first aircraft carriers

... We got a kitten.

Our apartment doesnapos;t allow cats, but OH�GOD�IS�SHE�CUTE. And she needed a home. D: George and Kat-chan have successfully kept anyone from finding their cat, so we hope we donapos;t get caught with this one...

Sheapos;s mostly grey, with some peach and white fur mixed in. She only has three legs; the umbilical cord was wrapped around one when she was born, and a few days later, the leg just fell off. And then the womanapos;s dog ate it. This woman never intended to let her cat have kittens, but her landlordapos;s daughters let the cat out, and, hey kittens. And the woman was too afraid to take this one to a shelter, because they might have just euthanized her due to her leg.

Sheapos;s calmed down a bit since yesterday. Sheapos;s actually coming out of her carrier now, though we havenapos;t let her out of the bathroom. The living room area is still not quite kitten-proof, so we need to clean a bit before letting her wander free.

Iapos;ll take and post pictures soon.

And Iapos;ll post pics from the con, because dear heavens have I�procrastinated on that.

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communication styles questionnaire

I bit the skin on the inside of my lip when people were all "RLY BEING TANNED AFFECTS WAT U WEAR??? WAT DUZ THAT HAVE 2 DO W/ NEFING???? OMG NO DONT LET UR SKIN COLUR DICTATE WAT U WEAR, BE A FREE SPIRIT11"
Perhaps I am more conscious of being darker because I am Asian, and if you have tanned skin youapos;re quite simply ugly and common. A few Thai female celebrities may have tanned skin, but itapos;s just for exotic variety. And apos;tannedapos; only describes the colour my skin is; I was born with medium skin, and it certainly deepens greatly in sunlight, but my point is that I will never be pale. I canapos;t just stay indoors, put on sunscreen and use hats and parasols to maintain a china-like complexion, I can only do that to prevent myself from getting any darker. If I were to use those whitening creams, Iapos;d have to use it all over my body. Thereapos;s a lot more fuss about being pale in Asia than there is about always being bronzed in the western world, I think. Well, people in
Thailand are more openly disparaging about people with dark skin ("Black as a crow" an advert might exclaim, before the dusky-skinned girl in question is transformed into a white-cheeked beauty because of a certain bleaching cream), while here itapos;s usually a lot of fuss made about being tanned. I canapos;t count the number of times Iapos;ve heard fair-skinned people here cry "I went on holiday and I got really tanned" or "I sunbathed all day in the garden and my legs are a beautiful brown..." and I look at them and, well, theyapos;re just as pale as ever. I just donapos;t see what the fuss is about, especially over a tan thatapos;s not even there.

It might seem to really take the piss that I seem to be whining about having skin that tans easily, but that shows the difference in our cultures. I know that tanning is much preferable to burning, particularly if you need to be out in the sun a lot, but that is a practical issue.

But anyway, there are certain colours I do not wear because they look awful. Certain strains of pastels, for example, just donapos;t go. It makes me look opaquely, vulgarly yellow And pinks must be very strong and bright, leaning more towards red or purple, or again, I look terribly yellow. Iapos;ve mentioned it before, but itapos;s only recently, when I started wearing brighter colours and prints, that I finally realized my skin was tan in colour... Before I just thought it was, erm, Asian coloured. Partly this came from a certain friend I had when I was younger, who emphasized that less colours suited my hair and skin tone, while she, with her English rose complexion and greenish mousy hair, could wear all sorts of colours while looking really fabulous. It is with a vindictive, petty smirk that I note that she is a plain little thing with awful, chunky, greasy hair. She doesnapos;t even have a force of personality, any real substance or appeal to her, which would overcome any kind of appearance. Sheapos;s a plain, grey kind of person.

What we forgive in the literal face of peopleapos;s pulchritude If somebody has a pleasant appearance, we might somehow feel cheated if their personality isnapos;t equally lovely. "Yeah, sheapos;s pretty, but." "Well heapos;s good looking, but." As if people with beautiful faces cannot help but also act in a beautiful way, as if everything is just an extension of their appearance - and what a horrid surprise when they donapos;t act appropriately But still. Theyapos;re beautiful. This somehow makes their faults seem weak, detached from their lovely appearances. And nothing can change their outward beauty, save time and accidents and bad decisions.

I miss my Stan He is so right, so utterly right for me, and he seems to think the same of me. It is a practical as well as emotionally satisfying relationship - Stan can take care of me. This may seem regressive and anti-feminist, but would you, as any half of a relationship, want to run around after your partner, having to tell him to do every little thing because he just canapos;t handle the rigour of taking care of himself, let alone another person? Stan is able to take care of me as I am able to take care of him. Itapos;s not that we embody the ideals of a perfect, romantic couple - he doesnapos;t shower me with roses or take me out for a night of wild dancing, ending with a kiss beneath a lampost - but we find such a shelter in each other. Stan is so steady and patient while I am skittish and erratic. It is awkward to write like this so I SHALL STOP THERE.

I have a tummy ache :C
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florida grove manor nj

So, I think Naoko Mori is supposed to be a guest at the Hub convention going on this weekend, yeah? (Torchwood convention on my freakin birthday, and here I am, landlocked in California, USA. Oh well.) At comic con, the crazy group of Torchwood cosplayers that are my very close friends did the Something Borrowed costumes and when Naoko saw us she happily flipped out and took a picture with us on her camera. Both Estel (Jack) and I got pictures with our actors (see icon) but our Tosh didnapos;t get the picture with Naoko. If someone could be brave and wonderful enough to volunteer, Iapos;d be incredibly grateful if they could give Naoko a very short message and the email address of our Tosh so she can get the picture which would mean so much to her. Plus it gives you an extra excuse to talk to her :-D.�

Any volunteers? Pretty please?
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feminist views of the family

I've not been myself lately. I've been Monsieur Pepe, a Frechman with a nasty virus, a broken nose, impaired fashion sense and a major, major skin condition. Pepe's pretty scary to look at, but that's the point.

As part of a group of folks invited to be "scare actors" for one night at Universal's Halloween Horror Nights, Pepe learned the ins and outs of frightening a mostly willing audience Thursday night.

Our aim is to populate une petit Scare Zone, one not found on any map. The backstory: French countryside gone horribly wrong. The transformation begins with wardrobe. The pants' tag indicate they were cut for a pirate. They're matched with Igor's peasant blouse, a heavy-duty poncho and a long rugged vest. Apparently layering is important in Universal's French countryside.

On to the makeup chair, where the first stage makes me feel very Phantom of the Opera. The appliance goes around my right eye, across the forehead, down the cheek, curves back around the mouth and nose. There's ample adhesive and dabbing with a sponge. Josh Counsel, who has worked with prosthetics for Universal for six years, instructs me to keep my eye shut.

"Otherwise, it will be glued open," he says. That's one effective warning. He asks if I want treatment on the other side of the face, maybe a pustule or somesuch?

"Boil me up," I say.

Latex secure, the colorization begins. More dabbing, then airbrushing. Eyes still closed, but I hear I need more burgundy. The airbrushing is soothing on my face -- until it hits nostril. That's like drowning and being tickled at the same time. For good measure, my exposed arms are painted to match the face and fingernails morbidly blackened. Pepe's not having a good go of it.

After 50 minutes, I'm told I look horrible -- in a good way. Face itch? Don't scratch it, they say. Instead, gently tap the spot. Digging in could rip the handiwork and the epidermis.

Colleen DeFeo, a Universal talent coach, briefs us villagers on how to behave. Act big. Pick your victim. Make sudden movements. Use teamwork and distraction. Timing is everything. Don't make contact. Lurch but backtrack. As the public service announcement says, know when to say when. Safety first.

Have fun.

Pepe, Suzette, Francois, Genevieve, Marquis, Louis and Claudette are escorted to the designated zone, a stretch along the wall of pumpkins leading to the Animal Actors stage. It's foggy and high traffic.

I try out choices I've dreamed up. For a while, Pepe is a bit of an asthmatic beggar (wheezing, palm extended). Then there's the fetal period, crawling along knee-high to theme-park patrons.

Our coach wants more. "Act big," she demands. "I want to hear your voice."

As it turns out, I'm not a screamer. My holler is neither menacing nor convincing. My gift is the quiet creep-out, where I glide up stealthy to potential victims ... And stare.

Pepe's face is his strongest scary suit, so I try to stand in the best lighting so folks can see the handiwork. There's not many prosthetics in this year's Horror Nights -- a stray hare, a lion or witch here and there -- so it's extra eye-catching.

A stand-out bit relies on teamwork. Claudette chases Pepe, who serves as distraction because he's much taller. The flurry worries the guests, who don't always spy Claudette until she screams in their faces. Awesome.

After two stints of scare acting, I am spent. I'm overly aware of all the crud on my face and sympathize with people who wear it for eight-hour shifts.

Backstage it takes two people 20 minutes to de-boil me. Crew members from two haunted houses, Interstellar Terror (jumpsuits) and Body Collectors (long, black robes), take breaks but rarely intermingle. A flying monkey turns in his uniform. The treacherous Tin Man removes his hats and boots. Just another day at the office.

On the drive home, I remember -- too late -- a song learned in eighth-grade French class. Pepe should have belted that out. Now that's scary.

I sleep well. No nightmares. But maybe, if lucky, Pepe caused some.

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