Toast Points for the Week of March 27th

Toasties, earlier this week I was very excited to bring home a couple of weeks-old baby chicks for chick-sitting, and today I will be very excited to return them both to my daughter’s school, where the children can care for and enjoy them until such time as their true owner, a local farmer, sees fit to retrieve them. Here is what I have learned after just a few days as a chick caregiver:

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Film Noir Friday

I’m down in LA this weekend for the TCM film festival, and instead of Fry and Laurie, today I give you Lizabeth Scott’s greatest role in TOO LATE FOR TEARS

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“The Spinster’s Almanac”: Poetic Advice for Finding a Different Story

Please email all questions you would like poetry to answer via, with “Spinster’s Almanac” in the subject line.

Dear Spinster,

I had hoped that university would be my golden ticket to a golden world far away from the endless kitchen sink drama of my home-life. So really I was always bound for disappointment. Rather than dancing my way through a golden haze of new friends and old books, I have traded one set of insecurities and small sadnesses for another. I have watched my friends couple off, joke about another notch on their bedpost, and all while another night passes and my bed is empty. It did not worry me before. There was always so much time; months, years even. But now I feel I am creeping closer and closer to Miss Havisham levels of deluded loneliness, and that time is slipping through my fingers. 

I do not necessarily want a relationship, I merely wish to be attractive, to attract and occasionally fulfill the urges I feel as strongly as anyone else. I want sex. It should be easy. Perhaps it would be were I not as virginal as a Regency romance heroine. Only one man has ever deigned to kiss me and I was obviously horrible at it and no doubt the butt of many jokes the next morning. I do not wish to be merely a joke. 

A friend once told me that if I were an element I would be ice, and as much as I wanted to snap that ice wasn’t one of the four elements, I didn’t. It was true. I am as charming and kind as I can be, but I am so afraid of rejection that I can’t ever take my love life into my own hands. So I am cold. Frigid. But I want to melt. I spend my days poring over poetry and trying to find something meaningful in it. Perhaps poetry is a way to help me find something meaningful in myself and to find a way to share this with another.

Today, dear reader, I’d like to talk about stories and storytellers. When I was at university myself, I took a course on the history of writing and rhetoric. My delightful maddening professor lectured about European fairytales, how they were a shorthand parenting tool to teach young women about sexual threat and appropriate male protraction and other truish but oversimplified lessons.

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Femslash Friday: On the Promise of Canonical Kimber/Stormer

Previous Femslash Friday installments can be found here.

One night not long ago I was reading online, which I often do, and I ended up reading an interview in The Advocate about an brand-new comic-book series, which I don’t often do. After reading it, I grinned at the doll who sits near my computer. She went on thinking, as she always does, placidly balancing a glittering plastic guitar in her lap.

Because yes, I have a Stormer doll—Stormer being one of the three original members of The Misfits, the cartoon all-girl band that repeatedly terrorized and sometimes outplayed their cartoon all-girl rivals, Jem and the Holograms. Not the same Stormer doll I had when I was eight; rather, this doll was a gift from one of my closest college friends, who may or may not have known how much time I spent senior year procrastinating by writing for-my-eyes-only Jem fanfic. Of which Stormer was the heroine. Who foiled a kidnapping, took over Misfits Music after Eric Raymond got arrested for said kidnapping, produced a hit single for the Stingers, and basically spent every new ridiculous plot twist coming out of her shell and getting rewarded for it.

You think I identified with her? Of course I identified with her.

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Link Roundup!

RICH PEOPLE! (I mean…. what?) Speaking of rich people, Pretty Woman turned 25 this week. It’s my favorite movie. Yes, it is. It is the best. Here is some legislative bullshit from Indiana. I’m too old to understand One Direction. I barely know what the group is. This isn’t a point of pride. There’s only so […]

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Elusive Aurora

Attaining a lifelong dream — who doesn’t want to? — can prove difficult when your efforts are taken hostage by nature’s whims. I know this from personal experience. After two well-planned trips to take in the magical glow of the aurora borealis, I still rely on photos and YouTube videos, representations that only tease.

My quest began in earnest when an email from Astronomy magazine offered a tour to Iceland, a trip designed for aurora viewing.

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Scenes From The Divorce-Themed Sandlot Sequel That Wendy Peffercorn Deserves

Squints grew up and married Wendy Peffercorn. They have nine kids. They bought Vincent’s Drugstore, and they still own it to this day.

INT. NIGHT. WENDY PEFFERCORN bolts up in bed and shakes her husband awake.



WENDY PEFFERCORN: Why am I married to you?


WENDY PEFFERCORN: Why on earth am I married to you?

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