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The Fun of being Adopted

Posted 2010.03.21 9.48 in Life On Drugs, Pointless Blather by Stephanie

Now and then, I’ve encountered people or situations where it seems like there is some mild taboo or shame about adoption. Or where being adopted is somehow considered to be unfortunate, or otherwise not so great.

I don’t have any such problems with it myself; it was never a secret in my family. I don’t remember being told I was adopted, it’s something I’ve always known. My folks never kept it secret so there was never any ‘shock’ or ‘surprise’ about it.

Some people might feel like it’s unfortunate to ‘have no history’ or not know ‘where you came from’, but I see that as an advantage, rather than a problem.

You see, where all the non-adopted people might know their family background and might be able to trace their family tree, the thing is, typically what they find is that their roots are normal, boring, and un-remarkable. Adoptees, on the other hand, have no such limiting ‘facts‘ and ‘evidence‘, and are therefore able to come up with whatever exciting and unique background that they want.

I, for example, am the secret love child of a european monarch and the descendant of an ancient Celtic demigod. At birth, a mysterious hidden society stole me away from the hospital, smuggled me into Canada, and used forged paperwork to turn me over to the CAS. They allowed the CAS to adopt me out to a normal family, but assigned a watcher to keep track of me over the years. I was to have been inducted into the society at age 21, but my watcher was unexpectedly killed in a tragic blimp accident, and the mysterious society lost track of me.

To this day, they continue to scour the earth trying to track me down. Meanwhile, the fabulous and mystical powers that are my birthright remain largely untapped…

Alert the CTU!

Posted 2009.12.08 19.23 in Life On Drugs, Pointless Blather by Stephanie

So I had to meet the dental surgeon this morning… ¬†folks have been telling me to get my wisdom teeth out, and I finally worked up the courage to go and meet the guy for a consultation. You know, a quick look, then find out how bad it was going to be, how much it was going to hurt and how much it was going to cost.

I should have known better.

Right away, he knew about the microfilm hidden in my top-left wisdom tooth. Either he has great eyes, or he was tipped off. So he says he’s going to take that tooth right away! Next thing I know, I’m in The Chair, in The Room, and they’re hooking me up to a machine.

While they left me for a few minutes to contemplate my fate, I realized they hadn’t searched me – I still had my iPhone with me! I immediately texted my sister, asking her for help: contact agent Bauer, send in the rescue team get me out of there!

By now, the surgeon’s staff had realized their mistake. They activated the x-ray machine, disrupting my iPhone’s GPS, so my sister couldn’t get my coordinates. That’s when they came at me with the needles.

The rescue team never turned up. I lost the tooth, they got the microfilm, and now they know the secret plans and the location of the gold. Plus, I’m “experiencing discomfort” and feeling grumpy.

I’ve a Notion to go get Basted next time my Nap needs Interfacing

Posted 2008.08.18 0.00 in Hobbies by Stephanie

The serial hobbiest strikes again! In a string of connections too convoluted to convey, my interest in swords and sword making has turned into an interest in sewing, and a desire to learn how to sew…

What a tangled warp they weft, these Seamstresses, with their secret words and hidden meanings.

After learning their language, one must also learn their tools and machinery… equipped with a machine that is nearly my contemporary in age, I endeavored to divine its mysteries… the ins and outs, ups and downs… what a small victory it was, to be able to thread the needle. A simple thing, really, compared to the Dark Arts of bobbin management. There surely is an ancient scroll somewhere, dealing with the fine magical power “Ability to Summon Bobbins, and Bend them to do Thy Will”. Still, I struggle on. Through luck and persistance — and some help from the Oracle of Google — I learn to tame the bobbin. It is not fully broken, but it will at least grudgingly oblige me, for a time.

And then the Patterns… the Patterns. More codes, more secrets. Simple illustrations and line art on the exterior, belie the true complicated horrors which dwell within. That such a small, innocent paper packette could contain such vast acres of tissue… mile after mile of the stuff. No doubt, folded originally by the seventh son of a seventh son under the light of the full moon — how else could the minute enclosure house it all so neatly? And all of it faintly inscribed with arcane symbols and markings, foreign to the common eye. It is these fantastic, delicate sheets which contain the runes, that Seamstresses convert into wearable attire and useful linens.

I knew at once that I was in over my head, and beyond my knowledge. Runes and arcane symbols, I have experienced many times in the past. But nothing of this kind. These were the markings of a magic about which I knew nothing. Fortunately, there are tomes out there, which undertake to offer translations, to assist the common mind in perceiving the secret rites of the Seamstress. And through great cunning and adventure, I was able to acquire one such volume: “Sewing for Dummies” found at my local bookstore. Armed with this new resource, I began to learn Right from Wrong, and discern the new and exotic meanings of many words that I once thought I knew.

Soon, I felt a growing confidence. I looked at the Patterns I had acquired. The folds of faric, the thread, the Machine. Overwhelmed, my confidence drained away. Apart from some trials and tests, the joining of scrap fabric, my Machine was idle. The Patterns evoked fear and concern. So much tissue.. and my resource of knowledge… Yes it helped me to deign the meanings of such secrets as “Selvage” but at the same time, it filled me with cautions and caveats. Were I to proceed, I should need still more resources and equipment. No longer would a single pair of scissors suffice; that which was adequate for cutting paper, cardboard, foil-lined-plastic, and tar-based roofing tape, would not stand the test of Fabric. And the pins…. there must be pins, there has to be pins.

I have long dreaded the introduction of pins, into my domicile. As a child, I had a particular talent for locating pins that had become lost, that had wandered, gone astray. Pins were strangely attracted to my feet, and frequently would demonstrate their fondness by burying themselves to half their length, in the bottom of my sole. Yet now, here in my home, there will be pins.

With that, I will draw this tale to a temporary conclusion. Suffice to say, armed and equiped with the knowledge, the Machine, the Patterns and Fabric, the Notions and other sundries… all that remained was for the Moon and Stars to align. And when the astrological signs are right:
I Shall Sew!