Wil Wheaton, Martha Stewart, and Lady MacBeth Get On a Bus...

Just some random goodies that were too short to be included as regular blog posts...

Toronto Comicon: crowded, crowded place.

WESLEY CRUSHER BULLYING

I had a dream the other night that I was really mean to Wil Wheaton and made him cry. I'm not sure what he did to piss me off, and I'm not sure what I said that made him cry, but I woke up feeling bad because somehow I couldn't shake the feeling this would mean he'd never hang out with me in real life. Sorry, Wesley.

MARTHA IS ALREADY MARTHA

I have had a mantra since getting separated last year: Be the Martha Stewart of divorce. But then I found out that Martha Stewart is already divorced, so I guess that already makes her the defacto Martha Stewart of divorce. So now I'm feeling a bit rudderless. I guess I can settle for being the Bridget Jones of divorce (clumsy and social awkward? Check!), or maybe the Niles Crane of divorce (you know, from Fraser...neurotic and OCD). Or maybe I'll be Martha Stewart Lite, since there's no way I can keep up with her post-divorce crafting-baking-cleaning-cooking-home-decoring schedule.

SOMETHING ROTTEN AT COMICON

Unshakable desire to scrub my skin off.

I went to Toronto Comicon last weekend. It was really overwhelming. I don't mind crowds but when the numbers are well into the tens of thousands, sometimes I crack a little. Anyway, the first morning of the con I went out for a smoke, fighting through the crowds to escape for a minute, and when I came back I decided I should pee before going back in. So I did. And then I stood up and realized that some other chick had totally gotten a surprise visit from Aunt Flo. All over the toilet seat. The toilet seat that I'd just sat on. I stood there for the longest time making hyperventilating gasping sounds while my brain tried to turn off the wailing OCD sirens that were going off. I don't remember if I pulled up my leggings, but I know I stumbled over to the row of sinks, made up some hot soapy paper towels, and scoured myself like Lady MacBeth. Then I went back to the con and told MJ what had happened and we both agreed we would never speak of it so that my brain could cut the experience out of my memory forever. But it didn't work. So now it's in YOUR head, too. You're welcome.

ALZHEIMERS ON A BUS

I was taking the bus home from work this week and the sun was still up, thanks to Daylight Savings (where we all turn our clocks ahead an hour). Anyway, everything was going fine but then I realized it had been so many months since I'd seen my neighbourhood in daylight coming home that I didn't know where I was. I recognized absolutely nothing. I hesitated and decided to stay on the bus 'til the end of the route, like my brother had once done on the school bus; but then luckily I recognized a sign for nearby Burnett Park and got off the bus at the right stop. Which leads me to my next odd thought: is this park named after Mark Burnett? Every time I see the little play structure there, I picture some sort of Lord of the Flies-style Survivor episode transpiring with little children. A gruesome TV show idea that I'd probably end up watching, because sometimes you just can't stop yourself. You know: the same way you finished reading the story above about the toilet seat.