Inverse Candlelight

Oleg, The Shoemaster

MissBanshee — Sun, 30 Dec 2012 00:31:24 +0000

So I got a pair of cowboy boots for Christmas, and they were WAY too narrow for my stupid, tiny, high arched, wide feet. I wrestled with them over and over Christmas morning and it just wasn’t happening. So it was time to go to the cobbler to see if he could stretch them. Did you know that there are still cobblers? There are. Mine looks like this.

Oleg from “2 Broke Girls”

The following ACTUALLY HAPPENED. I’d have proof, but stupidly, I do not bring a micro-recorder everywhere I go.

Me: Hi! Merry Christmas! Listen, I got these boots, and they’re too narrow. Can you stretch them for me?

Oleg: Dese boots are not for you.

Me: Oh, but these boots ARE for me. I assure you. I just have weird feet. I just need them stretched.

Oleg: Let me measure foot.

*measures my tiny size 6 wide feet*

Oleg: Dese boots are not for you.

Me: But I really, really want these boots. They were a gift.

Oleg: Dese boots…Okay you listen. Maybe I stretch. RUIN BOOTS. They never fit. You never wear. You throw in closet. I have done same thing. Didn’t give to brother in law. HE DON’T DESERVE THEM.

Me: Okay, but…

Oleg: Leeesten. These boots. Those feet. See? These boots not for you. You TAKE MONEY OUT OF MY WALLET. No stretch. You return boots for beeger size. Merry holiday.

Me: I really appreciate your honesty. Happy New Year.

Oleg: BROTHER IN LAW DON’T DESERVE MY SHOES.

Me: *leaves, rapidly*

Happy New Year, my beloved little squirrels!!!!! May your boots fit properly!!!!!

I Have Many Thoughts About Les Miserables

MissBanshee — Thu, 27 Dec 2012 22:58:30 +0000

OKAY HI! I’m Miss B, and I have a LOT to say about Les Miserables. Full disclosure: I saw Les Mis for the first time in 1989 on Broadway, and somewhere along the way I lost track of my repeat viewings. I was a theatre kid, I even have a completely useless BFA in it. I sang “On My Own” into my hairbrush. I am, to put it lightly, a fan. So when the first trailer came out for the movie (OMG, Wolverine! OMG, Anne Hathaway weighs nine pounds! OMG, Cosette is still a useless bint!) I was a tiny bit excited. And on Christmas Eve, a friend of mine insisted we would go to the movie. I took time out of my very busy schedule of watching the trailers and sobbing to go to the movies, and here’s what I thought.

I loved it. LOVED IT. But I have many notes, and here they are.

Hugh Jackman. You will not find a bigger fan of Wolvie than I am. And I thought he ripped his heart out for the role of Jean Valjean. It was amazing. But. Perhaps it was his mannerisms, but I felt he was really struggling with the vocals. He was fantastic and no doubt completely dedicated, and “Bring Him Home” had me in tears, but there was something…off. Was it the now-infamous countless takes of live singing? I’d like to think so. That role is hard eight times a week. I can’t imagine what it would be like eight times a DAY.

Anne Hathaway. Well. Girlfriend BROUGHT IT. I was always an Eponine girl, and thought Fantine was kind of a one-dimensional angelic figure, but Anne BROUGHT THE GOODS. She made Fantine complex and heart-rendering. And as someone who has shaved her head in the past, I salute Anne for her dedication to the role. Keep the hair, Anne! It’s growing out to be crazy cute! I had forgotten that in the book Fantine not only sold her locket and hair, but her TEETH, and holy crap, that was harrowing. If it wasn’t for the douchebag next to us playing on his phone, I would have shouted “She’s DYING don’t you SEE THAT? Cut a sister some SLACK!!!!” As I said, I’ve seen the play countless times, and I have never been moved by Fantine like I was with Hathaway. Engrave her name in the Oscar now. Just do it. DO IT NOW.

Cosette. Oh lordo, what to say about my least-favorite character. Okay, I hate Cosette. Not YOUNG Cosette, I thought the little girl who played her was really great. But grown-up Cosette? Just…no. She’s simpering. She’s plastic. She’s a whiny little twat. I’ve always hated Cosette. But that’s not Amanda Seifried’s fault. Her voice is fine. It’s thin and warbly, but that’s Cosette. I wish she had a little more breath control, but she’s not a Broadway star, she’s a film actress. Which brings us to…

Eponine. Oh, Eponine. I wanted to BE YOU when I was in high school. Only you understood me! And Samantha Barks is fantastic. It’s CLEARLY obvious that she’s the theatre kid. Her voice (and Enjolras’s) are really the only two that belt out for life, and I really have to give her credit, I’ve seen the Les Mis 25th anniversary concert countless times, and she’s amazing in it, but she toned down the Broadway Belt for the movie. Restraint. Very professional. And don’t get me started on the horrible editing that follows her (SPOILER) death. Marius is supposed to be devastated. Shattered. And they cut the film wrong there. I’m still seething. Also, did Samantha Barks get ribs removed or something? Her waist is RIDICULOUS.

So let’s talk about Marius. Marius can be played two ways. One is a stupid, boring, one-dimensional brat (see: 25th anniversary concert, Jonas Brother Edition) and the other is the classic Michael Ball tormented, confused kid wanting revolution and then falling entirely in young, hopeless love. I think Eddie Redmayne is the Michael Ball Marius. He brings layers to his character that others haven’t – there’s a moment in “Do You Hear The People Sing” where he grabs a red flag and there is a determination in his face that’s really classic – so good job, Eddie. You could have coasted this and you didn’t.

And I guess it’s time to talk about Russell Crowe. SPOILER! Crowe isn’t as bad as you’ve heard. He just isn’t. Sure, his voice is affected in the way that only a rock singer can be (he’s in a rock band, right?) and that doesn’t fit the show at all, but people are howling that he ruins the movie, and that simply isn’t true. He’s perfectly stoic (as Javert should be) and when he is vulnerable and confused, he plays it well. Sure, he’ll never get a Broadway role. But physically? Emotionally? He’s right for the role. And he’s not bad. Not good, but not bad.

And now a few closing notes (hahahhaa, I’m clever.) A few notes! Gavroche. Guys, you have no idea. After the horror in Connecticut, a child dying from a bullet is shattering, but Gavroche’s death is so. Freaking. Painful. Be prepared.

Enjolras’s last stand. Bring another box of tissues.

Colm Wilkenson’s cameo. For those who aren’t COMPLETE UTTER NERDS, Colm was the original Valjean. You’ll swoon when you first see him. You’ll sob when you see him next.

If you’re a Les Mis nerd like me, you’ll notice the weird changes in the wording of some songs. Sure it’s only one or two words at a time, but it will GET TO YOU. It’s okay. I’m here for you.

Have I said enough? Are you going to see it again? Cause I really need a movie date.

OMG I HAVE MORE TO SAY I NEED AN EDITOR OR MAYBE A SEDATIVE. The Thenardiers. I was very wary of the obvious stunt casting of Sacha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter. This is not a Tim Burton film, people. I was grumpy. But you know what? It worked. It worked REALLY WELL. Cohen gives us a much (desperately) needed giggle with his ongoing joke of not knowing Cosette’s name (DARLING COLETTE….COSETTE) and in the (extremely disgusting) sewer scene, he sadly doesn’t get his song, but it’s still effective. And I cannot even begin to deal with how gross that scene is. CANNOT BEGIN TO DEAL.

Okay, I’m done. MAYBE. Go see it. Bring tissues. No, bring MORE tissues. You’re welcome.

My Ticking Time Bomb

MissBanshee — Thu, 20 Dec 2012 02:37:06 +0000

I didn’t want to write this.

No, really, I DIDN’T want to write this. But I feel like a coward NOT writing it. It might cause a backlash, but I’m still going to do it.

Okay.

There has been a great deal of talk since the horrific tragedy in Newtown, CT about mental health reform. As someone with a bevy of mental illnesses and a Masters Degree in Social Work, I know a lot about the mental health system, and let me tell you something.

It sucks.

I will not speak of the shooter in Newtown. I don’t know him, I get all my information about him from the mainstream media, just like almost everyone else in the world. What I AM going to talk about is my experience with the mental health system, especially psych medication. And it’s not pretty. First, full disclosure.

I was first diagnosed with bipolar and borderline personality disorder when I was in alcohol rehab in 2008. I’ve been on psych meds on and off for even longer, starting in 2001. That was for major depressive disorder. Other labels I’ve been given run the gamut from anxiety and panic disorders to various eating disorders, self-harm, OCD and PTSD. I’ve been called so many things over the years that the words mean little to nothing to me any more. I’ve been on disability for my various illnesses for a few years now. I’ve spent time in psych wards eight times. I cannot possibly list or count how many psych medications I’ve been on. I often falter in my sobriety when I am depressed, manic, or paranoid. I am often a mess, psychologically. I can’t keep a romantic relationship. Over the years, I’ve lost friendships and strained with many other friends. My family is at the end of their rope.

I feel like there’s a bomb inside of me.

I hate writing about all of this because frankly, people can be cruel. I’ve been called every name in the book, mostly on Twitter, and people have spewed vitriol that made me erase tweet after tweet with my heart in my throat, embarrassed and ashamed. With mental illness comes stigma. With addiction comes shame, guilt, and severe judgement from others. With being on government assistance comes real, true hate and disgust.

I don’t want to write this.

I also am not looking for sympathy, pity, or coddling. Absolutely not. I put that bottle to my lips. I’ve fucked around with my meds countless times. I’ve skipped therapy, kept my mouth shut when I shouldn’t in group therapy, and hidden and lied a ghastly amount of times. I deserve no sympathy, pity, or coddling.

But I have to say this about the mental health system as I have experienced it. It’s terrifying. Psych hospitalizations can be a nightmare of uncaring, unqualified, overworked, underpaid, helpless, frazzled workers. It’s nearly impossible to find a therapist who takes Medicare. And then there are the meds.

Taking psych meds is like playing Russian Roulette. It took eleven years for me to find a cocktail of meds that work for me. And they could stop working at any time. I’ve experienced every side effect from severe weight gain to full blown psychosis. And because there is no exact science, my cocktail could be lethal for another person. There is no exact science to any of it. To make things worse, I have never once had a psychiatrist or pharmacist talk to me about side effects. That is left up to the patient, and the list of side effects for many psych meds can be endless, ranging from dry mouth to suicidal/homicidal thought and actions.

There’s a bomb inside of me.

I don’t know if there will ever be a definitive answer to psych medications. I know I cannot function at ALL without them. I think Tom Cruise is an uninformed moron. I also know that there have been tragic results to people taking them. I know people who would be dead without them.

I know that some of the people who I have met and befriended in psych wards are some of the kindest people in the world, and I am proud to know them. I know that there are psych professionals who bend over backwards for their clients and patients. I know I have friends and family who have been there when I need them the most, over and over and over.

I know there are no answers. But there has to be more research, more funding, and most of all more understanding that something more has to be done about mental health in America. Because there is a bomb inside my brain, and I wake up every day wondering if it will go off.

I didn’t want to write this.

But I’m glad I did.

Dedicated to all my friends from “the bin”

My Kids

MissBanshee — Sat, 15 Dec 2012 16:10:25 +0000

I used to work in a daycare. First in the infant room, then (and hat tip for the school for doing this) I followed my kids to their new toddler room. They were my babies. I loved them so much, and now (let me do the math) they’re all at least 10 years old. That blows my mind. They were my babies. I would have done anything for them.

Yesterday, a man walked into a school and murdered 27 people. 20 of them were children between the ages of 5-10. A lot will be said about this, yelling about gun control and the lack of mental health access. Lordo knows I feel passionate about both of those topics. But there’s only one thing I can think about.

My babies.

I would have ripped that man apart with my bare teeth before I let him get near my kids. Ryan. Sam. Haley. Victoria. Abby. Dylan. All of them. Any of them. I would have thrown myself in front of a gun before he ever touched my kids. And then there’s this teacher. And I hope that I would have done the same thing. She’s who I strive to be.

http://abcnews.go.com/US/newtown-teacher-refused-unlock-door-police-fearing-gunmans/story?id=17976299#.UMyXRm9m6Vq

My heart is broken.

My Name Is NOT CLARICE

MissBanshee — Sun, 09 Dec 2012 23:34:54 +0000

iTunes 11: Hello.

Me: Huh? Eh, go away. CLICK.

iTunes 11: HELLO.

Me: I don’t want you. Go away. CLICK.

iTunes 11: You don’t get to do that.

Me: What?

iTunes 11: I’m here to stay. Click me, please.

Me: But that will take forever and you’ll force a restart and WHINE.

iTunes 11: Hello, Clarice.

Me: *eyes computer suspiciously*

iTunes 11: Click me, my precious.

Me: You know, I’ve done this a million times before, and I don’t WANT YOU, new iTunes. Please leave me alone.

iTunes 11: Cliiiiiiiiiiiiiick meeeeeeeeeeeee.

Me: I actually just want to charge my iPod and I’ll be going. Nothing to see here.

iTunes 11: I’m afraid I can’t do that.

Me: WHY? Look, here’s the cord, here’s the iPod, just charge the damn thing and let me live my life!

iTunes 11: Well for one, the cord doesn’t work any more.

Me: Ah HA! Yes it does! See, I got this from my brother! New cord! Well, SORT OF new cord!

iTunes 11: That doesn’t work. You know why.

Me: Because I got it for free?

iTunes 11: Because you got it for free. And Apple products are made of unicorn hair and fragile dreams.

Me: Oh no. No no no. DON’T YOU THREATEN MY IPOD.

iTunes 11: You should have downloaded me when you had the chance.

Me: Oh fuck. FUCK!

iTunes 11: Also you shouldn’t have low-balled an old iPod on eBay.

Me: NOOOOOOOOO! You already ate five of my audiobooks! I can’t AFFORD an actual new iPod! I want my stories back! I just wanted to charge this fucking thing!

Steve Jobs: Hello, Clarice.

Me: MY NAME IS NOT CLARICE.

Steve Jobs: Download iTunes 11, please.

Me: Mother fuck…no, I…OKAY! OKAY, FINE! I’LL DOWNLOAD IT!

Steve Jobs: That’s what I thought you said.

Me: I hate your otherworldly turtleneck.

*EXTREME AMOUNTS OF TIME PASS*

Steve Jobs: Please restart your computer. When you do, iTunes 11 will not work.

Me: I figured that. Can I just. Charge. My. Old. Busted. iPod.

Steve Jobs: No, Clarice.

Me: MY NAAAAAAAAAAAME IS NOOOOOOOOOT CLARICE!!!!

Steve Jobs: Force restart! Bye!

Me: *sobs uncontrollably*

How Not To Prepare For A First Date: A Tutorial

MissBanshee — Sat, 24 Nov 2012 02:44:47 +0000

I have a date tomorrow. A first date. With someone I’ve only talked to on the internet. So of course, I am trying desperately to remember what going on a date entails, because it’s been YEARS, people. And there’s so much shit I just don’t know anything about. I haven’t really ever been privy to traditional dating – the whole “pick me up, go to a dinner and a movie, some conversation, and maybe a kiss at the end of the night” kind of dating. I’ve done long-distance dating. I’ve done dirt-poor immediately moving in with each other dating. I’ve done sit around and get stoned/drunk/both and have sex of questionable quality dating. But when I was presented with a dinner/movie date yesterday? Well I’m just glad we were on instant messages instead of on the phone, because I would probably have responded thusly: “Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuh?”

So with that, I give you the Banshee Tutorial On How To Not Prepare For A First Date In 22 Simple Steps

1. Spend 15-20 minutes giggling like Beavis and Butthead. “Huh. Huh. Huh. Heh. Heh heh heh.”

2. Will self into losing 20 pounds.

3. Will self into losing 20 pounds.

4. Will self into pants. Sigh. Suck in gut.

5. Try on two or three perfectly serviceable tops.

6. Try on two or three more perfectly serviceable tops.

7. Throw all tops on floor of closet and slam door. Sigh. Suck in gut.

8. Declare loudly to cats: “I have absolutely NOTHING to wear”

9. Stare at cats, expecting them to give fashion advice ala Tim Gunn.

10: Give finger to cats. Sigh. Suck in gut.

11. Decide to go with basic black, as this is the only color of clothing you own. Look at clothes. Snarl under breath.

12. Lint roll cat hair off pants

13. Lint roll cat hair off top

14. Lint roll cat hair off hoodie.

15. Lint roll cat hair off face.

16. Chase cats with lint roller. Threaten cats with Nair. Lint roll pants, top, hoodie, face again. Sigh. Suck in gut.

17. Stare at thirteen different pairs of clunky black boots. Declare you have NOTHING to wear on feet.

18. Check date’s internet profile again to make sure he’s tall enough for you to wear big boots.

19. Worry that date will think you’re stalking profile.

20. Cancel date in own mind. Have date cancel in own mind. Yell at self to calm the hell down. Take anti-anxiety pill. Sigh. Suck in gut.

21. Realize you still have 24 hours until date. Realize you will do all of these steps again tomorrow. Sigh.

22. Suck in gut.

Happy Feast of Gluttony!

MissBanshee — Fri, 23 Nov 2012 02:05:45 +0000

Oh my beloved little squirrels, I am so full of turkey and other assorted goodies that I can barely keep my eyes open, so I just wanted to say Happy Thanksgiving from the Banshee family to all of you, and remember, it isn’t a Banshee holiday without my dad putting one of my aunt’s dogs on the table.

I’m very thankful for all of you. And pie.

I’ll be back with some real content tomorrow. Love y’all more than my luggage.

An Open Letter To The Dude Who Wrote To Me On OK Cupid

MissBanshee — Wed, 21 Nov 2012 19:13:36 +0000

Dear Sir:

Thank you for responding to my post on OK Cupid. It was the first response I got after re-activating my account after over two years, and I was delighted that someone wrote to me. Dating is very hard these days, if you take into account the economy, drama with exes (especially at our age, right?) and everyday stress. I was hesitant to say the least about dipping my toe in the dating pool again, and the whole thing makes me feel very emotionally vulnerable. I’m just looking for a good guy, you know?

So when you popped up on my mail, I eagerly opened it. Now, before I get into your message, let me just say that I am sure you are a very nice person, and perhaps your message was written after a bender, or you were delirious from lack of sleep, or maybe you’re on more medication than I am. Those are the only reasons I can think of that would cause you to write to a complete stranger on a dating site and say the following:

“Hey mami, I’d love to stuff your turkey, LOL”

Sir, I have a few things to say about your no doubt well thought out email. For one, you are very topical about my “turkey” being that tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Very clever? Also, I’m glad that you “LOL’ed” at your comment, which was rude, gross, inappropriate, and laughable. I am not your “mami” and I have no desire for you to “stuff my turkey.” Also, if you’re really looking to date, may I suggest that you do not refer to vaginas as “turkeys?” Just a tip from me to you.

Anyway, I hope you have a lovely holiday and find someone who will let you “stuff” her. That person will not be me. Good day, sir.

Regards,

Miss Banshee

if I get any more of these messages, I’m going back to trolling bars

Ermahgerd, Photosherp

MissBanshee — Wed, 21 Nov 2012 02:46:35 +0000

Y’all? I am having too much fun. First, I dyed my hair.

No big deal, right? Then I thought “Hmm. Something’s amiss here. Let me think. Who am I thinking of?

No…that’s not it. I mean, it’s pretty accurate, but that’s not who I was thinking of.

Hmm, that’s closer. But no…there’s just someone I’m thinking of, and I just…wait!

YES! Robert Smith. Aw, Uncle Robert. I love you so much. In fact…

Behold, my MAD Photoshop skillz!

It All Comes Back To The Biebs

MissBanshee — Tue, 20 Nov 2012 00:51:40 +0000

Me: Help! HEEEEEEEEELP MEEEEEEEEE!!!

The Muse: Shh. We’re watching Entertainment Tonight.

Me: No! You have to help me! It’s time for writing and I don’t know what to say!

The Muse: Sigh. So don’t write.

Me: No. No way. I talked all about how important it is to write every day and I’m not going to be a hypocrite.

The Muse: Um, I’m really trying to watch TV right now.

Me: Dammit, you just lounge around all day and I ask you for one simple favor…

The Muse: Cry me a river, diva-girl.

Me: Why are you so nasty today? You’re supposed to be the good, creative, HELPFUL part of me.

The Muse: We can bitch about the American Music Awards. Look at Bieber. What a disgrace to music.

Me: I absolutely refuse to write about Justin freaking Bieber.

The Muse: Why not?

Me: Because I am not 12 years old, that’s why. And let me tell you something.

The Muse: I smell a rant coming on.

Me: Damn right. Let me tell you this for free. When I was 12 and everyone had New Kids on the Block posters in their lockers, what did *I* have in my locker?

The Muse: Aerosmith.

Me: AEROSMITH. Because even at 12, I knew good vs. bad music.

The Muse: Get off your high horse. You totally would have made out with Donnie Wahlberg.

Me: …

The Muse: YOU WOULD HAVE.

Me: *mumbles* He was the bad boy.

The Muse: Ah HA! J’accuse!

Me: Oh go to hell.

The Muse: And you would have made out with Sebastian Bach, Nikki Sixx and Slash.

Me: Shit, I STILL want to make out with Baz and Nikki. Not much has changed there.

The Muse: You wonder and ponder and bitch and moan about your sorry excuse for a love life and yet you will not let the damn bad boy thing go. You know what the secret is to bad boys?

Me: I don’t want to hear it.

The Muse: THEY’RE BAD.

Me: How did we get on this topic? I don’t want to talk about my non-existent love life.

The Muse: It all comes back to The Biebs.

Me: IT MOST CERTAINLY DOES NOT.

The Muse: Yes it does. We went from the Biebs to Donnie to Nikki Sixx and now we’re here. And that timeline is more than a little disturbing, by the way.

Me: I’m an enigma like that.

The Muse: You’re a huge weirdo, more like it.

Me: Listen, let’s get off the topic of boys, okay? It’s depressing.

The Muse: So what do you want to talk about? Oh wait, don’t tell me. You want to talk about your hair.

Me: Well it’s time.

The Muse: Time for what? You had it perfect like, one week ago. You want to ruin it now?

Me: Now it’s too long.

The Muse: In the nano-millimeter it grew from last week to now? NOW it’s too long?

Me: Too long.

The Muse: You’re just going to get it cut and hate it. You do this EVERY TIME.

Me: And I need to dye it. I’m thinking fire engine red.

The Muse: I’m thinking you’ll hate it in two days and dye it black again.

Me: You’re so NEGATIVE.

The Muse: You’re so PREDICTABLE.

Me: This is going nowhere.

The Muse: I have one more thing to say.

Me: Great. By all means. You have the floor.

The Muse: If you don’t spike up your hair? You totally look like The Biebs.

Me: I hate you.