Blogging Stick, more substantial and less unabashedly self-referential writing will balance out the errors of my sister. Pinkie Swear.

Also, Stephanie, if you’re reading this: I found the blueprints you and Chloe drew up – the ones for the metal super-soaker with which to spray innocent passersby with scalding hot liquids, yes? You’re not getting them back until you give me back my Buffy the Vampire Slayer inflatable chair. Just sayin.



* Because I’m sure you have the time to do this and no life of your own to worry about instead…?

Saying ABSOLUTELY NOTHING In Particular About Responsible Triviality and Gif Abuse

I have not run the gamut everything I could be doing except my linguistics paper in the past 24 hours...

…and when I say “linguistics paper”, I mean grading papers. Because I’m a professor.

Anyway, the reason why I can’t say I’ve done everything EXCEPT grade papers in the past 24 hours is because that would defy the Laws of Procrastination. While suspended in academic inertia, I tend to maintain the personal delusion that I will start grading papers sometime in, like, the next five minutes. Therefore, it’s unrealistic and irresponsible to consciously commit to something as time-consuming as a full-length feature film or picking up where I left off in The Chelsea Whistle. Which is too bad. I mean, if I were honest with myself about my unspoken commitment to dwindle the rest of my waking hours on pointless non-activities, I could at least drink. Because, let’s face it, folks: the only thing better than a Hot Toddy is numerous, consecutive Hot Toddys.

According to the warped logic of the Laws of Procrastination, intensely trivial activities are The Responsible Thing To Do. Because if the Paper-Grading’s gonna go down in, like, five minutes, anything that I’m going to do that’s not grading papers better be quick. For example, Tweets are written. Not only is Tweeting a relatively small exercise, there’s an additional delusion that everything I accomplish in the perpetual five minutes before I start in on my less palatable responsibilities drips with importance. Anyone who follows me on Twitter must want to know about it. Why wouldn’t they? (See also: the existence of this blogpost.)

After a smattering of Tweets, I might get up and make rice pudding – because, all things considered, making rice pudding doesn’t take all that long, does it? While ladling out the finished product, it will occur to me that vegetarian chili fries would be THE BEST THING EVER; second only to the post-chili-fry GENIUS that is cookie-baking. These, of course, take more time than a full-length feature film, but…in the grander scheme of things...

BEST FUCKING IDEA EVER

I will admit that the endless five minutes are further perpetuated by all the dishes dirtied by these GENIUS culinary shenanigans, and it would be sorely irresponsible of me if I left them all festering at the side of the sink.

Then, with dishpan hands and keystrokes, it will suddenly seem to be very important that I try my hand at being one of Those People who overload their blogposts with gifs. I already dabbled in ending posts with music videos, how different is that from the novel gimmick of gifs? I mean, really. What’s the worst that could happen?

You know who didn’t ask herself that latter question very often? High School Me. A very short-sighted, small-picture woman, High School Me was. Once, in causal conversation with someone she hardly ever spoke to at school, it was brought to light that the near-stranger had read her Live Journal on a more-than-once basis. Which was like…what?

High School Me wasn’t expecting that.

A bit of a wake-up call.

Let that be a lesson to you: if you wish to blunder forth according to your most cherished misconceptions, best to not talk to anyone lest said misconceptions are challenged. Likewise, if heavily drinking on a daily basis continually fails to be compatible with your rudimentary Protestant morality: give up church for Lent. But only for Lent – assuming that you’re in any way attached to the prospect of pastors being your bridesmaids.

And High School Me was operating ten years ago. I’m sure it’s gotten “worse” since then…because the world’s on a trajectory towards ultimate shittiness…right? That’s how that story went? I don’t know. There’s a draft of a text message saved in my phone that reads, “The world through my urethra (rev 2)”. I’m torn about that, too – whether or not I want to remember its context.

Anyway: these days, I’m not terribly worried about being surprised about who reads my Live Journal. For one, I no longer have a Live Journal. For two, I’ve seen the numbers (as far as page-views on this blog goes), and nine times out of ten, I’m near-exclusively writing or Chloe, Sophia, and the Time Machine Mechanic. Sometimes Anita, too.

Mind you, I’m not complaining about the limited readership. It makes me feel like I have more license to spontaneously revert the purposes of posts to platonic love letters without it being too weird or alienating.

I love you guys.

BTW, I stole all the gifs from here. They stole them from somewhere else.

Hippies and Tater Tots

Last August, I was in the backseat of my landlord’s sanely proportioned sports utility vehicle when an unwashed hippie crossed the street in front of us. A framed backpack mounted his shoulders. His bare feet were darkened with dirt, nearly black at the soles, gradually dissipating up his legs, but dirty nonetheless. Dirt that never ends. Mount Shasta is a pilgrimage site or something for Unwashed Hippies. In the warmer months they flock in with their dreadlocks and sweat-stained hemp clothing to patronize crystal shops and (ironically) shave their legs in the lakes. They wade in the headwaters of the Sacramento River despite such wading being explicitly forbidden. They powwow near the natural food store. They jut out their dirt-encrusted thumbs on the side of the road.

They deliberately refrain from bathing for one reason or another. I’m sure there are a smattering for whom it isn’t a choice, but nevertheless, I’m told that part of the Unwashed Hippie Lifestyle is that one chooses not to bathe. Soap is unnatural, you see. Mind you, most of my Unwashed Hippie Information is technically hearsay. I did a stunning job of NOT doing any background research or fact-checking on my own. However, I did manage to find the time to fact-check after I heard a preacher quote Desmond Tutu saying something about how we are God carriers.

I tried turning this over in my head for a while, like rosaries for neuro-pathways: God carrier, God carrier, God carrier… A pulse of divinity through my normally-clogged consciousness while walking the dog: God carrier, God carrier, God c-OH NO ANOTHER GOD CARRIER RUN AWAY!…

Please understand that I’m not publicly condoning any outright, blind hatred towards any individual or demographic of individuals. (I’m also not saying I hate these people. I just don’t like the way they smell.) I’m being honest about what’s encoded in the chain-mail that enshrouds my heart and dilutes all the Jesus that tries to get out. It sings something to the tune of, “Carry God any way you want, just… don’t do it around me.” This sentiment is frequently followed by a retreat into my tent with a can of Lysol, clutched close like a shut-in in a gated community sleeping with a rocket launcher under their pillow. Because who needs the cleansing work of acceptance and other God Stuff when you have a good, sturdy, Girl-Scout-grade sleeping bag to pull over your head?

This is my tent. Clearly, my tent exists for real.
Also, if you can name the Buffy episode that's
playing on my unreasonably large television set,
you get a prize.
...that's a lie. It's more like I get a prize, because if you
did so even half-accurately, I would collapse into a fit of
spasmodic squealing and glee.

In other news, “heresy” comes from the Greek word for choice. That may merit an entire post all on its own, but when I started brainstorming (laziest two seconds OF MY LIFE), it went like this: choice... cafeteria Christianity... cafeterias? Ooooh my gosh, tater tots are AMAZING... let’s run inside and see what Sophia and Jeff think about tater tots for dinner.

Furthermore, chickens.

Now that I’ve posted this, I need to go ask my pastors if they’ll still be my bridesmaids.

Dear Few-People-Who-Read-This-Blog (I probably even know who you are. I’d give shout-outs. But that would be tacky-HI NOËL!*)

It has come to my attention that regular upkeep of one’s blog is Good and Proper. However, I’ve never been much for Goodness or Propriety, at least not in the ways that Goodness and Propriety have been explained to me. This personal preference is accompanied by a small burden of guilt that usually crops up during large family gatherings and church functions… The point HERE being that I am obviously not so great with generating posts on a consistent, weekly basis. I’m not saying I don’t admire those who do. I’m just saying that I’m about as good with blog-upkeep as I am with proselytizing.

The two activities in and of themselves are far from a perfect comparison, but I will say that unlike the infrequency of my blogposts, I am scrupulously consistent in my proselytizing methods. You see, I corral one or more people together who I know for certain to be People Who Hold The Wrong Beliefs (including but not exclusive to people who identify as Christian and are allegedly are kidding themselves). I then engage in activities that cause me to lose control of my body (this is key – so key, in fact, that its name could be Dawn). Once I’ve got my head in a toilet/am stuck squirming on the ground and have everyone’s attention because they’re all wondering how someone could have that kind of reaction to such a small amount of weed/am naked, I ask if they’ve heard the Good News About Jesus Christ. Regardless of their answer – I probably didn’t hear it over the vomiting/haze of overriding intoxication/nakedness (sometimes nudity is a deafening experience) – I tell them we should say the Sinner’s Prayer, as soon as they would please be so kind as to Google it, because by that time I’m too fucked up to remember what exactly the Sinner’s Prayer is, let alone what it says.

Success rate? I can’t be sure, see: the state of such otherworldly fuckupedness that I’ve lost 95%+ of contact with reality. But it’s the thought that counts.

Thus, I’m going to provide a link here to Rob Bell’s tumblr. That way, when all my indiscretions get replayed to me at Judgment Day, I can point to this one time I suggested Christian cyber-literature to the few people who read my blog, and tell (not ask) Saint Peter that it counts for something.



* Another reason why the shout-out idea isn’t a good one: because now I feel bad for not making everyone my bridesmaid. That’s how it works, right? Bridesmaids are a birthday party thing? Bastille Day? Before I careen any further in an irredeemable direction, here are some Tim Burton-esque deep-fried donut-scraps. #vivelagluten

Also, if you got the Buffy reference, I want to be your friend forever.

Give me an ice pick lobotomy. Get it over with.

I am terrible with infatuation. It’s the kind of thing where, once it gets into my bloodstream, my driver’s license should probably be revoked. I realize that it’s normal for people to “get the hots” – or whatever euphemism you like best – for other people. However, I don’t see any of my other friends getting bug-eyed and manic every time someone whose appearance they find to be exceptionally alluring walks into the room. Furthermore, I’ve never heard of any of my friends, with their pupils dilating at unequal sizes, damage private property under the misconception that such an act is commonly accepted as an equivalent to giving someone a bouquet of flowers.

That’s what it’s like for me. Interacting with someone I’m really into is more or less hopeless, because when I see them, it’s like my brain is a bathtub and a toaster has been dropped in it. Everything’s on the fritz, all systems are down. Lots of laughter. Laughter at inappropriate times. Laughter that won’t stop. And other stupid stuff like, if I were to learn that the Exceptionally Gorgeous Individual liked jigsaw puzzles, I might stuff both my mouth and fists with puzzle pieces and make laps around their front yard, or apartment building for that matter, spitting and violently sprinkling them (…if sprinkling is an act one can accomplish in a violent fashion…) all willy nilly, twitching, electric, uncontrolled, repeatedly screaming, “I FIXED IT! I FIXED IT!” Lord knows why those words in particular. I have no clue, despite the fact that they’d be coming out of my mouth.

Just ask my Satanist High School Boyfriend: if I don’t find myself all flustered and surprised that breakable things like microwave plates indeed break when I toss them onto the ground, then I’m probably just not that into you.

Because everyone knows that all the most romantic conversations must begin with, “Hi. I’m covered in algae. I was going to play an accordion under your window, but, puzzle pieces. Some of which I put in my mouth to impress you. And I may have smashed my face against your driveway a few times, not to impress you, but because I can’t control my feelings. Would you like a tooth as a token of my heart palpitations? BTW, you’re so dangerously gorgeous, your face should be illegal. Just sayin.” The phrases barely strung together, of course, through the aforementioned fits of uncontrollable giggling.

My landlord has graciously pointed out to me that if these Exceptionally Gorgeous Individuals really do like me, they’ll be able to handle my weirdness (or something). However, as disappointing as it is when some of them don’t, I really don’t need them to like me. I’m not looking for petty-misdemeanor courtships and padded-room romances – I am a nun, ya know. Even if I weren’t a nun, the fact would still remain that when I’m under this influence, coherent thoughts regarding such things are not impossible to formulate. Oh, no. With unbearable urgency, all I would want is enough exposure to their mind-numbing beauty to distill it into a serum and inject with a syringe, after which I would sit on the edge of the bathtub that is my fried, smoking mind, with the ordinarily-screaming woman in my head (who, in this scenario, is pacified with…well…a pacifier stolen from the resident toddler) and eat cupcakes made out of my uterus. Because, Gentle Reader, ripping out my uterus, sacrificing it to the first deities readily accessible in my orbit of consciousness, and making cupcakes out of said sacrificed uterus, is exactly the kind of thing I do when under the influence of infatuation.

Bonus points to you if any of that made sense.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have furball collages to compile and restraining orders to inspire.

On a housekeeping note: that b.s.’d church history paper I promised is on its way. It’s just taking a while because it’s being approached with as much foot dragging and superfluous whining as my real church history paper (which I have no intention of b.s.ing). All the more authentic, then, oui?

How I Wish I Could Have Replied When My Satanist-High-School-Boyfriend Emailed And Asked Me Where I Am These Days

Dear Satanist-High-School-Boyfriend,*

What a pleasant surprise to hear from you! And how thoughtful of you to inquire of my whereabouts! I am definitely NOT still living with my parents, sleeping in the same bedroom I was sleeping in when we dated ten years ago, and I definitely WILL NOT overcompensate for the flourish of insecurity such a scenario would inspire by writing a blogpost about it.

Furthermore, I am definitely NOT still slogging through undergrad coursework – I already have my baccalaureate in English literature, not just the Associate’s degree I have hanging on my wall, which my dad had framed because he was so excited that I actually accomplished SOMETHING in my adult life. In fact, I have a doctorate. That’s right. I am Dr. Sister Kathryn Stephanie English-Major, PhD. My adoring fans…I mean students…I mean patients(?) call me Dr. KEM for short.

I spent my early 20’s as a novice, then a nun, at the convent at Lilith Cathedral in South Narnia (no, not the fictional place, the place I made up. There’s a difference). I oversaw a massive and unpopular project to restore mandatory habit-wearing amongst the nuns. While receiving the imposition of ashes one Ash Wednesday, my glow-in-the-dark nail polish caught the attention of a cardinal, who nominated me to join the Pope on his semi-annual climb to the summit of Mount Everest. They insisted. I graciously accepted.

When the Pope and I got to the summit, we celebrated with Peach Schnapps while listening to the selection of Coldplay songs he had on his phone. Normally, I would have preferred something of the punk persuasion, but I was tipsy enough from both the booze and the elevation that it didn’t matter much to me. It was after our descent that I was awarded an honorary doctorate from Saint Thecla’s University. Even though it was honorary, I insisted on writing a dissertation anyway, because it was The Right Thing To Do, I felt. My dissertation used Buffy the Vampire Slayer to explain the πth century phenomenon of donuts and Docetism, for which I was awarded the Nobel Win-Prize. To celebrate, I got a tattoo of Anne Boleyn (because, who else?). Her body is on my forearm, and her head is on my ribs. I wanted it on my stomach, but the tattoo artist talked me out of it lest I acquire a beer belly or become pregnant (whichever comes first).

As for my current place of residence, to answer your initial question, I live in a tent in the backyard of a Kindle-millionaire in Mount Shasta. I spend my days telecommuting to Saint Thecla’s (I teach in the departments of Psuedographia and Buffy Studies), and reading the numerous ARCs publishers send my way. I just finished Michelle Tea’s biography of Yours Truly, but declined to contribute a quote for the jacket, because, well, that felt pretentious and a little silly. Don’t you think?

I’ve also been tutoring my Shasta-friend’s toddler in Sanskrit, because of course I’m fluent in Sanskrit. It’s really the least I can do, seeing as she and her husband are allowing me to stay here while my mansion in the Rockies is being completed. It’s very complicated, you see, as it requires a cave to be dug out of solid granite with matching spiral staircases.

Also, in case you didn’t notice, I changed my middle name to Stephanie.

Toodles!

-Dr. KEM



* Was the boyfriend Satanist, or was the high school? (I’m not telling.)