Rainforest of Horror, a Tale by Beatrice

Nature and I have never been the closest friends. When I was younger I enjoyed the occasional trek through the wilderness and I really didn’t care if I got sweaty or if a bug landed on me. But when I reached the years of makeup and hair straighteners I soon realized that nature is not a friend to my vanity. Now, as a general rule, I don’t hike or camp and most certainly do not swim. This prefaces the tale I am about to weave for you.



Husband and I lived in Sydney, Australia for all of 2009. In about March of that year a friend of ours offered up his home in a rural part of Australia for the weekend. We were very excited; it was going to be a nice holiday away from school. We went to the town of Robertson, the city where the movie “Babe” was filmed. There was a rainforest about a mile up from the house and we decided to hike the trail inside it. Yes, you heard me correctly. It was a rainforest: a legitimate rainforest a’la Fern Gully. Except there were wallabies and kangaroos.

I felt that considering my non-nature tendencies I was doing pretty well. The sunlight was dripping through the tree tops and the air was moist from the rain. It was at that moment when I felt something brush my pant leg. I bent down, unaware of the danger that awaited me, and pulled the leg of my jeans up to inspect my ankle. And there they were: LEECHES!!!



I immediately do the practical things and panic. I can’t help myself there are at least ten or twelve attached to my leg and even a couple on my shoe, attached through the mesh of my tennis shoe. I had no idea how long they had been on there and I was freaking out because I am anemic: my blood is so thin that if I lose even a little bit of blood I feel very sick.



I start screaming at my husband to come and get them off of me. It was a damsel in distress moment. I was crying and he was pulling them off of me. I was convinced that I was going to get a disease or bleed to death. But as Husband threw them on the dirt we were horrified as we watched them roll back towards us! One end of the leech flipped over the other as they came after us again! It was like a bad horror movie.

We ran, I repeat, ran out of that forest like frightened children. In the end I did not die of blood loss. (clearly) But my leg did bleed considerably. And the picture below is only a small example of the damage done. All in all I'd say that 40% was Physical damage and 60% Psychological.

I suppose the lesson is: if your Australian friend who has lived in the area his whole life tells you to put on knee high rubber boots before you go hiking- listen to him.

Six Days in the Camping Life of Portia

Day One

Arrived, relaxed. Buffness of V breaks fork while eating steak dinner.

Day Two

Rain! Lightning! Some hail as well. Camera left under awning made by tarp; only casualty.

Buffness of V once again breaks fork, this time while eating pork chops.

Also, minor moth altercation.

Day Three

Discover hardiness of moths. Slight panic ensues.

More rain.

Dutch-blitz provides liveliness.

No broken forks.

Day Four

Spend more than an hour watching squirrel dubbed Chadwick. Wish I could stuff cheeks full of pancakes.

Yet more rain.

Yet another broken fork.

Day Five

Watch chipmunks fight over absurdly, over-sized marshmallow.

More rain.

Chadwick is joined by Carl, the rabbit, and Gus, the ultra fat chipmunk.

Day Six

Moth falls down my shirt. Don't wish to discuss.

It rains.

We leave.

Triple G: The Man, the Mystery (A tale by Beatrice)

I like to throw parties, especially parties for myself. As far as I’m concerned, my birthday is a holiday of me. While most people would prefer to relax and bask in the pleasure of having people fawn over them, I like to be in charge and control everything. I like to throw parties with themes, potentially with costumes. However, little did I know that the year of my seventeenth birthday, the theme would, unbeknownst to me, transform from “Fun and Girly with Hello Kitty” to “Potential Assassination Attempt on Beatrice by the Greek Mafia.”

This entire situation revolves around a guy who is now known as “Triple G”, a name that will make no sense to you until I explain how he came to be known as such. Triple G was a guy I had a crush on who lived in another state and whom I texted continually. We did not know a lot about each other, but we were slowly learning, a pastime that would turn out to be dangerous and, perhaps, life-threatening.

Things that were common knowledge about Triple G: He is Greek, his whole family is from Boston and Chicago, and he used to be a figure skater, along with possessing an impeccable sense of style. I soon learned that he was wealthy because, at some point, he mentioned that he owned horses and his family often races them. I was surprised, given that, initially, he had hidden this little factoid from me. Suddenly, I find out that he owns twelve horses, regularly races them, and has a shocking amount of knowledge regarding proper attire for such occasions, the latter of which I discovered when he commented on how he wanted bring me along and stick me in Yves St. Laurent and slingbacks (and I’m ashamed to say that, at the time, I had no idea what either of those were, as my typical dress code consisted of jeans, snarky t-shirts, and Converse. Hey, it was high school).

When I informed my mother of his apparent wealth, she asked me what his dad did. As far as I knew, his dad was unemployed, which was interesting considering the amount of money they had. And the horses. And the high fashion references. My mom jokingly suggested that they might be a part of the Greek mafia. I admit, I laughed because, at the time, I didn’t think there was any such thing as the Greek mafia.

Nonetheless, I googled it, along with asking a friend who was Greek. Contributing to my growing paranoia, I discovered that the places Triple G and his family had lived were considered hubs for the Greek mafia…which freaked me out a little. However, at this point, he was still mysterious and charming enough that his attractiveness prevented from scaring me away from him entirely. For now. My thoughts at the time? ‘Huh, what a coincidence.’

On the day of my seventeenth birthday party, while I was standing knee-deep in my pool, with my pants rolled up my legs, enjoying the attention of all my peers and relishing in my birthday-related awesomeness, I mentioned, jokingly, to him on the phone what my mother had said about the Greek mafia.

There was a long and weighty silence.

O_o

Triple G then said, “…Let’s talk about this later.”

My memory at this point gets a little fuzzy, but I distinctly recall bringing up this topic with him again, only to receive a dismissive response coupled with an excuse somewhere along the lines of, “You’ll be safer this way.”

…

Consequently, my paranoid, jump-to-conclusion, Alfred-Hitchcock-watching mind immediately conjured the vivid and disturbing image of Greek mafia men with baseball bats, coming to hunt me down. In fact, Triple G was located only 5 hours away. And he had a private jet. With which could easily find me.

I then expressed my fears to my friends, who, being as addled-minded, crazy, and overly-dramatic as I was, immediately came to the same conclusion: Triple G was a part of the Greek mafia. He was practically the Greek equivalent of the Godfather. This, in turn, led to his extremely inspired nickname, “Triple G”: The Gay, Greek Godfather. Portia and V, slaves to alliteration, desired to tease me as much as possible and therefore decided to throw in “gay” because of his ice skating past and attention to fashion (disclaimer: none of us believes that having an interest in ice skating or fashion makes a person gay. This is a joke.).

Also, I’d just like to note that the always creative Portia and V decided to give me a giant pineapple with a bow for my birthday, along with a build-a-bear Hello Kitty doll wearing a dress and slippers with pineapples on them. Be jealous.

For some inexplicable reason, we then decided to watch the film Deception, with Goldie Hawn. Ironically, we had given V a baseball bat that very day in order to prepare her for an upcoming trip to Italy, dubbing it her “Italian Boy Beater” because she is so pale and beautiful, she would need it. Thus, she carried it around with her for the entire party, which made me feel a little more secure, and yet I was constantly, at any moment, anticipating seeing the burly shapes of men with gold chain necklaces nestled in their chest hair lurking nearby, or perhaps a horse’s head in the cushions of my couch – in essence, I was expecting the worst, any mafia stereotype my brain could conjure. Deception did not help the matter, as it is an extremely creepy film about betrayals and the secrets kept by men we think we know. How applicable. THANKS.

Essentially, the end to this gripping tale is entirely anticlimactic because, basically, nothing ever happened.

Nonetheless, I did, at one point, have a conversation with Triple G’s father, who’s main comments on the relationship were a bunch of cryptic creepiness and the statement, “We should never have let it get this far.”

And then I never had any contact with them again.

As far as I’m concerned, that was a near-death experience. Probably not really. But seriously. I was scared enough that I felt as if I was on death's door. Memorable party? Yes. For all the right reasons? Well...no. No, not really.

A Tale of Dinosaur Llamas, Boats Propelled by Swing Sets, and Stanley Tucci, by Portia

     I am an insomniac. While this makes me incredibly fun company around 2 am (or prompts me to post a new blog entry for a blog we just created because I'm so wide awake and excited about it, I can't be patient), it is, for obvious reasons, somewhat detrimental to my sleep patterns. Consequently, I often find myself needing to turn to the aid of non-prescription pharmaceuticals in order to actually get a decent amount of sleep at night. My go-to is Benadryl, although I did once take a prescribed Ambien when I was sick. It’s seriously the closest I’ve ever come to being high and I absolutely hated it because the walls were moving and I kept running into them and the inside of my throat felt furry. No joke. I actually got the Ambien for an overseas, thirteen-hour flight to New Zealand, but I never took it because I was afraid I’d be one of those people who sleep walks when they take sleeping pills, and I’d wake up to find myself sitting in some random person’s lap in first class and then get arrested for attempted molestation or something. In hindsight, I actually probably should have taken it because I had a panic attack mid-flight due to my severe claustrophobia, which is the reason my doctor prescribed the Ambien in the first place.

    But I digress.

    When I’m not an insomniac, I’m one of those people who is entirely dead to the world when asleep. Being such a comatose sleeper, I don’t often dream. In fact, the only times I ever do dream are when I take Benadryl. And boy, are those dreams trippy.

     One of the most infamous dreams of mine has been dubbed by my friends as the “Jurassic Park Llama Dream”, which is just as straightforward as it sounds. I dreamt I was in one of the jeeps in Jurassic Park toward the beginning of the film, when everyone’s still optimistic and the sun’s still shining and the electric fences are still working. We turn a corner in order to come out from behind a hill and there, in all of their glory, is not a herd of brontosaurs or whatever they’re called, but a herd of giant llamas, the size of, well, dinosaurs, munching on some trees and looking all fuzzy and adorable. And that’s when I woke up, rather saddened that giant, gentle, dinosaur llamas do not, in fact, exist.

    However, that’s only the beginning.

    A few nights ago I had a very creative dream of a fantasy world in which I was somehow an outcast superhero with a twin sister and a mother whose magic got her kicked off our island. As a result, I had to hijack a boat and try to make my way to the place where my mother was marooned in order to save her. Unfortunately, these boats were propelled, for some inexplicable reason, by swing sets. Yes, that’s right, swing sets, like we used to ride when we were kids. I had to get into a swing set and swing my little superhero heart out in order to get that dang boat to move. By the time I woke up, I was entirely exhausted from all that swinging and the boat had barely moved from the dock. Oh, and I was almost buried in an avalanche of books from a book mountain that I scraped with my swing boat because, apparently, swing sets doesn’t steer boats very well.

    In yet another dream, I was in a Safeway with a friend of mine, V. V and I are wandering about the supermarket, browsing in the greeting card section, checking out the coloring books because we’re such mature adults, when we encounter a guy we know from back in high school, who we’ll call Flirtface McSmarmalots. Flirtface is hitting on every available (and unavailable) female in the store because, let’s face it, it’s clearly in his nature. Upon seeing us, something happens in my dream that still remains a little fuzzy in my memory and we soon find ourselves in an all out food fight. I’m sorry, did I say food fight? I mean food WAR. Stationing ourselves in the dairy section next to the frozen foods (which makes a lot of sense in retrospect; all of those frozen foods make very handy, solid, damaging projectiles), V and I are flinging stuff at Flirtface and attempting to win the battle, but to no avail.

    Dream!Portia: We need back up!

    V: But who?

    Suddenly, a figure comes running to our rescue! He turns down the frozen dinner aisle, sprinting heroically to our aid, my dream sequence practically in slow motion as he comes into focus before my very eyes. It’s…it’s…

    Dream!Portia: It’s Stanley Tucci!

    Stanley Tucci: :D

    Dream!Portia: Wait, it’s Stanley Tucci.

     Stanley Tucci: … :) … :|…?

     Dream!Portia: Stanley Tucci, what good are you in this situation?

     Because, let’s face it, Stanley Tucci, while being horribly underrated by the big wigs in Hollywood despite his talent and versatility, is not the individual I would have called upon for aid in such extreme circumstances as a supermarket food war with Flirtface McSmarmalots.

     Stanley Tucci: :(

     Consequently, the war rages on in the aisles of Safeway, with Flirtface gaining ground, forcing us to retreat nearer the bakery, a bad location given the softness of our ammunition at this point. As I’m about to dive into the back of the bakery in search of some stale bread products to hurl at our enemy, V cries out in jubilant surprise. Do my ears deceive me? She seems to think we’ve won! But how?

     Another figure springs from the vicinity of the deli, fully armored, hair dramatically swishing in the breeze that spontaneously appears out of nowhere in the middle of Safeway because it’s my dream and that can happen.

     Dream!Portia: It’s Prince Caspian!

     Prince Caspian: *hair flick*

     Dream!Portia: That’s more like it!

     Stanley Tucci: *is bald*

     And thus, Flirtface was defeated by the mere sight of Prince Caspian’s full head of dramatic hair and his sword which, I must admit, was rather menacing given the fact that all Flirtface had was a carton of milk with which to defend himself.

     Believe it or not, I’ve had far tenser dreams than that, although I don’t, on average, experience nightmares. My dreams are usually more random, with my dream self looking at all events with an incredulous skepticism typical of my real self. Even so, I had one particularly stressful dream that was, per usual, highly random, as it involved a bunch of Death-Eaters, several characters from the cartoon Avatar: The Last Airbender, and a shirtless Draco Malfoy/Zuko hybrid.

     Yes, I’m an adult. Why would that possibly be called into question? ...

     Essentially, I was walking around my hometown one night, and found myself outside a house I knew, for some reason, to be Malfoy Manor (Harry Potter geekdom ahoy!), despite looking like a perfectly modern, suburban home. Inexplicably, I peeked through the front window, saw a bunch of Death-Eaters in their creepy robes and masks, started to book it away from the place, and then was plowed over by Draco who was attempting to flee his own home. A big chase via broom ensues, although I’m hightailing it out of there on foot and, at some point, Draco, who had taken to the air, falls down right on the top of me (and I mean that literally), totally unconscious. So there I am with an unconscious Draco Malfoy while Death-Eaters are swirling around overhead, hurling curses everywhere, and Dream!Portia is scared out of her mind. Nevertheless, with my enhanced dream strength, I am able to carry Draco (what?!) to a house that looks just like Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters in X-Men and, upon entering, encounter the gang from Harry Potter and several characters from Airbender.

     Understandably, things get a smidgen hazy here, but somehow, Malfoy switches sides, my brain draws random parallels between him and Zuko, there’s division in the ranks of wizards and benders and mutants regarding whether we should let him join, and then all hell breaks loose. A bunch of earthbenders, firebenders, and airbenders (no waterbenders because even my subconscious self can’t stand any excuse to have Katara present; is it weird that I’m this opinionated about a children’s TV show? ...) start fighting with Harry’s group, though who’s on who’s side, I couldn’t tell.

     The rest is completely blurry, except for the fact that Draco was definitely shirtless at some point in there, which I’m thinking might tell me something about my subconscious, but I’m a little afraid to dwell on it too much. Just rest assured that, apparently, Dream!Portia has a thing for Tom Felton.

     Oh, and it gets worse. Because I had yet another HP-themed dream in which Dumbledore lived upstairs, Fawkes lived in my side yard, Tom Felton visited me often just to hang out, and my cousin, who lives next door and looks strikingly like Neville Longbottom, actually turned into Neville Longbottom.

     ...Can I just pause for a moment to say that if I had Neville for a next door neighbor, my life would be complete?

     ANYWAY, this brings me to a dream I had last week while on, you guessed it, Benadryl. What stuck out was how normal everything was. I was in a coffee shop I often frequent and there was this guy whom my companions and I have affectionately dubbed “Coffee Shop Guy”. I’ve seen him around for several years now (thaaat’s right, years) but I don’t know his name, or really anything about him. The reason? The coffee shop doesn’t give its’ employees’ nametags. Why? I don’t know, why?!

     Regardless, for some time now, Coffee Shop Guy has been the butt of several jokes between my little group of friends. He’s a lovely man, to be honest. He just looks like a nice guy. I like nice guys.

     And, apparently, my brain likes nice guys named “Ryan” because my dream only consisted of me being in the coffee shop and looking at Coffee Shop Guy. He turns around and he’s finally wearing a nametag and it says “Ryan”. I don’t know a “Ryan”. In fact, I haven’t the slightest idea where “Ryan” came from. However, my head is clearly distressed at the lack of name. Frankly, I’m a little surprised his nametag didn’t read “Coffee Shop Guy”.

     Regardless, he remains a man I adore from afar, in a half-joking sort of way. I remember commenting once to a friend of mine that I thought he was good-looking, in an off-handed kind of way, and it turned into this huge inside joke about how Coffee Shop Guy is my soul mate who is also rich and will whisk me away from here. Oh, and he is also a man who will put up with my shameful ken of knowledge regarding Tolkien, Harry Potter, and classic literature. And maybe take me to the Harry Potter theme park for our honeymoon. And then possibly back to New Zealand.

     Dang, Coffee Shop Guy named “Ryan”, you’ve got big shoes to fill.

     As a result of this entire experience, if I find out that this guy’s name is really “Ryan” and my dreams somehow have prophetic properties, we’re screwed, ya’ll. Because the future must then contain dinosaur llamas, supermarket food wars with Stanley Tucci, swing-set-propelled boats, and Death-Eaters chasing me around my hometown. Although, what the heck, at least I’ll have Neville for a neighbor and a shirtless Tom Felton running around Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, which will be conveniently located not far from where I live. It can’t be all bad.

Of Internet Interviews and Tour Guide Barbie

INTERNET: Welcome to BlogSpot.com! Who do we have on the blog today?

BEATRICE & PORTIA: Hi, we’re Beatrice and Portia, long-time lurkers, first-time bloggers!

INTERNET: What can you tell us about yourselves, for all those readers out there who hate introductory blogs?

BEATRICE: Portia and I have known each other for 8 long and glorious years, and, thus, sometimes I cannot tell where my sense of humor begins and hers ends.

PORTIA: I’d say hers begins with “M”. Mine ends somewhere near “X”.

DRUM KIT: *badum tisk*

INTERNET: Are “Beatrice” and “Portia” your real names?

BEATRICE: *is distracted by video game being played in vicinity*

PORTIA: *gets sucked in as well*

INTERNET: …we’ll skip that question.

BEATRICE & PORTIA: *abandon Internet dialogue theme in favor of something more productive*

Without further ado (see what we did thar?)…

Ado: n. – time-wasting bother over trivial details.

Much Ado About Blogging: n. – A blog in which “ado” is a primary component of the title, which therefore encompasses entries spent discussing relatively insignificant details utilizing hopefully, potentially entertaining prose.

TOUR GUIDE BARBIE: Come along, people! This way please! Our tour on “Beatrice and Portia” is starting now!

*Touristy camera clicking*

TOUR GUIDE BARBIE: Beatrice and Portia met in 2001 in the 5th grade and bonded over a mutual love for the film The Mummy and all things mythological. Elementary school passed as they formed alliances with friends R and V, carried along with classic childhood lightheartedness. All right, let’s move on to Junior High!

TOURISTS: Ooh.

*Fanny packs rustle*

TOUR GUIDE BARBIE: Junior high was a time of transition, filled with pointless activities such as “The Pink Panther Club” and a short career in fan fiction that has been carefully hidden from the eyes of the mature adults with whom they now associate.

TOURIST: Are there any surviving members of “The Pink Panther Club”?

TOUR GUIDE BARBIE: It is an ancient society that has since passed into legacy much like other clandestine societies such as the Opus Dei. Let’s move on to High School!

*More camera clicking*

TOUR GUIDE BARBIE: Freshman year was eventful for Beatrice and Portia. Not content with mere Internet fame on fan fiction, Beatrice wrote a fantasy novel that now effectively brings a blush to her cheeks. Portia nearly had a nervous breakdown after entering Geometry. Both spent one study hall period drawing on V with crayon.

TOURIST: Is the novel in the museum?

TOUR GUIDE BARBIE: I’m afraid the only surviving copy is locked in a vault somewhere. I believe there’s been some discussion regarding whether to burn it for the greater good of humanity. Now, after freshman year came the Great Falling Out of 2006, after which Beatrice and Portia did not speak to each other until January of the following year.

*collective gasp*

TOUR GUIDE BARBIE: Yes, it was a dark time in history. However, the Peaceful Reconciliation of 2007 reunited the comedic pair.

*enter Junior Year Exhibit*

TOUR GUIDE BARBIE: Junior year came and went, Portia both fell in love and was heartbroken, and Beatrice met the man who would soon become Husband. Junior year’s end was marked by the Second Great Falling Out of 2008. Beatrice then tested out of high school, married Husband in November 2008, and moved to Sydney, Australia, leaving Portia to finish high school without her.

*shuffling*

TOURIST: *raises hand* This tour is getting really boring!

TOUR GUIDE BARBIE: All right, fine. Portia was valedictorian, went to college, reconciled with Beatrice, she and Husband moved back home and she is now employed at a purveyor of women’s intimate apparel, while Portia attempts to battle the beast that is higher education. Happy fun times ensued, and now they’re here ready to make blogging history.



Hmm, this introductory post is constipated – it didn’t really flow well…