The stranglehold that a phantom site had on my god-given domain name has seemingly ended-- if I am correct, soon SuedeCaramel.com will once again be mine, and lead you, my good people, here.


So, some thoughts.

While American Express is currently advertising with celebrities like Ellen Degeneres and Robert Deniro (with the creative help of Martin Scorsese and Annie Leibovitz), Discover is contrasting with a line of commercials featuring extremely relatable average people-- have you seen these? Black and white, just the person standing there, talking about their life, saying things so cute and suburban that it just makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside-- "I helped put my husband through dental school, and now I get my teeth cleaned for free." (Big smile.) Or "I still open doors for my wife, because she deserves it." These are the "average americans", the decent, traditional people with a strong work ethic and perfect credit.

If these are average Americans, I'm in biiiig trouble.

Discover is trying too hard to show us likable, relatable customers-- as a result, these people are to ethics and decency what Cindy Crawford is to aesthetics and ass. I'll never look like her and I'll never be like them-- let's get realistic, Discover, if that's what you're going for! Let's get people saying *real* everyday things. Replace the lady who says "I still get goosebumps when (my husband) kisses my neck" with "I still get goosebumps when (my lover) pinches my ass and calls me 'Mommy'." And the guy who says "I'd like to use (the cashback bonus awards) for a table saw, but I have a feeling it's going towards a new dishwasher" with "I'd like to use the money towards a new Colt 45, but I have a feeling it's going towards Bail."

This is my America. On with it.

Okay, everyone in the whole world, yes, the whole world, is on my case to update this, (Hi Madonna! Osama! Miuccia Prada!*) Not a whole lot to say in the form of a rant, so I'll go back to the old stand-by: comments on commercials that are currently getting air time.


Mitsubishi
There's this whole line of commercials taking place in Mistubishi dealerships, the one with the guy who's friend is all like "Chick Magnet!", the one with the man who manipulates his wife into buying a SUV by winding her biological clock, and the one who's trying to negotiate a deal on a car he admits is already a great price, then he ends up looking stupid. And in all of these, the common factors are the exact location of the car in the showroom, and a guy in an orange (red?) jumpsuit who's only job seems to be to stand their all day and whisper things to customers, like Mitsubishi's version of the Buckingham Palace Sentry.

So who's up for taking a road trip with me to find out if these Mitsubishi dealerships really *have* those guys?


Adult SwimAdult Swim has recently sold out it's bumps or cards or whatever the hell they're called to advertising for AXE body spray (and one other forgotten product, to a lesser degree- the lesson here, if you're gonna advertise on adult swim, do it often enough so it gets through the thick skulls of the Inuyasha crowd.) I'm not saying, at this point, that there advertising is particularly worthy of cracking jokes about, because thus far, it's been done in strictly respectable adult swim fashion, but they're really walking a tight-rope here. If they slip up on this, a whole mass of disgruntled AS fans will do exactly what our generation has always done in terms of civil disobedience: Absolutely nothing! But with flare.

If they really screw up, who knows. A couple hundred of strategically placed "AXE advertisements SUCK THE COCKZ!" messages on their forums might make them see it our way. Dirty corporate money can't fight with the raw passion and stinging prose of a 1337 haXor.


In other news, this woman is an idiot.

On with it.


*And thanks to Jeremey for helping me find a third celebrity with a name that ends in "ah".

SuedeCaramel Presents
10 Surefire Ways to Lose Weight in the New Year!

10. Give Birth.
9. Adopt a Roundworm.
8. Get sent to a third-world Jail.
7. Shave your head and cut your nails.
6. Stick to the food groups: Dairy, Protein, Wheats, Fruits and Exlax.
5. Become addicted to crack.
4. Contract oral herpes to render eating uncomfortable.
3. Cut off a limb.
2. Get AIDS, MS, or Cancer.
1. Die.



On with it.

With the third post up, I think it's time to announce The Vagina Monoblogs to the world. My contribution to the Vaginismus community, The Vagina Monoblogs is a site dedicated to resources and information about, and personal accounts of Vaginismus. Maybe the response from this will eventually allow me to create the book I want to, a collection of stories from survivors and sufferers, to sorta let to world know we're out there, and this does exist, and you can't ignore us, and hopefully to raise money for the cause. But, baby steps. Today, a blog. Tomorrow, the world.

On with it.

"Tue December 21 3:10:50 EST 2004
nak
suede
no time for hate, unless you do something worth such emotion.
just scared.
those photos scarred me for life."

~Nak, from Ian's Pit, the bastard child of Frank's Pit

I can't be sure what he's talking about, but chances are they're the slightly, uh, nude pictures of me formally posted on the pictures section of this site, now dead and gone in a burst of pre-new-years cleansing. Seems to me now that was way too much a plea for attention, and, from now on, I'll save the naked pictures for those who actually want to see them, instead of for the sake of shocking ex-teachers, etc. All naked pictures requests will now be processed by mgmt.

Imagine that. Constructive criticism from the pit. Thanks, Nak.


So let's start thinking about resolutions. December seems to have been my big month for experiencing/accomplishing new things, having been fired and in a (minor) car accident towards the beginning, performed my poetry live (and for TV) at the Lisbon Teen Center Coffee House (an altogether unsatisfying experience) in the middle, and just now gotten in some practice pressing the "delete this blog?" button. Also, finally getting around to changing the name of this place, and took my first college exam(s). Not an altogether bad month, and we haven't even gotten to Christmas yet.

Of course, the quality of my writing seems to have taken a steep decline, but that, I suppose, will work itself out. I'd get more practice writing if I had a computer that wasn't as slow as the leader of our fair country and an internet connection to match. Maybe if my job at iWorx prooves profitable, Zack and I will get ourselves a nice desktop and a cable connection. And I have added a half-page to the Tracy/Trish story since I sent it off to Casey for review...but he won't get to see that until he sends back what I already sent him, hint hint.


It seems to me that my posts are becoming more and more like newspaper articles, with all the pertinent (or, in this case, halfway interesting) information in the first paragraph or so, and the rest just sort of rambles on to make the posts look long and impressive. They do this in the newspaper so that the editor can lop off an article at any point to fit the space he has, and still have all the important details. My posts, like this, can just be cut off any.


(on with it)

C LABRACK: you starting to get tired of competing with GTA?
FieryGwenivere: yes. yes I am.
FieryGwenivere: and if you just assumed that, you're very insightful. I don't remember mentioning that to you.
C LABRACK: it's not that insightful. I've just always noticed zack playin them more and more. plus, so many great ones are out right now. and finally, I know a lot of girls who have the same problem around here.
FieryGwenivere: Well, it's more insightful than, uh, Zack.

Casey knows all about the feeling of being second to various technical entities, whether it's someone else putting you second, or you doing it to yourself. But I've discovered, just now, an entirely different, but related, feeling.

Let's say Zack's been playing San Andreas for a while, or I've been playing for a while, or we've been taking turns for a while. Let's say I'm thoroughly bored by now, and let's say I'm at that point where I really feel like I'm going second to a video game. I start to say sort of bitter, hinting things, and he gets it. He's heading towards a save point when he says it-- that totally fucking innocent phrase of malice. The one harmless evil with which I have no chance to complete. He looks over at me and, without a the slightest detectable amount of agenda in his tone (except that provided by my ever-suspiscious mind) asks, "So, what are we going to do after this?"

And what can I say? "Well....we're gonna put on some TV that neither of us will really like, and that most likely only one of us will even somewhat like, and we'll eat snack foods we're not really hungry that are designed to rid us of our sex appeal by our mid-twenties." Well? What would you come up with? "We'll sit and talk?" We've been married for a while now, and certainly spending every available moment with each other for much longer, and nowadays, before we can sit and actually have a conversation, there has to be some supply of subject matter. (And, not surprisingly, the only subject that's been in supply lately has been fucking GTA.) So let's face it-- we're broke, pre-twenty-one, newly married and living in Brunswick fucking Maine, and we can't fuck, or, due to the stress of the whole non-fucking state, function sexually with any mutual pleasure at all, about 80% of the time. San Andreas is about the best we could hope to do.

(And, for you fucking skeptics {the ones I keep so well-armed}, I relate to you that this isn't a direct effect of marrying too young, or rushing a relationship, or not going to college straight of high school or not travelling the world, or not stopping to do what everyone warned you you ought to. This is the reality of vaginismus, plain and simple. So I'm gonna hurry up and shut-up the wannabe pricks.)

So it's not a matter of feeling like I'm being put second to GTA. It's a matter of feeling like there's no reason why I shouldn't be considered second to GTA.

So, here we are, post-that-actual-circumstance, and I gotta say the only slight upside is that my website is getting some attention.

...oh, god.


On with it.

Lost in a sea of cyberspace is a post I wrote when I changed the title of my blog, explaining a little better why I feel the way I do about myself, and about The Fish Guy, and it put out there, with almost robotic indifference, that I was fired from my job, and that whether or not that had anything to do with my alleged (well, kinda alleged) affair with The Fish Guy, I do not know. Another thing to which I have robotic indifference: the marathon run-on-ishness (-acity? -itude?) of that last sentence.

The Andover College computer system, while refreshingly new and quick, has a rampant problem that it seems to me would be pretty easily fixable: almost every clock is fifteen minutes off or more in one direction or another. I didn't even know it was possible to set your computer clock wrong nowadays, like you'd need a tech degree to turn off the clock's communications with Greenich or Iceland or wherever that master clock is. Damn, it feels like this is something I should know.

I love the feeling, though, of the new Dell keyboard beneath my fingers. I've had it up to here* with my damned laptop-- I don't go anywhere with it anyway, not having wireless internet at the trailer, and the battery is never charged. I'm fully ready to trade in for a nice, sturdy, there-when-you-need-it-desktop, which begs the question, "So why not use the nice, sturdy, there-blah-blah-blah desktop you do have, namely Zack's?" I answer with utter confidence that there is some reason, involving a brutal accident while his motherboard was cruising down the internet superhighway at waaay beyond the speed limit, and a drunk hacker rammed it off the road, or something. I feel details and coherence are not my forté, at this exact moment. But I'm almost entirely sure if just aced the first in-room test I've had this semester, and I did it faster than any of my classmates, so go, me!

Oh, that's right. Nearly none of you know I'm in college now. Well, I am. Let's not make a big "thing" of it.

I'm taking one class but really more closely related to two, as (don't tell) I am writing almost all of the speeches that Zack has to give in his concurrent Public Speaking course. Despite my efforts, he refused to let me stand outside his classroom today while he was giving his speech (having finished my test and exited my class so early), and in fact interrupted himself in front of the whole class to come outside and tell me to go somewhere else. Ingrate.

Any moment now, his class should be done, and he will find me here in the computer lab, and I will yell, yell, yell at him. At least, I think it should be any moment. Damn computers clocks.


On with it.


*here. This exact spot.

Best and worst commercials currently on television, early holiday season edition:


Best: Old Navy commercials featuring a randomly placed chorus of carolers, trying to bring solace to women who fear the oncoming holidays. When they sing, to the tune of a christmas carole, "The holidays will hit you..." and then the solo line on the adorable girl who sings "...Like a brick!"

Worst: Fucking elves trying to drive that fucking Pepsi Hoiday Spice truck. I don't like elves (when depicted as little versions of big people) , I hate pepsi, and Spiced soda? Listen, Pepsi People, Dr. Pepper is a done deal. Get over it.


On with it.

The true test of being over someone-- not using the edit menu's search tool to check for your name in it every time you visit their online journal for whatever little reason.

A supplementary bit of knowledge: They were probably over you about two weeks after the last time you were mentioned. (This is void when it's clear that they're using a pronoun, a group of people, or a non-entity in place of your name. Trust me. I know these things.)


True sign of not being over someone: falling in love with, and obsessing over, literally anyone in order to distract yourself from them, including:
A- Some stranger you see on a weekly-ish basis, who's name you don't know, and therefore you refer to as some funky nickname like "Mr. Muttenchops" or "The Tuesday Guy." These names might also involve Dairy products, for those of you who get my meaning.
B- Straight, underaged girls that you have on-and-off friendships with.
C- The guy who works in the fish department at your pet store. No, I'm talking in universal terms here. Really.

People not in this group:
A- Your husband.


So...today was the first day I actually found "The Fish Guy" to be very physically attractive. I've probably talked about this phenomena I call "work crushes" before-- they are the epitomy of attraction based on convenience. Nothing has to be right with these people, really, it's just got to be not terribly wrong. There are a few things in common with the work crushes I've had in the past:
A- They're all within five years of my age.
B- They're all of a gender that I find attractive. (either male or female.)
C- None of them are so horribly bad looking that I'd rather defecate into my own toaster than look at them for too long. Assuming I was going to use the toaster again.

The Fish Guy, who replaced "The Cheeseman" in Linda's timeline of distracting male figures, is tallish (+), strongish(+), not darkish or handsomeish(-,-), but I have come to discover that underneath his glasses (+) he has blue eyes (+), and he looks (as of today) really good when he has the half-amused, half-dismissive smile on his face that only I seem to evoke in him (+).

Were I to not spend roughly 28 of my 40 working week hours in the same general area as The Fish Guy, I would not give him a second glance. But work is boring. And boredom, I have found, breeds wantoninity. (copyright)

I feel constantly compelled to point out that Zack is fully aware and accepting of my two man system (One to be my all, my everything, the person who completes me; the other to let me do all that fun unrequoited infatuation bullshit that I was such the honor student at during my school days.) and he is as aware of The Fish Guy as he was of The Cheeseman and of the brief but mentionable mini-crush on The Underaged Girl, all of whom replaced someone I shall now award the moniker of "The Wifebeater", which is a private joke between me and The Wifebeater himself. "The Wifebeater" is the one who I am not over, but I am notably more over him than I was, let's say, three or four months ago, with the help of a barrage of aptly named sidekicks. I no longer have to refer to him as "him" or as "someone", "everyone", or "no one!!!". I dub him THE WIFEBEATER!!! And, thusly, can stop it with the previous nonsense.

That's gotta be something, right? Someone mark this spot.


Anyways, "The Fish Guy" is a new challenge. I must get him to fall desperately, incredibly in love with me despite the fact that he knows that I am married, and therefore:
A- He can not have me.
B- If he could have me, I would be a horrible person. And why would he then want me?

This challenge is new, and did not pertain to The Cheeseman or The Underaged Girl because:
A- The Cheeseman did not know my name, just as I did not know his, and he certainly had no idea I was married. (Incidentally, the flame died, I think, when we found out each other's name. He is Brad. I even know his last name, sadly. It begins with an S.)
B- The underaged girl, I didn't want to manipulate into loving me. Much. She was so...underaged. And straight. And, really, too good to be toyed with the way I toy with, well, let's just say it, men.

I made a breakthrough in this case today, as I leaned over the trash can he was filling through a syphon with dirty fishtank water, when he made a joking reference to a crush he thought I had on another co-worker. Clearly, he understands the nature of the flirtatious crush situation I so covet-- it's not malicious. It's entertainment. Now, I merely have to make him realize that he is the recipitor of my, uh, "affections", and then I have to dangle that fact in front of him like season tickets to the Bills (he's a sports fan...there, I said it.) until he wants much, much more than I do, and, ultimately, converts to some weird religion where they devote themselves to some girl they could never have, and live a life of silent agony. But not before he slams be against the goldfish wall, takes my head between his hands and half-mumbles, half-screams "I must have you" as he kisses me passionately, and I push him away. "I'm a married woman." I would say. Then he'd have to realize how completely and utterly devoted I am to...Zack. Yes. Zack.


On with it.

No other way to say it: we need more Americans like Andrew Veal.


Also, I can't help but be amazed by the irony of his last name-- Veal. Young, destroyed by a senseless slaughter more or less carried out by the Texan himself. Goddamn.


On with it.