Vanity Fare

Posted on January 4, 2005 by Meg

Contrary to my Jersey girl heritage, I don’t have long nails or airbrushed designs or little rhinestones on my fingertips. I just get a layer of acrylic and polish piled on top of my real nails to make me less likely to bite them. (Yes, I’m 23 and I need to make my fingernails extra-toxic to keep them out of my mouth.) And I like having painted nails, it makes me feel pretty when I’m typing or playing Megatouch or working on the mosaic or anything else I’m doing.

So yesterday, as the manicurist is painting the white part of my French manicure (Yes, I pay money to make my painted nails look like real nails) she asks if I’m going to get my eyebrows done too.

Did I mention that I have a giant zit? Big and ugly enough to make an average teenager cry? We’re talking Vesuvius here, on the middle of my cheek, and she’s noticing my eyebrows? They must be truly terrible. I said ok.

She led me into a back room, with a couch and a recliner. Reminiscent of an opium den, at least to those of us who read a lot of Sherlock Holmes when we were little girls. The smiling Asian lady who promises “Won’t hurt… Look so pretty!” just adds to the scene.

I need to take my glasses off for this. Ug. This is like asking Superman to slip into these nice Kryptonite boxers. I can’t seen a bloody thing without my glasses, I can’t even find my glasses without my glasses. I’m told to lie back and relax, as warm goo is smeared around my eyebrows. I suddenly remember an image from my Clifton childhood, a neighbor who plucked her eyebrows off and then drew her eyebrows back on. I’m wondering if Stick and I are at the relationship stage where he can say things like “Where’d your eyebrows go?” And then YANK! It’s off.

Some years ago, when I went to get my ears pierced, I almost left with only one hole because I couldn’t sit still, knowing that I was about to have another hole punched in my ear. Obviously, I got over my needle-phobia, I’m now the proud owner of two sets of ear piercings and a frequent blood donor. The trick is not to look at the syringe. YANK!

I put my glasses back on, and check myself out in the mirror. With my Coke-bottle glasses on, I can’t see a change, but without them I look gorgeous. I bat my eyelashes at myself until I steam up the mirror from standing too close.

In the grocery store later that day, I check out every woman I see. No one has a massive unibrow or other telltale signs of the lack of wax. Does everyone get their eyebrows shaped? Have I been the only one with huge caterpillars on my face and no one’s told me? Or is it, as I’m starting to suspect, that there’s no noticable difference between shaped and natural eyebrows?

My roommate Kristine was home when I got in. “Hi Meg. Why are your eyebrows all red?” was her greeting.

At least it took the focus off my zit.

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Wedding Reception / Waffle House

Posted on December 20, 2004 by Meg

This weekend, Stick and I went to North Carolina for his brother’s wedding. I was pretty apprehensive about meeting the extended Stick clan, but it worked out well. If you’ll be meeting your signifigant other’s family in the near future, let me suggest a wedding. Someone else’s, I mean.

Stick has been talking about Waffle House and their amazing hash browns since, oh, November so that’s where we went for breakfast. I now know that I can bring Stick to near-orgasmic bliss by feeding him half-cooked latkes. And to think I spent so much money on lingerie.

I did get all teared up at the wedding. Why? Is it single-girl blues? Is it that dreaded biological clock? Worried, I ask myself if I think babies are gross, and I answer myself that they couldn’t be grosser. No ticking here. Then I ask myself if I want to get married, and I picture myself with a younger Pierce Brosnin, who lets me decorate our mansion on his credit cards and likes to talk about dead Romans. Maybe there’s a slight tick somewhere?

As I gave this a little more thought, and another drink, Stick’s stepmon came up said “Don’t worry, hon, the next time you’ll have to see all these people will be your wedding to Stick!” I smiled, and we drank to that.

I would have analyzed it more, but there was an open bar. And a very nice fellow who told me he’s not a big race fan so could I point out the major players so he doesn’t make an ass of himself? I let him know that he found the only other non-Nascar watcher in the room. (I even told him about thinking the race would be over after the cars made it around the loop once.)

And then there was Stick in his tuxedo! He’d gone to dress with his brothers, so the last time I saw him was more of a “Where are my socks?” and “Can I use your shampoo?” mode. Then I saw him all dressed up and hot and… ok, that’s enough. (In case you’re wondering, I wore a pretty blue dress that I got in clothes-swap with a stripper.)

When I called my folks after we landed back in Hartford, my sister asked how I was doing, and I said I had a really great time. There was a pause, and then I added the neccessary qualifier. “No, really, Bethie, I’m not being sarcastic,”

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Weird Friends

Posted on December 12, 2004 by Meg

My friend Allison’s boyfriend proposed to her when they were on the Kissing Bridge at a Renn Faire… wearing color co-ordinated garb.

I’m not mocking Renn faires, really. I like the shows, the food, the flirty boys and the knife-throwing competition. Actually, I like everything about going to a fair except the ubiquitous Renn Accent. If you’ve been to a fair, you know what I mean, it’s half Olliver Twist and half speech impediment. I don’t get it.

Anyway, Allison and her boyfriend, sorry, I mean her fiance, thought it would be great to have a Renn wedding. Oh, did I somehow forget to mention that Allison is pagan? So each bridesmaid gets to dress in renn garb, in the colors of an element.

I’m Air. No, I don’t know why, Allison started to tell me about my aura but I wasn’t really listening. She wants me to choose fabric that seems like air, but won’t let me go naked. She also won’t let Mama Hoffmann make me a dress out of bubble wrap.

Allison assures us that the money spent on these clothes isn’t wasted since we’ll get to wear the outfits every time we go to a Renn faire. (Personally, I think the bubble-wrap dress would be more cost effective, but she STILL said no.)

Allison’s punk little sister (Fire) asked if she could dye her hair red. Eric and Anna, both engineers, both Earth, wanted to build a rock costume, with camouflage and moving parts.

Poor Allison looked at us as though she’d been cursed with WEIRD friends.

(I don’t think we’ll tell her that Stick isn’t getting a tux or garb for the wedding. He’s going to dress as the Spanish Inquisition.)

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Cretan Art and Gamer Boys

Posted on December 4, 2004 by Meg

I’m doing a research project on Minoan seals, specifically on mythical monsters on Minoan seals. I was explaining this to someone at UMSFS, who comes back with the not-terribly-original question of how that benefits me. Exactly what use is that to me? And who cares about fanciful animals on tiny Cretan gems?

I am about to respond with my ever-ready six-and-a-half minute speech on the values of a classical background and the relevance of antiquity to the present day when bio-major Tom unexpectedly comes to my rescue.

“Mythological animals are relevent for gamers.” he says, “There’s Griffon Games in Greenfield. And isn’t that your boyfriend’s store?”

“Yeah,” I say, gearing up for my speech, but various gamers who have been watching my defence of Minoan art throw in their opinions.

“There’s Modern Myths!”

“And Dragon’s Lair,”

“And Phoenix Games,”

“Exactly,” I say, “See, if I didn’t know the difference between them, I could end up in the wrong one. And if I walked into Phoenix Games and started kissing the proprietor, things would get very messy.”

There is dead silence as the room processes just how useful Minoan seals can be in one’s romantic life.

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Cyberlore

Posted on November 16, 2004 by Meg

On Saturday night, Stick wanted me to go to the Cyberlore 12th anniversary party with him.  It was in the Cyberlore offices, they have a cool loft-y space anyway. One room was blacklit DDR, another was just booze in coolers, Donkey Congo was set up in another, there was a big pile of Playboy stuff for raffles, and the party was catered with this awesome west indian food. Everyone who was there was either a Cyberlore programmer, designer, tester (or the date of one of those, of course) so it was hardly the typical work party.

The only problem was that I thought it would be a regular work party so I wore a loose black blouse, so I was a little overdressed. It’s not like gamers notice. When I was waiting for another shot at Donkey Congo, I noticed into an overdressed girl who seemed to be on her own, and I immediately pegged her as a girlfriend who thought it was normal work party, too. Plus she was alone, which I read as her date was off talking to his work friends. So I smiled, and asked how she knew these guys.

“From work,” was her tense answer.

Oh, no! She’s probably a programmer or a designer and I just made the annoying assumption that a girl must be a date! This is extra obnoxious coming from me, because I play games, and I used to program, and also one of the designers for the Playboy game is a woman. And if a geek girl like me makes an assumption like that, she must have gotten that kind of attitude all night! I mentally forgive her the laconic reply, and ask if she wants in on our next game of Donkey Congo. She declines, and I really hope I haven’t mortally offended her.

I’d never played Donkey Congo before, the best way I can describe it is like DDR for your hands. The object is to clap and beat out a rhythm, following the symbols on the screen. It’s amazing how many combinations you can make with four players, who can each play right hand, left hand, both, clap. I am the un-musical one in the family, but I didn’t think it would be that hard to clap when the little symbols say so. It’s actually quite challenging when you’re tipsy and laughing hard.

I think the best part of the night was when Stick’s co-workers said things like “You must be Meg” or “I’ve heard a lot about you” followed by something like “How’s your English class?/How’s the driving going?/Want to come to our games night next weekend?” That means he talks about me at work a lot! (I think he likes me!)

Later, one of Stick’s friends said we’ve got to meet someone, and introduced us to the overdressed girl from earlier! She’s a Bunny (or is it a Playmate?) that Playboy sent for the party! I feel like the ultimate dork, I met a Playmate and I asked her to play videogame bongos with me.

Do I actually have LOSER over my head, or does it just feel like that?

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Goodbye Professor Antioch

Posted on November 14, 2004 by Meg

On Friday I went to Prof. Antioch’s memorial service, it was at the bar of the Lord Jeff, which is somehow quite appropriate. I went with Marcus, and we got an odd look from Magistra. See, Magistra knew that I used to date him and also that he lives with Becky now and I’m seeing Stick (you following all that? and people think classicists are dull) but she didn’t say anything because it wasn’t really appropriate. Although I know of at least one pick-up from that night… And no, it wasn’t me.

It was weird for me because when I got the chance to work on the mosaic, I wanted to tell Prof. Antioch about it, he was my Roman Arch. teacher, also he was very interested in Antioch (that’s why I’m calling him that) and my mosiac is from Antioch. But obviously I couldn’t tell him, and I can never tell him.

Then I got blitzed with my favorite teachers so I felt better. Prof. Neapolean had been off last semester because his wife was having a baby, so I hadn’t seen him in a bit. I love him to pieces, I adored his Age of Augustus class! I think I am going to take the Aeneid with him next fall, although only a masochist would sign up for that much homework. Anyway, he said named his daughter Claudia! The whole table pointed out that that’s a good Roman name. “That’s a family name,” Prof. Neapolean insisted. “If you’re an early emperor,” I agreed. (That’s another reason why Stick and I shouldn’t get married, you need someone to tell you that you cannot name your son Marcus Tullius and your daughter Lucretia.)

Kathryn from Greek Arch. was there too, and she looked like she was going to cry when Prof. Rex was eulogizing Prof. Antioch, but Prof. Marathon made us all laugh afterwards. It was weird to see Prof. Rex so upset… Then Prof. Woodsman told us a joke to which the punchline was “The vocative L in ancient Sumerian,” and we all had another drink. (Except Marcus, he quit drinking. I don’t know if Antioch’s death had anything to do with it) The memorial was actually REALLY fun, everyone was a classicist or archeologist so when there was chit-chat it was about dating mediterrean pottery or translating linear B.

I think that’s how I want to be remembered. I’d like to get my near & dear to have a few drinks and talk about good times… and dead Romans, of course. One day, Stick’s father said that he wants a foozball table set up over his casket. I was a little creeped out at the time, but now I think I get it.

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Massachusetts Liberals

Posted on November 5, 2004 by Meg

In case you missed www.kerryhatersforkerry.com and www.johnkerryisadouchebagbutImvotingforhimanyway.com, let me explain my position on the election. I want gay marraige, I want legal, accessible abortions and I don’t think we should send American teenage boys to fight and kill Middle Eastern teenage boys.But most importantly, I want a president who speaks in complete sentences and knows the meaning of the words he uses.

So on Tuesday, November 2nd, I left work early, picked up my voter-registration letter and after only getting a little bit lost, found the library where the residents of Castle Von Hoffmann were assigned to vote. I am a card-carrier for more than one local library, but I’d never seen this one. New England is full of these tiny libraries, a couple thousand volumes and a full-time staff of one. Picturesque and fun, but no place to park. When this happens, I am often reminded of a Michael Moore anecdote. The young Moore was on his way to class at his local community college but found his assigned lot full. He looked around for a parking space, and when he couldn’t find one, he drove home and told his parents he was dropping out of school.

There was a heckler outside the library who was telling people not to bother voting, that the last election was rigged and our votes don’t count anyway. I wondered why he didn’t have work or class or something better to do with his Tuesday. Then I wondered what happpened to me, that I saw a young man spending a day doing what he believes so strongly in and my first thought was so negative. Is this what getting bitter and cynical feels like? Is this how it starts? Will I soon be telling the anti-war protesters to get off the town common and get a job?

Of course, I have a classicist’s view on recent events. I imagine this is what Ovid and Virgil were thinking when Augustus became consul for the third or fourth consecutive time. Sometimes I hear Bush speak, and I imagine Augustus invoking Roman myth and the mos maiorum. But, I’m a classics student, so I miss out on a lot of modern events in favor of homework. When the Red Sox won the world series, I was studying archeology. As the state tallies came in last night, I was doing Latin verbs. This is said with total joy — when Bush stole his first election, I was pouring coffee for truckers. I am so happy to be be doing Latin verbs and archeology homework instead!

I did finish in time to watch Jon Stewart, the hero of all hip, smart twenty-somethings, with my roommate Kristine. Kristine and I are both graduating this spring, she wants to study swamp things and I’m more into dead Romans. On Monday, we discovered we are both considering grad schools in Florida, with an hour of each other! But on Tuesday, we discussed further education in Canada.

This morning Kerry conceded, before all the votes were tallied. Come on, Mr. Not-Bush, I drove in the dark AND parrallel parked for you!

I did find a neat little library, but I better check it out soon, before it loses funding and closes.

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My Mother’s Daughter

Posted on November 2, 2004 by Meg

It’s finally time for me to admit it. I’m my mother’s daughter. Usually women have to wait until they have kids or a husband to realize they’re turning into their mothers, but I got a jump on the game. My mom likes to tell the story about when I was four and she was leaving her job at a craft supply shop. As we drove away on the last day, I turned to my mom and asked “What are we going to do for our new job, Mommy?”

I was reminded of this last week, when I took a day off of my job selling art supplies, to interveiw at an art museum. (In case my mom forgot to tell you the story, “our new job” ended up being in an art museum) I’d reapplied to work on restoring the Antioch mosaic at the Worcester Art Museum, because my mom says if you don’t suceed, you have to try again until you do.

So I got called in for an interveiw, and I was LATE getting there, I called and said I was stuck in traffic which wasn’t true, actually I am just a crappy driver and I got a little lost and I needed to stop for gas and there was a little traffic. When Squeaky and I finally got there, I came clean about my driving issues to the first interveiwer (K) and promised that it wouldn’t happen again, she said she hates driving too and how her daughter makes fun of her because she has to shut off the radio to change lanes. I blinked a few times and asked in a whisper, if her daughter could really change lanes with the radio on, and which ivy league school her obviously genius daughter would be attending.

Then K said “Let’s just do your paperwork now because I’m pretty sure you’ll be offered the hours.” Score!

So then K introduced me to P, and she hadn’t actually seen my resume so she asked me a bunch of questions. It was like a dream sequence, everything that I thought was going to be a problem turned out to be a strength. My scattered interests seemed eclectic instead of just weird. I expected to have to explain that I have no memory for dates but can spot a shift in artistic style from miles away. (It was only recently that I realized that not everyone can do this. And when I was younger I thought Van Gogh and Picasso were adjectives. I suppose you have to live with my mother to get that) Apparently, there’s a lot of controversy regarding dates, so serious scholars use contextual clues.

My bizarre employment history sounded like perfect preparation from this job. One summer I worked as a housepainter, and that translated as “eye for detail, hand-eye coordination, color matching” instead of “needed money”. Part of restoring the mosaic involves matching the colors. I almost failed a driving test by identifying the colors on a traffic light as cranberry, amber and sage. This is a genetic flaw. When I was a kid, the worst fight I ever saw my parents have involved my father calling something blue when it was clearly periwinkle. It turns out that the former curator of Greek and Roman art at WAM became a curator at the Boston MFA, so I knew her name too. No credit for my mom here, I just happened to go on the Best Date Ever at the Boston MFA.

Then I got to go see the vault, and ask lots of questions about their methods and materials and she showed me how I can tell what’s original and what’s reconstruction (and from which reconstruction)! And there’s also a way to tell what’s what by how the materials respond to UV and sometime I can stay after closing and we will look at it with a blacklight! And I start on Friday and it’s so cool!

It was so cool that the first thing I did when I left was call my mom.

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Halloween at Castle Von Hoffmann

Posted on October 31, 2004 by Meg

Halloween At Castle Von Hoffmann

This is Stick’s Greek helmet and my Minoan octopus pumpkin. Bio geek Kristine topped us both with a hanging-upside-down possum, but the pictures didn’t turn out.

11/1/08 Crazy link from WebUrbanist’s nerdy Halloween list. The internet is weird!

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Suspicious Behavior

Posted on October 23, 2004 by Meg

I got pulled over today.I was driving home after work and a motorcycle cop pulled me over for my suspicious behavior. He didn’t actually tell me this, but I think my “suspicious behavior” was driving exactly the speed limit while looking terrfied near Southwest dorms on a game day.

For the record, driving exactly the speed limit and looking absolutely terrified is my normal method of driving. I prefer this to my previous driving style, which is about 15 MPH while slowing down for squirrels and being honked at constantly. And it’s MUCH better than being dependant on the Eric-taxi or the PVTA.

Anyway, the cop pulled me over, asked for my license + registration, gave me a hard time about having had a license for a year and claiming to be twenty-three, asked me a lot of questions about what I was doing and where I was going. Then he made me touch my nose and walk on the white line. It was a bit early for me to start boozing, but it’s a game day at UMass so I suppose he can’t be blamed for checking. Fortunately I didn’t have to say the alphabet backwards, ’cause I don’t think I can. Once assured that I was, in fact, driving sober at mid-afternoon, he asked to search my car. I have since been told that a driver doesn’t have to allow a cop to search their car, it’s private property and so forth, but I didn’t know that so I said ok. Besides, I’m not really in the habit of carrying contraband.

Anyway, my beloved car, Squeaky, is ancient and not much works the way it’s meant to work. One of the things that doesn’t work so well is the trunk door… I tried to explain that the officer was welcome to climb over the backseat like I do, but that didn’t go so well so I stood there until he forced it open and found my overdue library books. (Incidentally, my bookbag was in the backseat, and he didn’t open it, although he checked the glove compartment and under the seats) I didn’t get a citation or a ticket or anything since it’s not actually illegal to drive soberly past Southwest.

As a police officer, you need to make a judgement call about which cars are risks, and obviously you’re going to make mistakes a certain percentage of the time. I’d actually rather have random innocent people get stopped than let people drive drunk. But even if we assume that Mr. Cop has an amazing record of pulling over 99 underage DUIs with pot in their gloveboxes, per 1 Meg, he still didn’t need to be an asshole to me. And ending it with something like “sorry, miss, we have to be extra careful today” instead of telling me that I “need to watch myself in the future” would go a long way.

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