Moving Day or Look! Ghosts! Run Away!

It's so strange how quickly a place you call home can turn into a white painted box. As I've been removing art and swords from my walls, my house has felt less and less like mine. It's really odd, this feeling of being completely rudderless and totally displaced. I've never had this happen before during a move. A woman and her munchkin were coming over to look at the place as I was leaving for a run the other day, and it crushed me. It was a shock, thinking that the site of so many milestones was about to become someone else's. Those of you who keep up with my blog know that, in between my geek news and odd collection of show biz events and nerd girl arguments, I sometimes mention my real life. (Believe me, my job is not real life.) Something hit me today that I wanted to pass on, and this seemed like the best place to do it.

Me in my yard with my sword. What? Don't you have one? 

I've lived in this house for four years now. It's little and cute and had a yard (my first since I was a kid) and I loved it. I moved in here with my ex-husband and actually discussed buying it. I thought it was mine, you know? That my weird-ass life was finally going to have some stability. It's not that I like anything normal or the idea of settling down in any way, believe me, but one thing grounding me would allow me to go off and act like a crazy person in every other area of my life. Then came the tidal wave.

 I've chronicled the divorce in an earlier post, and I have no wish to revisit that. It was ultimately a very, very, very good thing, and life changing in brilliant and magical ways, but I'll tell you, the agonizing process of working my way through it is frakking splattered all over these walls like blood stains. I remember wandering from room to room for hours, trying to find one single inch of this place that didn't remind me of what I'd lost. I threw things out that reminded me of him and us. I moved the furniture. My parents came out and stayed with me for weeks while I tried to forget the visual of him moving his shit out of the house, incidentally while I was on the phone collaborating about my very first comic book and trying not to throw up from the shock. I worked so hard on getting over everything in a healthy way (and I was phenomenally brutal with myself) that I practically repainted these walls with a stronger version of myself.

My former roomie Jaime's earlier and similar experience with the same thing helped. So did having someone else in here to talk to. When she finally moved out (and into the home of her sweetie, which is wonderful), I was left alone to "repaint." Once again, I was starting to feel normal. Then another explosion. I lost my job and my appendix blew up and I almost died on my den floor.

My wonderful Fionnie

Why yes, you are right. I should start carrying around four leaf clovers, nail horseshoes to my wall, stop stepping under ladders, breaking mirrors etc. I should never say the name of the Scottish play and stop being a vegetarian for New Year's Day so I can eat all the good luck corned beef I can hold.

Many of you read about the appendix thing in my memorial to Fionnie, but here it is in a nutshell. I thought I had food poisoning for 12 hours, during which I watched Downton Abbey, because what else do sick people do? Matthew and Lady Mary soothed me enough to finally sleep, after which I tried to eat a single bite of pizza. Then KABLAM! (everything that happens in my life should have a comic book sound effect), it burst. It took me 45 minutes to crawl to my phone to call 911. I kept passing out and my pup kept waking me up. I had my head on the floor boards, thinking that the wood pattern was the last thing I was going to see in the world. I screamed into them over and over until someone finally came to get me. Don't laugh at the overly artsy language here, because I swear to you, I said this to myself as I was crawling, but I felt like I was laying down a carpet of agony (and possibly fluids of some sort) as I slid across the floor. Okay, go ahead and laugh, but it's true, and I think about it every single time I walk past that spot.

 I lost my pet python Obie in this house. I lost my lovely little tabby cat Bee. I lost my funny little rat Millie. And as many of you know, I lost my best friend Fionnie here, which I wrote about right before it happened. I got the news weeks before, that he was sick and not going to make it, but he seemed to be doing okay. Then the night before WonderCon, I climbed into bed, he hopped up and fell asleep, and then woke up screaming. I knew it was time. I took him in and made the terrible but ultimately easy decision to end his pain. Coming back to this place that night was awful. Dragging each foot up the 32 stairs to my place, knowing I'd never see his sweet face at my door again ... I felt like I was wearing lead boots. My wonderful boyfriend Jeff made the con so easy for me and kept me laughing the whole time, but I knew it was going to hurt like hell when I got home. (Honestly, I wouldn't have gotten through this without him, and I'll never be able to thank him enough for his sweetness through the entire thing.)

My beautiful little Bee

Not a day goes by when I don't look up and expect to see Fionnie, or leave a piece of food on my plate, only to find myself starting to call him over for it. He's in these walls, too, and that makes me tear up every single time I think about it. As Jeff so wisely told me, there are ghosts in this place, and I finally gathered the courage to move. I'm thrilled that I made the decision. I've been forcing myself to throw out worn out old memories and dusty moments as I pack, and it's been cathartic in the extreme. But yesterday I kind of lost it again as I looked at my bare walls and watched that woman walk up my stairs into the site of events in my life, ready to take it over.

The amazing Jeff and I at the Critics' Choice Movie Awards

It hit me then that there were lovely things that happened here, too. I saw Jeff for the first time at the bottom of those stairs. There have been life changing moments here recently. I've sat on this couch in this room as I got my show with Stan Lee, published my comic, booked my pinup and calendar shoots and my appearances on Attack of the Show, got my new job, and so many, many other things. Hell, this was the site of my being stronger than I've even been in my life as I dragged myself out of the abyss I felt like I was falling into. I'm really proud of that. I can't believe I'm saying this, but there are things about this place I'm going to miss. Okay, not the stairs though. They make my butt hurt. A lot.

Nerding out on Attack of the Show

So here is the thing that hit me. (Remember that thing? From about a thousand words ago? I did promise you a thing.) As I carried yet another box of stuff down those stairs (full of items from my honeymoon, Fionnie's old and mungy dog toys and other assorted and painful crap), I remembered something I told a friend when I decided to give up doing makeup and acting and start a new life as a reporter in a new city where I knew no one. You get to re-work your life any time you want.

You can change jobs, add and subtract people from your life, decide what memories you're going to keep and which ones you're going to ... well, not discard, because they're always there, but remove reminders of. And they're all coming with you if you want them to. You can also choose to leave them behind. Like going off to college or moving to a new city or starting a new relationship or career, you get to reinvent yourself and your life. Fionnie is no less with me at the new place than anywhere else, but now I won't have to see the last spot he slept in every day. I can throw out the things I don't want and live without constant reminders. Heck, I can get a new couch. All the things that happened on this one are still there, but now I don't have to look at the claw marks he made or the crumbs that are embedded in the cushions. Also, no more stairs.

 It's going to be nice to make new memories.

Re-reading 'The Hobbit' -- An unexpected journey

Today is the 75th anniversary of the publication of "The Hobbit." In honor of the day, and the upcoming three films, I decided to read it again. When "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy came out, I re-read those books over and over, but somehow, I never got back to "The Hobbit." I read it as a kid, lo these many years ago and I loved it. Shocking, I know. Though I didn't know it at the time, it was the hero's journey that really appealed to me. Someone, plucked out of obscurity and set on a path with every opportunity to prove their worth. Yeah, this appealed to me on more levels that I can explain, but if you look at the choices I've made in my life, maybe you can see how it affected me.

Martin Freeman as Bilbo Baggins with his sword Sting in "The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey."

Anyone who knows me will laugh their asses off at this, but I was kind of shy as a kid. Fantasy novels like "The Hobbit" and Anne McCaffrey's "Dragonsinger" trilogy allowed me to dream of a time when I could shine. It was theater that allowed me to find my extra shiny voice. (Oh, I'll never pass up a "Firefly" reference.) Sure, we weren't fighting Wargs and a dragon, but, like the Dwarves, the Wizard and one little Hobbit, we bonded over some seriously intense time spent together. Later on, I'd attempt to conquer the makeup industry and entertainment journalism. Again, not dragon slaying or saving towns, but personally, it was a pretty powerful journey.

The brand new trailer for "The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey." Watch, and ooh and ah along with me.
I've been through a shit load of drama in the past year, from job loss to divorce to the death of a pet to major surgery. So beginning this book again was a bit daunting for me. Reading it from a far less innocent place made me wonder if I could sympathize with a character who could look forward to an adventure with joy. Sure, Bilbo was worried, but there was a sense of anticipation for the wonders he might see. I thought maybe I'd lost that. At least a little bit.

As I started reading (and continued far, far too late into the night), I realized a few things. First, there is a lack of description that stunned me. I seem to remember it differently. (It's much like "The Chronicles of Narnia" in that way.) As I kid, I must have visualized what I remember being in the book. It was a surprising pleasure to do that again, and to realize that the very act of imagination took me out of the stress of my life and plopped me right back into the child-like mindset I had when I first read it. It was glorious!

Four additional endings for the third trailer for "The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey."
I re-read all about Bilbo's nervousness and worry. The humor of the Dwarves and their constant refrain, "At your service." His cleverness with Gollum. His intelligence and drive. The wonder that he never lost. In the middle of the night, as I started the scene with Smaug the dragon, something hit me. Maybe it seems strange to you all, but it made me want to go on an adventure again. It's been a long time since I've felt that. It gave me the drive to start over, once again and remember why I love what I do and who I am. So, was it the amazing characters Tolkien wrote? The thought of the little guy saving the day? Was it swords and a dragon and a guy who can turn into a bear? (Well, maybe it was a little of that, but ... ) No. In the end, what pulled me up short and made me put down the book (where my bunny promptly started eating it) was the realization that imagining a story was the thing that I was missing.

Emer the bunny thinks Hobbitses are delicious.
Maybe I'm a little more jaded than Bilbo (though he definitely has moments where he'd rather be having tea and toast in his little Hobbit hole than slaying spiders), but there is no reason I shouldn't consider job hunting and getting my ass out of the house to finally exercise after months of recovery and ... gulp ... dating as an adventure. I'm quite certain I've already gone on a date with a Troll. Quite certain. So ... grabbing my sword and off I go. Anyone know any good wizards in need of some work?

It's Okay to Hate Art

I'm about to say something that's either going to make you think I know nothing about culture or feel the need to clap your hands together while you nod in agreement. So here it is. Sometimes artsy is boring. I'm sorry, but it's true. Admit it! Oh, go ahead. I won't judge you. I don't care how much you pretend to love something to make yourself look like you 'get it' or keep people from thinking you're a Neanderthal. Sometimes art can be a snooze fest. I know what I'm talking about here. I have a BFA in Musical Theater. And yes, I know that sentence alone makes me sound pretentious. Trust me. It ends there. Because during my stay at Syracuse University, I failed to see the entertainment value in some of the 'classic' plays I read. Oh, I see the purpose. The intent. The message. I 'get it.' But I'm bored. And no way would I have said any of that to the other students. Even though I know at least half of them were thinking the very same thing. I could hear them snoring in class. I even got a bunch of them to admit it while drunk. (Oh thank the flying spaghetti monster we did NOT have Facebook when I was in college.)

I'm not lying when I say I love Shakespeare. But I am when I say I love 'Waiting for Godot.' Just an example. I understand the themes. I appreciate the meaning. I'm bored out of my skull. I know that's even part of the intent. But you don't EVER say you don't like that play. You immediately look like an idiot. You're uncouth. How could you possibly be an actor and not love every juicy moment of the boredom? How could you possibly be thinking about how much you have to pee and what a bad idea having a giant Diet Coke before the show was?

I love them both. I would be honored if either one of them adopted me. I would pay disgusting amounts of money to see them on stage together. I still hate 'Waiting for Godot.'

Someone loves it. Someone loves everything. I'm a geek...you may have noticed that when you read the title of my blog. I could talk about World of Warcraft and the adorable Murlocs in the Cataclysm beta for hours. Seriously, there are baby ones! I could speak endlessly about the methods I use to build my coffers or what it's like to actually fly over Azeroth. But if you're not into the game, you'd want to shoot yourself in five minutes just to shut me up. Go ahead and ask me about Tudor England, Greek mythology or themes in fairy tales...use the facilities and eat a hearty meal first, because you're not leaving your seat for the next few hours. Ask my sister what happened when she asked me about Mary, Queen of Scots as we drove through Scotland. She may growl at you. What I'm saying is this: it's alright to admit you're not into something. You're not an idiot. You just have other areas of interest.

Trying to convince my sister that this should be my niece's Halloween costume.

So what brought this particular rant on? 'The American.' And believe it or not, I liked it. I swear, I'm not lying. It was beautifully shot. We're talking about an absolute stunner here. And looking at George Clooney for a few hours is hardly a chore. Sure, he's a beautiful man, but he is also a fantastic actor and he handles both the dialogue and the two thirds of the film that are silent...no, I'm not exaggerating...with the ease of a seasoned pro. A lot of the movie-going public is not going to like it, and that's alright. And this is not a review of the film. It just made me think about the poor people who just went in to see Georgie without his shirt on. People who bought into the action film marketing. I imagine them leaving the theater, stunned by the lack of dialogue, but terrified to tell their viewing companion. 'Oh, no! It was wonderful! It was deep...and nice...and, well, deep.'

Oh yes. I know. It's hard to resist hot guys holding puppies. In underpants. Worse than crack.

Please understand, I can spend hours at the Met, dragging my poor friends through endless rooms of paintings and sculpture. I will wax poetic about the Pre-Raphaelites. I will watch a marathon of sub-titled Asian films and bore you to death with commentary on the differences in our entertainment culture. I'll discuss what's wrong with RPG's and why I need to use the One Bag cheat in WoW. I'm an art geek, a movie geek, a geek geek...see what I'm doing? I couldn't help myself. I'm trying to convince you I'm not an idiot. I'm a hipster of sorts, I swear! I wear cool shoes. I like tiny, fancy cupcakes! Me=smart, see?

So, in the end, it doesn't matter if I liked 'The American' or not. All art should be made and seen. And it's good to expose ourselves to everything we can. Try new things. See a French film. Talk to someone at an old age home. Adopt a puppy. Try that slimy thing on the menu at a new restaurant. Go to a museum. With me. Because I haven't been in a while and I need someone to listen to me babble about Waterhouse. Just admit it if you're not into it. And don't judge anyone else if they tell you the same thing. I cannot begin to count the number of people who have come out of a screening with me, talking about how much they loved a film, when the day before, they were railing against the very same thing. Since that screening, close friends have told me, in hushed voices of course, that they were bored, but afraid to tell anyone. Not the first time that has happened.

I love Waterhouse with the passion of a teenager's anger at the world. (Does that make me sound artsy?)

I'll still love you, even if you vehemently disagree with me in the comments section of my review of 'Pillars of the Earth.' I don't think your parents will disown you if you didn't love 'Inception.' I won't stop talking to you if you're a Twilighter. Um, can someone help me down off my soap box now?

It's about time...

OK. I give up. I'm doing what you asked. I'm pretty much a freelance whore and I write for a thousand different websites anyway. I might as well have my own blog, right? And just imagine...I can let the world know what's going on in the land of geek in more than 140 characters!



For those of you who don't know how very geeky I am, here's the background. As one of the only girls in my neighborhood, I spent a lot of time with boys. (This hasn't changed, actually.) Sure, I had Barbies. If I deny it, someone will no doubt produce a picture of me holding one. But my true love was Star Wars. I wanted to be Princess Leia. I wanted to kick some ass! My dad brought home an Atari 2600 and I spent countless hours becoming the Frogger champion of my household. When Transformers (the toys, not the crappy film) came out, I begged my Mom to get me Soundwave. And yes, I played Dungeons & Dragons. I own scores of 20-sided dice. I even have one you can write your own numbers on. I read dragon books, I play World of Warcraft...get the picture?



I started out as an actor, and spent years as a makeup artist. I spent large portions of my day talking to my cast mates/co-workers about Cylons and why Firefly should have lasted forever. I got a lot of "uh, you don't look the type," and "you sound like a 15-year-old boy." Then one day I was given the opportunity to write for UGO. I got to review movies (mostly in the geeky realm), interview celebrities (Jon Favreau was an early fav), write about video games and comic books...all my geekiness was finally legit! And I even got paid a teensy tiny bit for it.

So here's the deal with the blog. I'll be recording my geeky musings, talking about what it's like to do this very bizarre, low-paying, but dream-fulfilling job, and linking to my writing and video pieces. And I'm warning you now, I have a very dirty sense of humor. If you don't believe me, check out my guest spot on the JoBlo Movie Podcast: http://www.joblo.com/joblo-podcast-38

Geek on!