I’m at the Indy airport, playing playing Civ 6 on my laptop, and that’s the least nerdy thing happening on the concourse.

So this  popped up in my FB newsfeed, shared by a friend.

My question is, can I rent llamas (or alpacas?) just, you know, because? Without the pesky nuptials? I’d say I was asking for a friend, but we ALL know that I want to take them to a Magic tournament or  the Farmers Market or Sonic or something.

I got a phone call from my parents after the last round of cleaning:
Mom: Did you label a box in the garage “Stupid crap they wouldn’t let me throw away”?
Me: ….that doesn’t sound like something I’d do.
Mom: Laura.
Me: What? You guys labeled a box containing a flip phone with a pull-up antenna, a something MEGABYTE SD card, a coily extension cord for a wall phone, a comb(?!), a camera that requires flash cubes, a modem, a portable cassette player, and mouse with a BALL “Useful Electronics.” I feel like I have the moral high ground here.

I feel like that should be a reality show.

You go through a family’s house and see what you find – you just show the audience and let them vote on whether they think they’re serial killers or hoarders. Because sometimes those are the only two logical options.

I was helping my parents clean up again – more basement / garage stuff.

First, I found a lock of hair tied with a faded ribbon in the bottom of an otherwise empty oldey-timey briefcase.

Next, I found a box labeled “doll parts” sitting next to a machete. A FOR-REALSIES machete!

I looked at my dad, holding the blade aloft, saying “For the vast jungles of Independence?”

Dad laughed and said “No. I just needed it.”

…that was not comforting.

“Needed it?”

“Yeah.”

“….NO. What does that MEAN? Dude, I’m about two seconds from calling – is that guy still doing unsolved mysteries? Imma call him.”

My dad said “Lauraliz, it was for a costume.”

“…I don’t think you’d lure anyone into your van wearing this.  You need a better costume. And chloroform. Where is THAT box?”

So I was in high school debate for four years. And I cannot tell ONE MALE PERSON that without getting the question “were you a master debater?”  Not one. Not ever.

And for the record, yes. I was really good. I earned a Triple Ruby at the time, though I had enough points that when they did the big conversion to a new system I’d actually have been a Quad Ruby.  So……you can, you know, be impressed. Or something.

Anyway.

Occasionally I go back and judge tournaments. Because I can and because they need good judges and because it’s kinda fun.

But. BUT. It also means hanging out with other former debaters. And let’s be clear – WE ARE TERRIBLE.  I mean, just really really insufferable.  We were the WORST when we were self-congratulatory, too-clever-by-half teen assholes quoting Kant and Maslow and Nitezsche. Imagine that, but all grown up – and in many cases, NOT having become an attorney or whatever. In my case – well, I’m not bad. I’m successful (by a certain value of success – good job, own my home, uhm…I have a dog….you know) and relatively well-adjusted. Not everyone gets there.

So I was sitting in the Hospitality Suite, and I recorded some of the nonsense spouted by my fellow ex-debaters.

“I’m a writer at the moment. I was living in Turkey. You know how it is. Now I’m trying to join the military, but there are some impediments to that…”

“I was going to go to law school, but you HAVE to take the LSATs…”

“It’s hard to get a career started when you keep getting fired, you know?!”

Sigh. I kind of hate us.

Dunno if I’ve mentioned it before, but my dad collects rare books. And coins. And stamps. And gaming materials. And…..just stuff.  Mom collects yarn and needlecraft supplies and – look their basement is full of boxes of junk.

So they had a plumbing problem a month or so ago.  That led to another plumbing problem created by the plumbers who went out to fix the first problem. Yet a third plumbing problem – which was now a disaster – resulted from that attempt at a fix.

They finally called me almost a week after all the plumbing stuff.

First, I forbade them to ever use that plumber again – and no, I didn’t care that the company was owned by some kid my mom taught once when she worked at the school.  Next I drove out there to assess the damage.

The water had seeped up through the carpet into boxes that held some of Dad’s books, which had caused those to fall over, sending more books into the water – you get the idea. It was a mess. But I vowed to help them clean stuff up and re-box everything and set it up so that it would be less likely to happen again.  I’ve been going out there once a week on Saturdays for just that.

I’m going to catalog some of the things I find. Because……you’ll see. Basically, I think that the experience will help shed light on the dark carnival that spawned the person I am today.

For example:

Dad: Do we want this box of vhs tapes and cassettes?
Me: No.
Dad: they’re store-bought.
Me: No.
Dad: Bobbie, are you going to fight us on this?
Me: No, she’s not. *covers mom’s mouth* ‘throw them away, Chuck.’
Mom: I want to give them to a woman at work!
Me: unless she has a time machine or just got here from 1987, she doesn’t want them!
Mom: Its for in her car.
Me: …. She better drive a DeLorean.

I stopped in at a bakery the other day to get a couple of desserty things. As I was paying, the girl asked me if I wanted to try the Southern Pecan bar samples – and OF COURSE I said “YES!” I had just popped it in my mouth when she pointed at my shirt and said “Oh! Is that Lord of the Rings?” I nodded and made an affirmative sort of noise.

Holy cow was this pecan bar good!

Then she says “Yeah, I thought so. It’s that elf guy, right?”

I again nodded and smiled and made a noise – both because she was right and because the caramelly, nutty yumminess was amazing. Then she said “Yeah! Thorin…din? Legolas’ brother.”

I stopped chewing, my mouth suddenly full of ashy sadness. I now had to either keep eating this delightful confection and let her wrongess stand, or… I took the only real action open to me. I swallowed. “Thranduil. Elvenking. Ruler of Greenwood the Great. Legolas’ dad. Uhm….thanks.” I took another sample.

Here’s the shirt, if you’re curious: http://www.teefury.com/king-in-the-woodland-realm

So it’s been a bit since my last post – mostly because of Planet Comicon.  That’s the local Kansas City pop culture convention that’s sort of like the San Diego mega-show but on a much more modest scale.

I went dressed as Agent Carter with a friend who was dressed as a classic BSG Cylon.  

I was his handler because, well, he needed one. It’s probably pretty obvious that visibility is not a premium in that suit, and he also had the “whom whom” cylon eye sound effect playing such that hearing wasn’t great. The upshot was that he was basically a walking bowling pin and would have probably killed himself and maybe others if I (or my equivalent) hadn’t been there to help him out. As a bonus I got to boot children out of the way if they dove in front of him or tried to hug his legs – so WIN.

It was a BLAST.  There were a few goofy moments, though, if I am being honest.

1. 1. So yeah – I am wearing a big red hat.  For the record, I LOVE this hat.  I’ll probably wear it just because.  Also, I may well become a hat-wearer as a result of this hat. BUT, here’s the thing.  People are terrible and apparently don’t know the difference between pop culture figures who wear red hats.  The cylon, being funny, said the hat would be great and easy for him to follow, and called me Carmen Sandiego before we got started – knowing full well who I was. I gave him a look.  I am well known for my looks. One friend calls this particular look “The Eye of Sauron.” Cylon laughed at it, because my looks don’t do much once you’re used to them, and the Cylon gets my looks a LOT. But he understood that I was not best pleased. He just didn’t care. Which is fine. Unfortunately, when we got to the entrance of the convention center, the VERY FIRST person who wanted his photo (and we’ll come back to that HIS photo thing) said “Hey! It’s CARMEN SANDIEGO! Someone found her!” I looked at the Cylon – who I had taken to calling Cylon Gary (it’s a YouTube show from the 90s – check it out if you’ve not seen it) – and just said “Don’t. Just, don’t.” This was more than a look. It was also a tone. Sadly, my tones also have very little effect on Cylon Gary at this juncture. So, more laughter. His stupid armor was shaking he was laughing so hard. Idiot. Anyway, so I got called Carmen Sandiego two more times there, which was three times too many. Gary wouldn’t let me throat punch people. Stupid Cylon.
2. It was sort of an “always a bridesmaid” experience. People would come up and ask “Hey! Can I get your picture?” I would say “Sure!” because Gary didn’t even know we’d been asked a question. And then they would say “Oh….I meant just the Cylon…” Of course they did. Now, that made it all the sweeter when someone said “OHMYGOSHAGENTCARTER!!!! Can I please get a picture with you!” And that DID occasionally happen. Just not with the same frequency as did “WOW! That Cylon is AMAZING!” But honestly it was super fun and awesome to walk around with such a great and popular costume.
3. I discovered I am STUPID. Like, just, irredeemably DUMB.  I honestly believed that my problem as I decided to start dating and whatnot would be making a string of TERRIBLE CHOICES.  That my friends would need to follow me around like I was a toddler in some sort of nightmarish childproof testing facility shouting “NONONONO! Take that out of your mouth! That is NOT for you! Put that down! You do NOT want that!” Turns out it’s more likely they will have to place me bodily in front of eligible dating candidates and helpfully murmur “Go on, honey, tell him your name.” I was working at a booth where we were giving away books to promote sci-fi and fantasy literacy and interest, which was AMAZING. This guy came up to the booth with who I thought was his girlfriend. He was super cute and age appropriate and had a master’s degree and was adorable – but I honestly thought, again, that he had a girlfriend. So I wasn’t even thinking about romance. He asked if I would be there all day. I gave him the normal spiel about taking two books now and coming back later for more because we would not remember him. He nodded, looking confused, and asked again if I would be there later. I honestly thought “Wow. What an idiot. He’s not getting that he can have more books!” So I explained again, with more clarity. About the books. And laughed and joked because that is what I do. Then he shook his head and said “Will you be here tomorrow?” I said “Oh! We’ll be here all weekend.” He said “But will YOU be here tomorrow?” I said “Oh, yeah – but I won’t be HERE here because I’ll be dressed as Agent Carter and helping my friend dressed as a Cylon -Oh! You should look for us, because the Cylon costume is AMAZING!” He said “Oh. Okay. I will do that. But will you be back on Sunday?” “Oh, yeah – definitely. Not sure what time though.  And you can totally get more books!”  Eventually he wandered off, no doubt thinking I was the biggest idiot ever. One of the women at the booth walked up going “That was so CUTE! The way he was hitting on you!” What with the WHAT now?  And then I replayed the whole thing in my head, and realized the girl with him looked a LOT like him, and maybe he would not have teased his girlfriend about being stupid….  OH MY GAWD. So….yeah.  Idiot.

I have probably mentioned at some point previously that I am in a writing group. If not – well, I’m in a writing group.

The group has been together much longer than most writing groups last. Most such creative collectives implode due to “creative differences” after between 12 and 18 months. We’ve been together for nearly a decade. Technically, some of us have been together longer, but the group under its current name will celebrate its ten-year anniversary in September.

There were six of us who were members of another group first. That group was populated by us, plus Dr. Phil (no relation), Martha, and Becky – the leader. We were content with the other group until,  well, Becky went full goose gone-zo crazy one meeting and kicked out one of the six. For asking a question. So the six of us said “uhm…wut?”  And we got told that if we asked questions, we were out, too.  So we said “okeydoke” and left. We invited Dr. Phil and Martha, but they thought that Becky was the better option (no clue), and stuck with her. That group imploded about a year later.

A guy named Jeff ran our splinter group. We almost immediately added about six more people. Jeff continued to helm the group for about two years until his kids reached that age where they did ALL the things – soccer and robot camp and whatever, so then he decided to step down and hand the reins to someone else. The someone else he chose was me. He bequeathed the group to me.

I did not want it.

See, running a writing group is like being a cat herder, ringmaster, and glorified playground monitor. But not as glamorous.

People worry about weird shit.

And they tell you about it.

In emails. And texts. And occasionally in passive-agressive post-its left on your notebook or purse for you to find a week later when you go to pay the water bill.

But Jeff insisted that I was the perfect candidate for the job. Also he threatened to give it to this other guy – Joe – if I did not take it. That would have been BAD.  He did that on purpose. Because Jeff is a nice guy, but also a manipulative weasel.  And for the record, Joe is also awesome.  But terrifying. Not really warm fuzzy. And he plays the accordion. You see my dilemma.

So I took it.

And the group has been under my…..uhm….direction? Ever since. I don’t do anything except keep the whole thing from going up in flames, though.  Truly.  All I do is smooth over disputes and make sure we have somewhere to meet and make sure we have people’s work to be read and get us tables at conventions and answer PR questions from newspapers who hear about us and pay any dues to websites and write copy for our pages and….yeah.  Okay.  So maybe I do stuff.

But I do it because I love these guys.  Most of them are family at this point.  Even the newest ones who have become regulars.  Some are literal family – my cousin (who is more like a brother) is a member. The rest are family because we’ve become so close that I can’t imagine not seeing them as often as I do.

But I think it’s easy to forget how much people mean to you or how much they care by virtue of just seeing them all the time.

But these idiots reminded me the other night.

I had to miss a meeting.

I don’t do that.

I have not missed ONE meeting since 2012 when I stopped teaching adjunct courses. Not one. But I am working on a conference presentation for an event in August, and I needed to do some prep work with a colleague, so I did.

Now, I am a BIT persnickety about where I sit at meetings. I have a chair. I like that chair. It’s MY chair. Well, it’s less the chair than it is the SPOT where the chair sits. Once, more than four years ago, the last time I was gone, Byron sat in my chair. He SHOULD NOT have done that. It’s been forgiven. Mostly. No, truly. I think.

But anyway, that’s in the past. The POINT is, that this time, Maddie asked “Who gets to sit in your chair. I responded, and I quote, “NO ONE SITS IN MY CHAIR.”

I fully anticipated this would generate some silliness.

What I did NOT expect was to be greeted the next morning by a parade of photos depicting a Murder on the Orient Express-esque crime of defilement against that innocent piece of furniture. They even got our regular waitress to pose with the chair. I had no idea some of our members were that limber.

As I laughed (and cringed) my way through the pictures, though, I realized how very much these weirdos meant to me. How lost I would be without them. And how much I needed them to care about me enough to screw with me this diabolically. Thank god for sick, twisted, horrible people who love you enough to fuck with you like my writing peeps do me. But seriously – someone needs to clean that chair….