On the anxiety tip:

“Who knew that, all this time, when people were talking about a panic attack, what they really meant was a nonstop rocket-sled ride to hell itself, where your soul gets sucked through a straw by demons?”

I know it’s meant to be at least somewhat humorous, and it is, but it’s also pretty true to form. Except that when I have the bad panic attacks, those innocuous things like lamps and rugs aren’t just horrifying in an unspecifiable way, but are morphing into monstrosities like in a bad acid trip, and they’re coming to get me. Fun stuff.

I didn’t finish Torchwood until Tuesday night, and…well, I was gutted.

Here’s the thing – I’m on some new medication, it’s basically speed, and it’s been making me cranky and irritable and short-tempered and emotional and weepy – tons of fun. On top of that, I’m PMSing. I don’t know when PMS became such a problem for me – back in the day, it was like, “PMS? What’s that?” Now, I definitely get it, and I definitely get the emotional symptoms, and it’s just rough. Add the new meds in, and it’s even worse. I totally hulked out Monday – it was fucking awful. I finally took some klonopin and calmed down, figured if I just was more aware of my moods, and paid more attention to being calm and relaxed, I could deal with this.

Yeah, not so much.

So, a friend of mine watched Torchwood long before I did, maybe even read the spoilers, I don’t remember – point is, she knew what happened. And she knows I’m usually a spoiler queen, but lately I’ve been lazy and bad about reading up on my spoilers, so I was unspoiled for Torchwood, and she… I don’t know. I don’t know what she was thinking, and I don’t want to talk about it because I am still pissed. Alot of it Tuesday night was PMS and the new meds, and being blindsided by all the fucking heartbreaking stuff that happened – but even now, that I’ve had some time to chill out, am laying off the new meds until the PMS is done (per doctor’s suggestion), gotten some distance, whatever, I’m still pretty fucking pissed. Because she was all, “Promise me you won’t read the spoilers. It’s good, but it’ll be even better if you’re unspoiled.” And I guess by “good,” she didn’t mean, you know, good shit happens and there’s a happy ending, but that’s not the extent of the discussion, just an example/sum-up, and I kind of feel a little like I was deliberately misled about what sort of thing happened so I wouldn’t read spoilers. If you haven’t seen it yet and don’t want to be spoiled, well, better stop reading right now. So, I basically said, several times, “Cool, I won’t read spoilers if you think it’s even better that way – all I care about really is Ianto. They don’t fuck with Ianto and Jack, right? Nothing happens to Ianto, and they don’t bring up the whole bullshit Ianto-Jack-Gwen triangle crap again, right?” And I was either told (for some of that – like the love triangle) or allowed to believe (for the rest of it) that Ianto was fine, Jack and Ianto were fine. Jack won’t admit he and Ianto are a couple, I start getting antsy, but whatever – so-and-so knows what happens and she wouldn’t have said/implied they were fine if they weren’t, right? I guess I was also assuming she remembered how badly I took it when Owen and Tosh died. Maybe she’d forgotten that. Anyway, they fucking killed Ianto. They fucking killed Ianto, and in his death scene, he’s all, “I love you, Jack. Don’t forget me.” And Jack can’t even say “I love you” back? That’s not the Jack I know. Some people might argue, so I won’t go so far as to say it’s character assassination, but I was mighty disappointed. Nonetheless, I’m sitting there, finishing out Children of Earth because my friend told me Ianto was okay, so surely they’ll fix this somehow, right? At this point, I’m only crying a little, sniffling every once in a while – and I even turn to Greg (who was on the couch with me at this point) and am like, “Honestly, I don’t care if they’re just like, ‘Ianto and Jack had so much sex that some of Jack’s stoopid magickal resurrection powers somehow magically got into Ianto and oh look, he’s not really dead.’” Totally meant it. Totally convinced he wasn’t dead for good.

End of Children of Earth: Ianto’s dead for good. Jack’s betrayed his daughter and killed his grandson (which, yes, was kind of necessary to save Earth’s children, but still shitty). Gwen’s the only remaining member. Torchwood Hub’s blasted to bits. And Jack’s running away to the far reaches of the galaxy. Oh, and I am crying hysterically, like someone real (not just a tv character) died. Or, you know, like a lady that’s PMSing and on speed, basically, and whose emotions are way off, and whose single favorite character in a tv show she’s actually quite attached to just got killed off for good, and for no good reason. Why? So Russell T. Davies can jerk his audience around? Like that shitty-ass scene in Se7en. Or like anytime bitches on any other shows (that I care about, but care about less than I do Torchwood) start talking about how they’re not opposed to killing off “important” characters, because…I don’t know, it’s edgy, and it mixes things up, or they want to prove that they’re daring or some ridiculous bullshit like that. Or because they want a “game-changer.” Fuck that, I hate it.

Anyway. They killed Ianto, and he was my absolute favorite character on this show from the beginning. I know, I’m supposed to like Jack (and I do, or…did before CoE, or still do but not as much, I don’t know), or Gwen. But I loved Ianto. He *was* Torchwood for me. Well, him and Myfanwy. If I had read the spoilers, I would not have watched at all. And if I did watch, it wouldn’t have been Tuesday – I was in absolutely the worst mindset for it, and I was fucking heartbroken. Heartbroken! Over a tv show, yes, but still. I thought Torchwood wasn’t done yet, and that there’d be more episodes next year – I don’t know how they can go on after this. And even worse (as a totally shameless Doctor Who/Torchwood fan with a Seal of Rassilon tattoo/badge of geekdom), if they do go on, I’m pretty sure I won’t be watching. I’m done.

I just wish I’d read the spoilers, and then I wouldn’t have watched, and my last memories of Torchwood wouldn’t have been totally happy (Owen and Tosh died), but they wouldn’t have been this sad. And this is why I read spoilers – not really because I’m too curious not to, which is a part of it, but mainly because, if I’m in the wrong mindset, shit can fuck me up for a long time. Smilla’s Sense of Snow – not even a sad movie, but the setting, the lighting, it’s just so *dark* visually, that it depressed me; I couldn’t get enough light for days after. So whenever we go see a movie, or I get something from Netflix or on demand, I read up on it first to see what I’m getting into. If it’s something I have to be in the right mindset to get through, then I don’t watch it until I’m ready. So, yeah, that’s the absolute last time I will go spoiler-less into something I care about, or something that has the ability to fuck me up so badly. (Pretty sure I can withstand Kathy Griffin’s My Life on the D-List without spoilers – I love every episode, and it’s all good, and even when she’s taking on serious shit like PropH8 and talking about Matthew Shepard, I’m not in the fetal position in bed afterwards bawling like a baby and then still upset days later. Something like Fringe or Supernatural? I’ll check the spoilers just because they could present something that would upset my anxiety if I thought about it too much, or if it was too scary for me, and I am a wuss. But I should’ve known better with Torchwood, especially after Owen and Tosh, and even after the heartbreak on DW with Donna, which I’m still ill over, and they better do something about that. I hear Wilfrid’s going to be a companion for an episode, maybe two. I know they can’t return Donna’s memories, and I’m sure they won’t bother to figure out some way to reunite her with her husband-dude, but goddamn, just throw her a bone. Throw *me* a bone. One of the awesomest companions of all time, and this is what she gets. While whiny-ass Rose gets to marry a Doctor-clone? Fuck. You.)

Anyway, more than enough blathering on about a tv show. But, I hate you bitches for killing Ianto. I’m still mad about it, and still mad about being led to believe he’d be okay, and for going into this shit spoilerless at totally the wrong time. Boo. Recovering with episodes of Leverage and My Life on the D-List and other stuff. (Also had to take a sick day today, totally related to the combo of new speed meds and PMS. So, really, most of today was a washout, and I was sleeping, trying desperately to sleep so I wouldn’t be conscious, or whining at some level about cramping and pooping or the inability thereof. Not a fun-filled day of hooky-playing. But I do feel better for staying home and chilling out and resting, and am ready to get back to work tomorrow and kick ass.)

I’ve probably got quite a bit I need to put on here – haven’t updated in a while. But I just got back from bellydance like an hour ago, showered and had lunch, and now it’s FINALLY time to watch Torchwood: Children of Earth, so….all my attention will be absorbed by that. More blogging later.

First practice tonight, and it was pretty good. I was definitely out of tune at some parts, and missed where I was supposed to come in a couple times – but one of the songs that I’d been most nervous about, “Balls to the Wall”? Apparently I did it impressively. Go me. And now I’ve sung audibly in front of people other than my husband, so that seal’s broken.

Tonight, I’m drinking some icewine (stupid wine store didn’t have my Victoria Reserve, but whatevs, this icewine is pretty delicious) and starting a new crochet project: the Starling Handbag. I’ve got some knit projects that need finishing – weaving in ends, a button sewn on – and some sewing projects to work on, but I’m crocheting tonight. Awesome.

Well, we got a van, and, I think, a very good one. It even has – although this was not a selling point, but an added bonus – a little tv for people in the backseat, hooked up to a vcr. And a good thing that we have a second vehicle, because then the hybrid’s left front tire started losing air pressure at a ridiculous rate, so we took it in to the dealer. Now, we had to buy a whole set of new tires like a year ago, so of course I’m catastrophizing and thinking they won’t be covered under warranty (because it’s ridiculous – it’s basically like, “Um, if we can even suggest that you might have driven over something that fucked up your tire, that’s *your* problem, not ours.”) – I should point out that this is the *tire maker’s* warranty, not the dealership’s. Anyway, so I was kind of dreading having to buy new tires all over again – but lo and behold, they found a hole and patched it and it was totally free, we didn’t even pay for labor.

What other excitement has there been? Um. Greg started a cock rock cover band, and I’m singing for them. Or, that’s the idea, anyway. Our first practice is tomorrow, and I am super nervous. Super duper nervous. Oh well. Oh, also? My biggest fan is Skeeter. It’s really adorable, actually. I don’t know why, exactly, but he loves my singing and has to be as close as possible to me when I’m doing it. Like, if there’s a closed door between us, he will cry outside it constantly until I let him in, and then he’s all up in my business. Does he think I’m purring? Am I hitting some magical happy-cat frequency? What? I don’t know, but he loves it, and it’s so cute.

I’m starting bellydance class this Sunday, in Hillsborough. Same teacher, but those classes are focusing more on tribal fusion style, and I’m excited about that. (A wee tiny bit nervous, too. I’m good at being nervous. Or bad about being nervous.) I also think there might not be an improv part to these classes. Which is less to be nervous about. (Although I do want to do improv at some point, so I can learn to be comfortable with it.)

And let me slap some pictures on this shit to liven it up a bit. Let’s let the parade of vanity continue: I got my eyebrows waxed. Yeah. (Although the aesthetician says that even when they’re grown out and what I consider “wild and woolly” they’re actually really great eyebrows. Who knew? I am genetically blessed when it comes to eyebrows, I guess? I’d have traded good eyebrows for, oh, no gallstones or no fatty liver or no anxiety, but I’ll take what I can get.) Shit, and I also got new glasses, but I haven’t taken pictures of them yet. I should probably do that, and also get pics of the new van. It’s the Warner Bros. edition, so it’s got fucking Bugs Bunny on the side. Yeah. Anyway, eyebrow vanity ensues, before and after:

Basically the same, only neater. And now, bedtime.

PS – Susan pointed out to me that my boobs look insane in some of the pictures I posted the other day. And I took those, so I guess it’s just the angle or something. I mean, they’re not nonexistent, but they’re not that crazy huge. I just noticed in the new haircut picture where I’m blinking – HOLY SHIT, they are fucking insane. All I can say is, Greg took the picture, so it must be his fault. I don’t think it was on purpose (*those* pictures don’t make it to the blog, heh heh heh* – joking!), but maybe subconsciously he just framed it like that?

*We’ve been watching Taxi lately, and I fucking love Louis de Palma, so we’re always quoting him, most often “As per usual” and the “Heh heh heh” (from the “Louie and the Nice Girl” episode).

Dear Fuckwit in Sanford,
You woke our asses up at 8:40am, to tell us to come out and look at the minivan you’re selling. Not terrible, since we took today off to look at and buy a minivan, and we were getting up nine anyway, but still, we pulled our clothes on and got an earlier start than we’d planned on, and agreed to drive out to Sanford to look at your minivan *before* going to the bank. So, you knew that, you knew we were leaving immediately after getting off the phone with you to drive out to damn Sanford, and you had Greg’s cellphone. So WHY THE FUCK, when you drove in to work shortly after hanging up with us and noticed the “check engine” light was on, did you not CALL US RIGHT BACK AND TELL US NOT TO COME? WHY? What’s up with that, asshole? So we drive an hour and a fucking half out to Sanford, and when Greg calls you as a courtesy to let you know we’re almost there, THEN you tell us it’s a no-go because your car needs to be looked at by a mechanic. I mean, kudos to you for not trying to sell us a potentially really fucked-up car, and getting it checked out instead of selling it as-is. But two big thumbs-down and two fat middle-fingers-up to not calling us as soon as you decided that. What the hell? You were just going to let get *all* the way there, show up to look at the car, and then be like, “Oh, whoops, guys. Y’all have to turn around and drive an hour and a half back. Sorry.” Fuck you, dude. Don’t bother calling us back tomorrow to let us know what’s up with the “check engine” light – we won’t be buying your car. Thanks for wasting a good chunk of our day, you dick.

UGH. I swear, people are fucking morons. We decided to get a second car – a minivan for Greg to cart around band stuff, mainly. We’ve been trying to get up with bitches on Craigslist, and let me tell you, these people. I don’t know what their deal is. They’re morons, or delusional, or have no idea how to do actual business, or are just not that motivated to sell shit they claim to want to sell. One woman was nice, reasonable, the car seemed good – but we found out when we got home last night that it was a dud, lots of problems with that specific model. The other guy we managed to get up with yesterday, we drive out to look at his car, it’s alright – but he wants CASH. I mean, not even wanting a cashier’s check, he’s all, “Well, I guess…but really I’d prefer to just get cash and not have to deal with a bank.” Really, dude? I think the problem is, this guy was obviously much better off than we were – he had like seven cars and shit, and just felt like getting rid of a couple, but didn’t really need to get rid of them. (Although who the fuck needs seven cars? Christ.) Anyone who is in his socioeconomic class is not going to be buying his generally-okay, not-bad-condition but not great used car with – let’s be real – TONS of mileage. The people who are going to be looking at it are going to be closer to me and Greg’s situation, and they’re not going to be any more likely to walk around with $4000 in cash than we are. I mean, if the credit union would even be alright with handing us cash. And as for “not dealing with a bank” – sorry, dude, the bank has to see the title and appraise the car before we can seal the deal, and that means you and the title and the car are going to have to go to the bank with us. What the fuck are you smoking. I don’t even know. Then this fucker in Sanford, who lets us waste three goddamn hours for nothing – I was livid. The deal was, he was at work, but we were going to meet him at his work and look the car over and test drive it. I was seriously considering calling him back at his work, after Greg hung up (and of course Greg was all nice about it), and cussing his ass out for wasting our time. He had Greg’s cell number! You can’t take two minutes at work and call us when we’ve only been driving for ten minutes, twenty minutes, thirty – even an HOUR into the drive would’ve been better than an hour and a half! – and let us know to turn around? UGH. Then all the bitches we called who were like, “Uh, let me call you back in twenty minutes,” and then DIDN’T. Are you TRYING to sell a car, motherfucker? Or just talk to a bunch of strangers on the phone? What. Greg called one woman yesterday, late afternoon-ish, and she talked to him for like three minutes, and then told him she was in a meeting and would call him back. WHAT meeting, on a Sunday at like two? Some dude showed us a van in pretty crap condition, and the check engine light was on, and he kept saying, “I guarantee you it’s the oil – it needs an oil change, and it always comes on when it needs an oil change.” I don’t know, dude, your van looks pretty crap, and if it really *is* just needing an oil change, get an oil change, and show the van when the light’s NOT on. I’m not buying anything with the check engine light on. I mean, I could buy something with the light off, only to have it turn on later, but that’s a risk you just have to take. When you *know* the light’s on – it could be nothing, or it could be huge, and I’m not paying you, getting the car, and then finding out it’s a huuuuuuge problem, because at that point you’re just going to be like, “Not my problem anymore.” Fuck that. It’s enough of a risk buying a used car that seems to be in perfect condition and doesn’t have the check engine light on. Why add to that?

Josh very nicely came out in the evening to go look at three vans with us, and the third one was the best we’d looked at, and in good condition. So tomorrow at lunch, we’re meeting the owner at the bank, and hopefully we’ll leave with a new minivan. Sweet!

Anyway, here are pictures of my new haircut (and I’m blinking in the first one, awesome) – I love it, it’s supercute, Mary trimmed it, and put some more layers in, so it’s lighter and less sweaty (bonus!), and super wavy/textured. AND! Mary said it’s actually in really good condition – the razoring Jess did just “opened up the texture” and made it a little frizzier, but it’s not fried. Hell yeah, pass the bleach. (Totally joking.) And now for the vanity parade. (Although, really, with that blinking picture, I should get some self-humbling points? Maybe?)

AND – even though we had to drive all over the place today, it was raining. YAY! (It seems like every time it rains, I’m at work, and I can’t really enjoy the rain. But we took today off, and it rained! Happy Hogswatch to me!)

Okay, fingers crossed for the new vehicle!

Two things I’m somewhat ill over:

1-I’ve been watching Manor House recently, and “Sir John” is a real dick. He likes to say shit like, “My conscience would never allow me to do this in the 21st century,” or shit about how it hurts him to see the other members of his household hurting, or he’s upset about the inequalities but then kind of throws up his hands all, “What can you do, though? We’re here to live as Edwardians, and we must do it properly.” And then he does shit like throw tantrums when the cook actually cooks a real Edwardian meal and “Sir John” finds it distasteful. Here’s the thing – you’re just playacting, so if “your conscience” wouldn’t let you hold a fox hunt in the 21st century, “your conscience” wouldn’t let you hold a fox hunt on the show, because it’s just a fucking show. He’s totally loving it – he loves having servants/slaves, and he loves being able to lord it around and no one can say boo to him. The only reason he doesn’t do it “in the twenty-first century” is because he couldn’t fucking get away with it – people would call him on his bullshit. And he is such a raging dick to Mr. Edgar, the butler – who I didn’t like much at first, but he really is the only person in the project who came into it with any realistic idea of what it would be like, and he works so hard, and then “Sir John” is such a dick to him that, in the confessionals, it looks like Mr. Edgar is about to cry. GRR.

2-I just started working on a new sweater for myself, and it’s a gorgeous pattern. I really want it to turn out well and especially fit, so I actually knit a gauge swatch. (I hate gauge swatches, but sometimes you just have to.) As far as I can tell, the seafoam stitch pattern repeat is 16 rows over about 36 stitches (with two edge stitches on each side, at least for the gauge swatch, so 40 stitches total). But the gauge itself? 16 stitches and 22 rows *in seafoam stitch* equals 4 inches. WHY? Why the fuck are you going to do that? It seems like 16 stitches and 22 rows equalling 4 inches is somehow the convention – I’ve seen that as the gauge so many damn times. But when your fucking pattern repeat is 36/40 stitches over 16 rows – why not use that? Figure out how many inches it’ll be, and just say, right there in the pattern, “Gauge: 36 (or 40, whichever) stitches and 16 rows equals however-many inches.” Because it wouldn’t so much of a problem with a more plain stitch pattern – I’d just get out my gauge ruler tool thingy (from Nancy’s Knit-Knacks) and count out 16 stitches and 22 rows and measure. But the seafoam stitch pattern has extra-long stitches (from dropped double-, triple-, and quadruple-yarnovers), and counting that shit and measuring it *within the gauge swatch* is going to be a real pain in the ass, if not impossible. What’s much easier, is just measuring the *whole* gauge swatch, but that means I have to do some damn math to figure out how big it should be. Pain in the ass.

What I’m not ill over? Having today off as a holiday. Awesome. Also, I’m getting my hair cut this evening, so I figured I better get around to finally posting some hair-related pictures I haven’t yet, since it might be rather different after the cut. (If the ends aren’t too damaged from razoring and dyeing, I’m just getting a trim, basically. If the ends are as damaged as I suspect they are, I’m going to get more of a haircut, to remove the damaged ends.)

First up, the psyche knot, an old hairstyle I managed to figure out, and I rather like it. (Which I may or may not be able to do again post-haircut.)

And a couple weeks ago, I dyed my hair again – but not purple this time. Here’s the before (the purple washed out unevenly, but interestingly):

And here’s after – brown:

Man. Yesterday I was in a stank mood. Even Greg will tell you. STANK. I don’t even really know where it came from. Today was better, for the most part. There was like one or two grumpy moments, but whatever. Here are some pictures of cats, because I don’t feel like blogging, really, I got some knitting to do.