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Final Fantasy: My Gateway Drug

4 Aug


I want to quit my job and play Final Fantasy all day.

It’s been a growing concern ever since Dave started playing the most recent installment of the game series.  Not so much because I’m an avid Final Fantasy fan (I’ve played several, but not all and thus wouldn’t dare starting a geek war with anyone), but because I actually want to play World of Warcraft.

It’s been a long time since I’ve found something to fill the void of that gloriously epic massive multiplayer online game that zapped the life out of me, added 15 pounds, took all my money, and catapulted me into a world of eternal bliss not many years ago.   Of course, I wasn’t achieving anything “real”.  My only achievements were chronicled in the quests I completed while roaming the world of Azeroth.  My real life achievements were nill.

It probably had something to do with my schedule at the time.  It went something like wake up, sit at computer and play, get hungry, order pizza, eat, get sleepy, go to bed.  Somehow I managed to make those small tasks last me an entire day – and sometimes all night.  

It’s surprising how long one can live off leftover pizza if rationed appropriately.

And though it wasn’t a particularly proud existence, I could have happily carried on in my nerd cave until the end of time without caring much for the consequences.  Unfortunately, World of Warcraft costs money and sitting in my bedroom unshowered for days on end didn’t pay well.  Sooner or later I needed money and realized that listing “raid leader” and “super epic elf hunter” on my resume wasn’t exactly setting myself up for success.  So I swore off the game and vowed never to return.

Until less than a year later.

But the second time I quit, I quit hardcore.  I uninstalled the program from my computer hoping that the ridiculously long installation process would be a deterrent for future relapses.  And in a startling blow to my inner desires, Responsible Jackie got a laptop that isn’t capable of supporting the game’s graphics.  So if I ever want to start up again, I have to buy a whole new computer.

Enter Final Fantasy.

Though FF could never fill the void that WoW has left in my soul, it does offer a decent and safe alternative.  Though it will also propel me into months of slavery to a machine and stats, it is far healthier than WoW because it 1) has an ending and 2) isn’t online.  It also doesn’t punish the player for not achieving things in a certain amount of time or reward them frequently with enormously epic gear.  But the gameplay is pretty much the same.  I get to use magic and I get to kill things.

I also have Dave to hold me accountable, who is fully aware of my sordid past and is prepared to leave me should it resurface.

I have yet to pick up a controller and try my hand at Final Fantasy 13, but I have been seriously letting the idea brew.  I keep getting glimpses of release from reality and true relaxation juxtaposed against images of my fat, greasy, college shut-in self.   Will picking up the controller catapult me into a life without a job, without Dave, and without sunlight?  If I stop posting, you’ll know why.

Tell the rescue team to check under the pile of pizza boxes for a pale, smelly non-contributor. ♣

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Appealing to the Mom Demographic

3 Aug

Charming photo by Keith Parker. Less than charming edits by me.

Why do moms love my blog so much?

This is an increasing area of concern.  Not because I have anything against it – I love moms.  Particularly my own.  But I’m a little confused as to how the things I write about appeal to the average mom.  I don’t talk about what I would consider ‘mom things’.  

I can’t tell you how many times people tell me that their mom loves my blog.  It’s very strange to me to be given a passed down compliment from a surprising hit demographic.   The feedback has been building over time, but I think it hit an all-time high when I was forwarded an email at work today from my coworker’s mom that simply stated “Tell Jackie I put my underwear on backwards today.  I just noticed it in the bathroom”. 

It was followed by her professional business signature line.

My coworker’s mother is, of course, referring to my frequent posts about underwear malfunctions.  In fact, if you type ‘underwear’ into that little search box on the top right hand side of my page, you’ll almost turn up as many post results as you will with ‘cats’ or ‘food’. 

Underpants are a big part of my life.

I don’t know most of these people’s mothers.  And the people that have the mothers who love my blog don’t say anything in particular about the blog themselves; they’re just the messengers of someone else who likes it.

I have somehow roped a demographic I have no idea how to maintain.  

I’ve thought about what will happen to my blog after 2011 and whether or not I’ll keep posting. And of course if I do, eventually one day I’ll be a mother and I’ll have to try to do a Mom Blog.  I thought I’d be able to rope in a whole new cross section of bright-eyed, bushy-tailed moms.    But as it turns out, they’re already reading.  They don’t want to read about babies and barf and cute kid quotations.  They want to read about people who struggle to put their underwear on correctly and consistently.

This is surprising news.  Perhaps I can conduct studies on my blog and sell it to marketing researchers.  I’ll tell them to cut down on their references to baby products and support groups and fire up discussions on cats, hot apartments, stressed working relationships, and food.  I suppose it’s time to change my tagline.

TheJackieBlog.com: Life is Funny Your Mom Will Love It. ♣

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Sloop Jackie B

2 Aug

Once upon a time I attempted a Lollipop Tuesday where I sang at an open mic.  Unfortunately, there was a terrible turnout at the venue that evening and it didn’t feel quite worthy of a Lollipop Tuesday adventure.  So shortly thereafter I posted and asked my readers to vote on whether I should have to redo the event. 

And because 52.17% of you are heartless bastards, I had to do it again. So this past week I headed back out to the venue.  It felt kind of silly to just sing all over again but with more people present, so I decided to up the ante.

Exhibit A: The Poll

By rapping.

Happy Lollipop Tuesday folks.

Let me tell ya – if there’s anything that could get me more nervous than singing, it is certainly rapping.  Spitting.  Laying down some mad beats.  Because I’m super white.  Like, super duper white.  Not white like Eminem with the rhythm and the baggage and the anger and whatnot.  White like I looked up articles on line for how to rap better before I went out that night.

And then recorded myself on my webcam an played it back to write notes for myself.  Things like “drop voice more” and “don’t look so awkward” and “you’re doomed, cracker.”

You see, Dave has a song that has an alternate version.  He use to hang with a guy that called himself Moses McFly (I kid you not, he’s the raddest dude around) who loved one of his songs so much that he decided to pen a rap verse to it.   And truth be told, it’s pretty cool.  

You know, when he does it.

So with his blessing, I pulled out the piece of paper he Sharpied the lyrics on so long ago and began to try to lay down his mad rhymes.  It was a terrible, pathetic mess.  I tried so hard to fit all the words in the phrase but I just have no sense of rhythm or beat or anything pertinent to rap skills.  I had to break it down elementary music class style with tee’s and ta’s and whatnot.  

Finally I had to kick Dave out and tell him to take a walk because I was simply too mortified to do it in front of him with any sense of abandon.  While he was gone I decided I would have to make up a character for myself and just go for it.  So I put a hat on sideways and called myself Sloop Jackie B.

It was a Fossil hat.  It was white and fuzzy.  Almost crocheted, really, but it was the closest thing I had to a baseball cap with the sticker still on it.  

But it worked.  It really did.  I just decided to try to be the best rapper I possibly could instead of wallowing in how obviously terrible I was.   And it’s a darn good thing I put on my big girl pants and gave it a go because when I showed up at the bar that night there were three times as many people as usual.  The place was absolutely packed.  I walked in and my jaw dropped to the floor with the realization that I would have to follow through with my plans.  

Dave decided to do it quick like a Band-Aid and sign up 2nd on the list.  So before I could even think of relying on any liquid courage, I was up in front of the bar, explaining that I had a blog where I tried one new thing every week that I’m terrible at or have never done before and I share it with the world.  

Dave played, I rapped.  

I like, actually rapped.   I dropped my voice, put my hat on, put my lips right up against the mic like I was it’s middle school lover and I laid down the mad beats of one Mister Moses McFly.   It was by far one of the ballsiest things I’ve done in my Lollipop Tuesday saga.

The audience received it well.  You know, for the fact that I obviously was no good at it.  In fact, I got a lot of support from people I’d never met.  Dave was so excited about the whole thing he’s tried to get me to do it again. But let’s be clear: I have no plans to rap again. Sloop Jackie B isn’t cut out for the gangster life.

I mean, let’s get real: my gangster name was based on a song by the Beach Boys.♣

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The Quest for Air Conditioning: Cat 1, Dave 0

1 Aug

My cat is becoming a challenge.

Absolutely irate with the hot, AC-less apartment, he has begun to make us aware of his anger.

By inserting himself into the refrigerator every time it opens, for example.

In the little amount of time it takes me to open the door, grab ketchup, and splat it on something, I return to the fridge to find my cat inside it.   Even if he wasn’t in the kitchen to start with.  It’s like he’s telling me that if I don’t get an AC, he will continue to live his life in my fridge.   It was cute the first four times, but the first time I found cat hair on my water pitcher it lost all sense of adorableness.

Adorableness is a word.  It shouldn’t be; it seems strange.

Aside from trying to keep the Hobbesinator out of the refrigerator, I also have to put up with his recent pleas for escape.  You see, not too long ago, the Hobbeser ran away into the wild to give me quite a fright and himself a few wild nights to tell of in his later years.   My posts centered around the event for quite some time until I eventually found him mewing for us to save him from the cruel, cruel world outside Dave’s bedroom window. And ever since, he’s sat at the front door loudly yearning to return to the wild.

Dave’s been taking him on frequent walks to help him cope but they’re no good.  Mostly because cats are no good for walking.  It’s silly. But moreso because Hobbes is a little girly man and can’t deal with his emotions.  

Dave has also been holding the freezer door open and allowing Hobbes mini vacations in front of the cool freezer air.  I don’t know what’s better: finding cat hair on an ice cube or listening to him whine for hours on end.  You’d think he’d tucker himself out after a while and, like a baby, fall asleep when he’s had his share of crying.  But he’s more like a child who’s been left in the car while his mother goes grocery shopping – altering the sounds of his mew just to experiment with the range of his voice and keep himself entertained.

It’s intolerable.

I priced ACs the other day not for my charming Dave, but for my annoying cat.  Isn’t that sad?  Dave’s been ready for me to cave for weeks now and I haven’t budged.   Turns out all he had to do was sit in the same spot and badger me with annoying whinnies. 

Let’s hope he doesn’t take that as a cue for future endeavors. ♣

Cat + Fridge

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An Evening With Some Potheads

31 Jul

The other night I was out enjoying a drink and attempting to catch up on some posts.   I’ve been desperately attempting for quite some time to sit down and pound out some ideas so that I’m a few days ahead and not completely stressed out.

I’ve been terribly unsuccessful.

So I was out at a lovely establishment where Dave got called in to do a little last-minute bar help and took advantage of the awesome writing day I was having.  Words flowed so easily for me; I didn’t even have to edit what came out of me.  I had every intention of writing at least three posts before I left the bar that evening but my attempts were thwarted by a chatty activist and a surprise benefit. 

I arrived at 8:30pm and wrote with a fury, pleased that after a long dry spell things were coming so naturally.  At 9:00pm, a gentleman came to the bar and sat down beside me to chat.  

I’m not very good at handling these sorts of situations.  I used to just put out a really heavy hate vibe and hope that people were too intimidated to talk to me.   But over the past year or so I’ve been really trying to fix that and now I feel bad relying on it.  Which is why my writing attempt was thwarted by a discussion of pot activism.

Yeah, that’s right: pot.  Weed, green, cookies, Papa C’s Funky Space Boots.  Apparently at 10:00 that evening there was a benefit for a pot advocacy group.  Their goal is to legalize marijuana so that the country can regulate and tax it and so they can stop hiding it from their landlords.  The gentleman who sat down next to me (let’s call him Deeb) wanted to make sure I knew all the statistics, history, and details associated with their pursuit.

I just wanted to write.

It’s not that I don’t care about pot legalization – I do.  But Deeb doesn’t understand how difficult it is to write 366 (thanks a lot, Leap Year) unique posts when I also have a job, a second job, and do not have the benefit of being inspired by the creative properties of Papa C’s Funky Space Boots.  

I tried everything I had in my Polite Bag, including emphasizing that I didn’t know there was a benefit that night, that I sat at the end of the bar to be away from everything so that I could write, and that my boyfriend was working there (complete with a visual cue).   Finally I got  in the Slightly Rude Bag and pulled out my cell phone to text a friend and invite her to come.   If I was going to throw a great day of writing down the tubes, I was going to at least get good conversation with a friend in exchange.

At 10:00pm when I’d decided to dip into the Blatantly Rude Bag, a girl approached me and told me that the evening was a benefit for her group and that there was a cover charge of ten dollars.

You’re kidding, right?

I wanted to give her a full lesson on the concept of a cover charge.   No one starts an event and goes inside to tell everyone that’s already been in the establishment for an hour and a half that they owe them money.  I’m pretty sure that in any other part of town, that would have warranted a punch in the face.  But I was tired and annoyed and didn’t have any cash on me anyway so I decided to just say “Oh, I’ve been here since 8:30 – I actually came for dinner and didn’t know there was a benefit tonight.  I don’t have any cash on me, but I can talk to the bartender and see if he can charge my card and pass along the money.”   She replied “Well, we’re a nonprofit soooooo…”

Allow me to defer to a fellow blogger’s post on ending phrases with “so”.  Here, Pegoleg lays out her disdain for the unresolved phrase and considers the due consequence: killing offenders and hiding them in her floorboards.

You can understand why I’m an avid follower.

Of course, had I not read the post, I would not have been thinking about the variety of ways I could kill the person in front of me for her offense.  In fact, she had to die for a multitude of offenses being that she attempted to charge me a cover when I was already in the bar.  Absolutely, death was the only option.  

But just then, my friend arrived and beckoned me to the other end of the bar, where I dodged both Deeb and the fundraising zealot.  The stand-up comedians began to take the stage (oh yes, it was a comedy benefit) and I woefully waved goodbye to my inspiration and ease of language for the evening.

Maybe when Deeb and the zealot succeed in their quest, I can hit them up for some help with the dry spell they’ve caused. ♣

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Sometimes Only a Cow Will Do

30 Jul

Yesterday I was overworked,  overtired, and overly hungry. By the time 2pm rolled around it was apparent that I had not thought out my day and prepared for the wrath of my mid-afternoon situation.

At about 2:30 there grew within me a beast so unruly and intense that only the flesh of a heavy red meat could pacify it.  I tried to ignore it by reaching for the emergency applesauce in my desk drawer and slurping it down in a jiffy. But anything that could be eaten “in a jiffy” was child’s play.  

It needed blood.  It needed slaughter.

Just then, my boss ordered me to scrounge up a sub from the local sub shop and I saw my opportunity and seized it.  When the delivery guy came, I took the order and promptly darted to my local Five Guys, where only the freshest, juiciest, lard-laden cow is served up daily.  I sprinted there, trying to simultaneously track where I would be in relation to walking to pick up a sub from the opposite end of the street.  I was on target.  I was a mastermind.

I arrived in a sweat and saw only one gentleman in front of me on his way to order.  I let him go instead of sprinting ahead because good masterminds also take time to be kind.  

That was a mistake.

The guy was a total noob – a greenie – a know-nothing.  It wasn’t just as if he’d never been to Five Guys; it was as if he’d never placed an order in the world of food service before. Luckily, his brother/friend/man of substance in his life came over and laid everything out for him.  Slowly and painfully.  Suddenly in the middle of the rundown, four little sprogs appeared shouting for cheeseburgers like little baby birds hoping for their mother’s seconds.  

My one kind pass had now grown to six.  

Time was ticking.  My hypothetical sub dispatch would already have sandwich in hand and be on the return flight.   As my patience began to waver, one man showed the other the intricacies of burger-building like an amusement park tour guide.  He pointed to the line cooks.  He oohed and aahed over the magazine articles on the walls.   As my eyes followed his guided visual tour, I fantasized about leaping over the counter, snatching a cow patty, throwing money on the counter, and running away in maniacal laughter.

After he successfully emerged from the ordering process, they stopped at the pickup counter and asked me to snap a picture of them. You know, right beside the sign that says “you must be this tall to eat a cheeseburger”.    I snapped the picture with my finger slipping on the capture button from the nervous sweat that was accumulating on my palms, knowing what I might be missing back at the office.  I pictured my boss’s meeting coming to an end and her in her office drumming her fingers wondering where the Beach Club Sandwich was that, if on schedule, should have been delivered ten minutes ago. 

Foil-wrapped burger finally in hand, I speed walked back to the office like an old lady in a housing development.  My stride was full and fierce.  I arrived to find the meeting door just opening and my boss exiting.  I casually handed her the sandwich and tried the excitement within me that wanted nothing more than to shove the entire burger I was holding in my other hand directly in my mouth all at once.  As soon as she walked into her office, I jumped into my office chair, tore off the foil wrapper and bit down into what was one of the best cheeseburgers I’ve ever had in my life and reveled in the glories of perfect timing and luck.

Ah, the sweet, juicy spoils of a mastermind. ♣

 

 

Mouthwatering satisfaction. Emmmm.

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The Fatness Cometh

29 Jul

Folks, I have a serious problem.

Super serious.

Some of you may remember a post I wrote not too long ago about my mourning the loss of my favorite ice cream place in all the land: a little shop called Mercurio’s that disappeared suddenly from a little hole in the wall I would have gladly called home.  As it turns out, someone from the shop actually read that post (because I’m famous, yo) and assured me that they would reopen in another part of town.

And so they did.

Today as I was picking at the sale scraps at a few sidewalk sales like a kitten in a dumpster and spyed with my little eye a sign that said “Mercurio’s”.    I couldn’t control the force that took over me and thrust me through its doors to be greeted by the sweet, cool, whiff of fresh gelato. Mmmmm.  And as I stood in line, happily ordering a death by chocolate bowl of sweet regret, I looked to my left and noticed an entire wall was sealed off from the rest of the shop, with a sign right in front that said “Mercurio’s Pizza: Coming Soon!”.

Oh my dear, sweet, Lord in Heaven save me from this great temptation.

I don’t know how to take it.  On one hand, I’m thrilled that someone cares enough about me and my love of ice cream and pizza to make them both out of high quality ingredients and put them under the same roof for my convenience.  Really, I appreciate that.  Obviously someone’s been reading my blog and slowly tailoring a shop to specifically my tastes.  That’s the most thoughtful and large-scale thing anyone’s ever done for me.

On the other hand, I am seriously considering moving beside the shop and never eating anything else ever again.

This is serious.  Like I said: it’s “super serious.”  For years when I first started college I downed an entire frozen pizza and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s twice a week.   That is not an exaggeration.  I spent the majority of my late high school/early college years fat and unhappy by day and fat and STOKED by night.  I love food.  Particularly food that is terrible for me and in mass quantities.

So this pizza and ice cream shop that Mercurio’s is building for me is fantastic and all, but I also just canceled my gym membership.   I can’t even gorge myself and pretend I’m going to go work it off.   I don’t know how long it is until they take down the plastic that separates the beautiful ice cream from the beautiful pizza, but I’m in trouble.  And scared.  Hold me?

After all, this might be the last time I’ll fit in your arms. ♣

They even have an apartment upstairs. Don't mind if I do.

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Breaking Up Is the Hardest Part

28 Jul

I broke up with my gym yesterday.

It was a long time coming, really.  I think it knew;  I’d been neglecting it for quite some time.  Ten out of the twelve months we were together were distant and awkward.

When we first started out, I had so much optimism.  I entered its shiny new doors with hopes that with its help I could be a better version of myself.  It even had these stationary bikes with screens where I could pedal after dragons and coins and game scenarios of all kinds.    It was the perfect workout for a recovering World of Warcraft addict.  What more could I possibly want?

I guess the first real blow was when I wanted to come over one night and it was closed.  Apparently the doors had been shut in observance of a holiday.  I didn’t have any holidays marked on my calendar until it occurred to me that my gym was Jewish.

Which is fine and everything.  I just didn’t realize when we started together that I couldn’t see it on Shavu’ot.

From there, things started to go downhill.  There were all these rules and restrictions – hours I had to pay attention to.  I couldn’t just mosey over any time my schedule allowed; it only wanted to see me on its terms.  I often showed up ready to give and was rejected.   I didn’t want to have to check in every time I wanted to see it just to make sure it also wanted to see me.

I’m a grown woman. I need stability.

Now I’m not quite sure what to do with myself.  It’s hard to admit that something isn’t working out and then try to execute the decision you’ve made about it.  After all, it’s right down the street from me.   I go by it all the time.  So what do I do? Do I acknowledge it but try to look casual?  Do I check in and see how things are going?  Or should I just ignore it altogether?

The hardest part is staying away.  Because even though I know this is the best decision for me, I might get fat and sad one day and come crawling back. 

…Or rolling.♣

For the record, my gym did not look this awesome. But even if it did, I wouldn't go.

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Office Anger Management

27 Jul

Yesterday someone at work asked me what my “email number” was.

It’s moments like those that make it incredibly difficult for me to resist the urge to bash my skull in with a stapler.   In fact, I had a variety of taxing conversations yesterday that featured various displays of ignorance and stupidity.  Throughout them all I surveyed the office supplies on my desk and daydreamed about how to turn them into lethal weapons of self-destruction.

When I have to say “T as in ‘Tango, A as in Alpha” 3 times and someone still manages to send an email to “T as in Tango, K as in Kilo”, I am fantasizing of a death by pushpin acupuncture.   When I answer the phone with my name and department and the immediate question on the other line is what my name is and what department they have reached, I am drowning in a tub of ink, with a letter-opener stabbed into my heart.  And when I have to play a voicemail 8 times to catch the number at the very, very end, I am testing man’s ability to fly by jumping off the roof with wings made out of post-it notes.

I’m having a difficult time managing my work anger.  

I’ve considered a multitude of coping mechanisms.  For example, I could install a program on my computer with random pop-up pictures of adorable baby animals.   Because nothing brings me down from the rage I feel when someone emails me and then immediately calls me like a bowl of baby kittens.

But in the middle of my thought, a delivery guy came in with a bouquet from Edible Arrangements.   I’ve always wanted to try Edible Arrangements (a bouquet made out of edibles – in this case, chocolate-covered fruit) and I’ve always always wanted to get something awesome in the mail at work.  I assumed it was for my boss, but this time the peasant prevailed and I laid claim to the booty.

It was my loyal reader from this past weekend’s Battle of Bull Run, wishing me a Happy Lollipop Tuesday and thanking me for joining her.    And suddenly all my anger disappeared.   It had been replaced by chocolate covered apple wedges and grape skewers.   I felt like a rock star.  A blog star, if you will.   And my problems were solved.  I don’t need to injure myself with office supplies or have a baby goat screensaver.  I just need daily gift deliveries at my place of work.  Preferably chocolate.

So, you know.  Feel free. ♣

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Reenacting the First Battle of Bull Run

26 Jul

Ladies and gentlemen, I have promised you epicness and I now bring you epicness.   Straight from the 1860’s. This past weekend, while nestled in the historic bosom of Manassas, Virginia, I proudly reenacted the First Battle of Bull Run.

Happy Lollipop Tuesday, ya’ll.

Getting into formation before heading out to the battlefield in the sweltering heat. Like this group, many chose to don the complete uniforms in spite of allowances made by the organizers for the elimination of jackets, gloves, and a variety of equipment.

It all started when a loyal reader casually mentioned her long and lustrous history of reenactment.  For those of you who are lost, reenactors are folks to trot from one famous battleground to another to reenact a historical event that took place there many year prior.  They don the clothes, they sleep in tents, and even the greenest of them know more about history than your high school teacher.  In fact, many of them can tell the story of a battle in such interesting and tremendous detail that it makes you want to be a history teacher.

Apparently, my reader has been donning crotchless pantaloons (and a host of other period-accurate items) since high school and wanted to share her joy with me.  And as if that weren’t enough, she also suggested I apply for a media pass on the grounds that I was covering it for my blog.

And to my surprise, it worked.

I drove in the evening before to get the lay of the land and conduct an “interview” with my friend.  I donned a dress with my bright red magical media lanyard sticking out like a sore thumb and in the parking lot stumbled upon a group of rowdy men in camping chairs, drinking beer.  I walked past and gave it a moment – considering the power of my magic lanyard, and whipped back around to actually, well, interview someone.  Without the quotation marks.

They greeted me happily with a camping chair and a beer – which in any other scenario I might have declined but I was on official business.  And if I had to stomach a can of fizzy urine to have an experience, then by golly I was going to make that the best damn beer of my life.  I asked them what reenacting was all about, what brought them there, and things like there they got their uniforms.  Out of respect for their privacy and for what they shared with me I shan’t go into further detail.  But suffice it to say they were a wonderful group of fellas who gave me my first glimpse into what an interesting mix of fun and sincerity goes into the life of a reenactor.   When I parted, I left them a bottle of Brandy for their troubles and decided that I had experienced something fantastic that weekend even if all the rest was a bust.

A reenactor in full uniform takes his horse to practice maneuvers with a view of the Union camp behind.

Which it wasn’t.

Because the next day when I walked onto the battleground, I was greeted by horses, muskets, canteens, and wool uniforms on every lad and lass in spite of the ridiculous death-taunting heat index.  Make no mistake: these people aren’t joking around.  One man brought his 2-week-old baby along.  (Fear not – rumor in the Union camp was that they were harboring a small AC unit in their tent for moments of dire need.)

As with any Lollipop Tuesday, I tried to get as involved as possible.  So when my reader offered a pair of crotchless pantaloons, a modesty skirt, a full button-up dress, and told me she could get me onto the battlefield if I donned them all and followed her command, I giggled like a little schoolgirl.

To be frank, it was awesome.  The entire thing.  With over 8,000 registrants, what could have been better than standing in the battlefield with the Pennsylvania Artillery as they rallied the horses to pull the canons forward, cried havoc, and let loose the dogs of war?  As they pushed their way farther onto the field and gun powder and dust overran them, I made my way  over to the official spectators area to see the fruits of their labor.

And my heart sank.

I saw real gunpowder, real formations, real charges, and real horses.  I saw men fire guns and others fall to the ground.  And while I knew it wasn’t real because I was just having a beer with those men or laughing as they shoved ice in their hats to fight the heat, I couldn’t ignore the fact that not long ago, men gathered on these fields to fight for something far bigger than themselves.  And when it was over, they did not retire to their tents to talk about what a good time it was or drive home to air conditioning, or – in most cases – get to rise from the battlefield and brush themselves off.  That’s what brought people from all over the world and the United States to reenact the 150th Anniversary this past weekend.  In fact, some of them took it upon themselves to represent a member of their own family who lost their lives that day in Manassas.

And even after the camaraderie, the thrill of a new experience, and a beer enjoyed with a great group of men, that realization is one that quiets my soul. ♣

To see professional photographs of this event, consider viewing the Richmond Times-Dispatch album here.  Their photographer, Kevin Morley, did a fine job of capturing the weekend.

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