The Mezzanine

When the Spice Girls first started, my only connections to the word "ginger" were
1) the spice
2) the expression "full of ginger"

So I concluded that Ginger Spice was "full of ginger", and that they'd also gone with a subtle pun because she's a "spice" girl.


It was only last night that my brain finally went "Oh... She's a redhead..."

This is the story of how a young fanficcer, taking her first steps into a new world of fandom, eagerly decided to do lots of research to make her fic extra-awesome, and did just enough research to totally screw up the whole thing.


Here's the thing. I'm not really a Star Trek fan, but I know the vague outline. These days, having looked at much of TV Tropes, I'm a bit more conversant than I was 6 years ago. Which... brings us to our story.

You see, I was writing a teeny ficlet starring Andrew. Nothing major - just 300 words or so. But I was trying hard to write him well, and keep it in character, and I threw in a Trek reference, because, why not?

The joke was that Andrew had gone to a convention, very eager to get a signature from an actor. An actor who'd only been in a single episode, but of course, Andrew being Andrew, he knew exactly what the guy's name was and which episode he'd been in, and was very eager to line up for a signature.

...so, I went on IMDB and Wikipedia, and looked at Voyager episodes, trying to find a one-episode character I could use. None of that making up names for me, oh no. I was going to do it properly. Sure enough, I found a character who'd only appeared once, put him in my fic, and thought no more about it.


Until a few weeks ago. When I was re-reading some of my old fic.

And I got to the one with Andrew, and was reading it happily when I got to the Star Trek bit and thought "...hang on. That sounds familiar."

Because, yes, I've been hanging round fandom for several years now. No matter how much Trek you don't watch, there's a few facts you're bound to pick up.

It took me less than a minute to check. And then several minutes more to stop headdesking, because, you see, what I'd done...

Well, what I'd done was have Andrew line up at a convention to get a signature from Commander Riker, that's what. Mister Growing-The-Beard Himself.

Which totally changes the line, and also makes Andrew look slightly moronic for talking about Riker coming from Voyager when he's actually from Next Gen.


Yes, I'm an idiot. Feel free to mock me. *grins*

I am, in many ways, rather weird. And while I knew this already, this whole wedding thing keeps finding ways to remind me.

It's slightly surreal to find yourself locked in a two-hour argument about precisely how many minutes the speeches will go for, and exactly who is going to speak in which order, when you know perfectly well that you do not care in the slightest about the speeches. You can get very invested in astoundingly trivial things.

Like speeches.

Or nails.


How Much I Do Not Care About This Thing I Suddenly Have To Care About

I take little-to-no care of my nails, normally. This is slightly because they suck, and tend to tear off at random intervals, and slightly because nails (like "fashion", and "sports") are just not really something I'm interested in.

My sister, on the other hand, is a Nail Afficionado. She has several dozen nailcare tools at her disposal, and uses them all with great enthusiasm. As a result, she tends to have gorgeous nails.

So, since I'm getting married, my sister suggested that I try paying slightly more attention to my nails than normal (ie: any attention whatsoever), because then I would have lovely nails for my wedding, and she would be very thrilled with this. Hence, I have dutifully been using nail strengthening stuff, crystal nail files, and other weird things.

And, let me tell you, even if you don't care in the slightest about concrete, if you spend an hour a day smoothing out a section of concrete then you will come to care, passionately and deeply, about keeping that concrete smooth. The same applies to nails.


A Terrible Problem, And A Worse Solution

So, last week, my nail tore rather dramatically. And after spending several days dutifully reinforcing it with tissue and extra nail polish, it was clear extra measures were called for.

I went to the nearest nail salon. This was a bad idea.

(Sidenote: My sister interpreted my interest in nail salons as a fixed idea, and so did not bother objecting to it. I interpreted her nodding her head – rather than shrieking in dismay and dragging me away – as approval. In future, I want to install Subtext Interpreters in every location I frequent, to prevent further mishaps.)

The nail salon fixed the broken side of my nail! Yay! And utterly destroyed the other side of it! Woe!!! At which point, being overly invested in my smooth concrete lovely nails, and not a little highly strung from wedding prep, I collapsed in a wailing pile of RUINED FOREVER.

My family tried to fix this problem by pointing out wonderful solutions to make it not show up in photos - which I did not take well. Because, really, I don't care about having nice nails for photos! I don't care about nails at all! But I'd taken SUCH GOOD CARE of them, and now they were DESTROYED, and MY LIFE WAS OVER!!!

In the end, everyone shrugged and started telling me about all the things that went horribly wrong at their weddings, which made me giggle.


Yes, I Am Insane, But In A Productive Way

The thing that really made me feel better?

You're going to think I'm weird...

But anyway...

It was Buffy Summers. Specifically: the scene in which Buffy is talking about fighting vampires, and complains, "I broke a nail, okay? I'm wearing a press-on!"

Buffy fights vampires! She has no ability to keep her nails nice, because of all the vampire slayage! Woo!


Here is my new head-canon for my own totally imaginary life: I have been out fighting evil marauders for months on end, with my brilliant sword fighting skills. Which has totally destroyed my nails – so, upon my return to the castle to prepare for my upcoming wedding, the Royal Nail Fixers did the best job they could of giving me pretty nails, but were of course unable to replace the bits that had been sliced off by my opponents' swords.

Yes, I am very strange. BUT I'm a strange person who is ALSO a cool arse-kicking sword fighter, who lives in a CASTLE. I AM TOO AWESOME TO BE FAZED BY HOW MY NAILS LOOK. I FIGHT EVIL, BITCAS.



...whatever works. *shrugs*

My brain has a weird relationship with tv split-screens.

Every time I watch The Parent Trap, I spend half the movie trying to figure out what Hallie and Annie's distinguishing features are - before once again realising that they're both Lindsay Lohan and by definition have the exact same face.

And tonight? I was rewatching Doctor Who, when Amy and Amelia got together and started talking... and I spent far too long wondering what kind of split-screen they were using. And then realised that, even though they're playing the same person, they're two different actors. They're obviously two different actors. Who couldn't possibly be mistaken for the same actor. And yet...

Like I say. My brain has not yet learned the difference between fiction and reality. One of these decades I'll figure that out.

Just rubbed out the apostrophe in "pasta's" on the chalkboard at my coffee shop.

That's one good deed for the day...

I have two images in my head.


One is of me, down at Philip Island, riding my bike alongside my two adorable nephews, both riding the bikes they got for Christmas. How fun! And auntyish!

The other is of my bike dropping off the back of my car halfway down the freeway to Philip Island, being horribly crushed by the car behind me, and reduced to a couple of bits of twisted metal for me to mourn over.


...at 6pm this evening, whichever image seems more probable to me at that instant will dictate whether I take my bike down to Philip Island or not.

Mez working as an engineer:
...
...
*stares out the window*
...
...
*checks email*
...
...
(repeat ad infinitum)


Mez working as an editor:
*starts reading document*
"What?"
*continues*
"What on earth?"
*reads some more*
"No! NO NO NO NO! WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?!"
*frantically red-pencils the page*
"ARGH! No! Stupid- Why would- BAD WRITING! SO BAD! Gah!"
*has now reached the end of page 1*


I'm not exactly the most relaxing colleague...

A few weeks ago, I was driving home from my Thursday Night Group, and got the shock of my life when I turned and saw a HUGE SPIDER on my passenger-side window. (On the outside, thank goodness.)

The spider was clinging for dear life to the outside of my car, as I drove at breakneck speed down the road. I wasn't all that sympathetic, though - my gut instincts for spiders range from "Ahhhspiderahhhh" to "KILLKILLKILL". My major concern at the time was how on earth I was going to get out of my car without it sneaking across the roof and attacking me as I emerged from safety.



Tonight? Same location, same thing: BIG SPIDER on my passenger-side window.

Cue Mez freaking out, again, and nearly driving off the road in shock and terror.


But then... I started thinking.

And I realised that clearly the poor old original spider had dropped onto a nice shiny playground shaped like a car, in all innocence, never realising that he was about to be whisked away to a strange and terrifying new place.

And this spider, loving friend of the original spider, was risking her life and limb in a desperate mission to find her beloved and bring him home.



It's a lot harder to wish death to spiders when they're suddenly BRAVE HEROIC spiders and you're secretly cheering them on.

I have this habit of taking books with me, just in case.


In a typical day, the odds are that I'm going to spend time sitting on a train, or waiting for a meeting to start, or waiting for someone to show up at a cafe, or similar. In those circumstances, it's useful to have a book to pass the time. So I tend to have one in my bag.

I have a lot of bags.


I discovered, last night, that the first Harry Potter book wasn't on my bookcase where it should be. And went "Aha! I remember taking that as my spare book a couple of weeks ago! It must be in my bag."

I checked bag one. No Harry Potter - but there was an Anne of Green Gables book.

Bag two? Zombie Survival Guide.

Bag three? Introverts Guide to the Church.

Bag four? Agatha Christie.

Bag five? Agatha Christie.



All in all, I found thirteen books, all there just in case I needed something to read while I was carrying that bag. I still haven't found my Harry Potter book...

Dreamt that sister 1 and I were leading a resistance movement against sister 2's zombie army.

Not sure why...