I won't get into a long-winded explanation of who Ken Wilber is and why I find his work fascinating, but much of his work would be considered transpersonal psychology -- the study of how people grow and evolve. I get a newsletter from his organization, and they link to various articles in the media that are of interest to people intrigued by transpersonal psychology, spiral dynamics and all that stuff.
This is one that I can't resist putting up on my blog, since anyone who's read my rants about my annoying coworker will know that the article made me laugh. But it will also be useful to anyone with an annoying boss, family member, coworker, whacky neighbor, whatever... If you've ever found yourself asking, "Don't they get it?" The answer may very well be, "No." Seriously, what can you do about it, other than laugh? Besides, it hurts less than beating your head on the wall.
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?.../18/MN73840.DTL
Being as busy as I am at work is a good thing, to a certain extent, but here I am, in at work on Sunday. And what am I doing? Writing in my BPAL blog? ARGH BLARG! Actually, I'm basically finished with what I arrived to do, but I'm considering cleaning off my desk just a bit and then leaving.
And what am I doing here on Sunday? I am the lead-off batter in the entire staff presentation process on Tuesday. This happens every year that there's a new and/or difficult committee to work with -- I get to go in first and be raked over the coals. I get to have everyone who doesn't really understand how the process works ask me 50 trillion questions and generally bitch about how they can't find out what's going on. Never mind that they want me to know more than most of the people who run the agencies I'll be talking about. It's the general naive nature of newly-elected legislative officials who think they're going to change the world. There's term limits in my state and almost half the legislature turned over last year, so experienced folks are few and far between. And my boss picks me to twist slowly in the wind, every year.
I know it's because I'm somewhat less (externally) sensitive than other people in the office, I don't pout, whine and mince around about thing, I tend to not be as pedantic in my presentations as some of the other staff, and I'm no Angelina Jolie, but I'm probably more into presentation of my entire self than some of the other staff. I also think my boss really gets off on putting me through the mill, so he can tell everyone else how horribly my presentation went. So I'm in trying to prepare as best as possible, but I know I'll get asked a lot of non sequitur questions that I can't answer. I detest this part of my job.
Last week one of the fatcat lobbyists came in and asked me to go to lunch with him, I still can't figure out what he wanted, he claimed it was just social in nature. He is fun to talk to and I get a giggle out of his observations. I was getting somewhat disconcerted that he'd take pains to walk behind me and then he confessed that he liked to smell my perfume. And what was I wearing? Snake Oil, of course! You don't go to lunch with a lobbyist and not wear Snake Oil. It may become my signature scent for the session, although the one day that I wore Mme. Moriarty, she got an extreme reaction from someone. Since they're in the same "family," I'm not sure most people can tell them apart. I love them equally.
I went a little batshit on the update and ordered way more than I intended. What did I get? Bakeneko, Svadhinaopatika, Vasakasajja, Chintamani-Dhupa and Smut. I know Smut will work, but I already have a bottle-and-a-half of Smut 2006, but how could I not order another bottle? And the others... well, we'll see. They sound lovely. I love Lupercalia, but then my forum name is valentina, after all.
I'm going to shovel off my desk. I hope all of you are well, and staying warm if you're somewhere where it's cold.
I got my CnS on Friday for my order of 13 and a set of imps. And then the Lunacy/Anniversary update arrived later on that night, and what to do, what to do? Actually, I'm not in as much of a quandary as some people, all of you lucky/unlucky ones who are able to wear a lot of different fragrances. (I say lucky because you get to wear a lot of different things, but it's unlucky for your bank account.) I'm still more jazzed about the new GC scents that showed up in the Halloweenie update, Mania, Horreur Sympathatique and Love Lies Bleeding -- they're in the imp pack. And I've also never tried Misk U, La Petite Mort or Nosferatu, so they're rounding out the six pack o' imps. I just know a GC bottle order is going to emerge from that set of imps.
For the sake of my bank account, and maybe my sanity, I feel rather fortunate that the GC scents seem to be my favorites and LEs don't tempt me that much. Except for the Lupercalia update last year, the LE releases usually don't work that well on me. I'll be interested to see if the release for Valentine's Day LE scents will be as wonderful for me as last year's. (I suppose it makes sense for someone with a forum name of valentina, huh?) And usually by the time that update arrives, I am ready to indulge myself -- it's the dead of winter, holidays are over, I'm in the midst of the legislative session. Ah, fingers crossed.
The election is tomorrow, and it's about time. I'm sure anyone here in the U.S. is probably sick of all the political ads, yard signs and mailings. Tomorrow I meet friends for coffee at noon in a downtown establishment, and it is always nuts downtown over the lunch hour on election day. Usually there's different candidates for some significant political office standing on the corners of the main downtown intersection, their supporters waving signs, whooping it up,and all that nonsense. Actually, it's pretty funny to watch. I remember several years ago, I was walking down the street, and a candidate for U.S. Senate was on the corner. His wife was with him, and I wasn't really paying attention to them until I got relatively close, and I looked up and caught her giving me the most wistful, plaintive look. She looked like she wanted nothing more than to just join me and walk down the street, away from the noise and glad-handing. The life of a political spouse -- you get to be with your mate once in a while, but generally, they're always "on." People dream of being famous, but really, I think it's more of a nightmare than a dream.
And say, you of the female persuasion, do you shave your armpits? A couple of years ago, for whatever reason, I decided to let my pit hair grow unchecked, starting in November. I think I relented and shaved it in late February. By then, I'd tired of it and the novelty had worn off. I had never, ever done that in my life, and I just wanted to see how long it would get. I felt so Euro. And it didn't turn into man-like pit pelts, anyway. But it just seemed a little nasty and sexy to let it grow, since in general I'm a rather groomed creature.
So do any males shave their pits? I have a gay friend who once drove to Denver (about an 8-hour trip), checked into a motel, shaved down his entire body and dyed his brown hair plutonium blonde. Now, WTF? I never did figure out if the shaving/dying project was the reason for the drive, or he decided to do it while he was on his little road trip. I asked him if he enjoyed being a girl, and he said it was entirely too much work.
I bought a Sirius radio car kit and installed it on Saturday, proof that it's so easy that a monkey could do it. I actually felt rather accomplished and it's fun to have even more options of stuff to listen to than what I already have going on in my car. I have the presets all established: two jazz channels, one acoustic singer-songwriter music, one trance/electronica, alternative rock from the 90's, a channel with only Canadian musicians, CNN news, Talk Left (of course, no Faux "fair and balanced for me), and the Met Opera. That is what is fun about satellite radio. And if I don't like anything on the 100+ channels, I shut it off and listen to Bob Schneider, for they don't have an "All Bob" channel yet. Howard Stern, no, I don't listen to him. Nor the comedy channels. On a long roadtrip (maybe to Denver to dye my hair and wax my entire body ), I'd listen to comedy for a change of pace, but generally, music is where it's at.
It's Monday. I don't want to work, but I suppose I should get coffee and consider it.
Does anyone remember the old TV show "Taxi?" See it in reruns? The character played by Christopher Lloyd, Reverend Jim Ignatowski, was the classic '60's burn-out, but he occasionally showed flashes of a former self, prior to all the drugs. There was a show where he was sitting in his apartment eating breakfast and a wrecking ball crashed through the wall -- the building was being demolished, and Jim had somehow failed to see the eviction notices. I think he said something like: "Boy, there's a draft in here!"
There was another show where Elaine, the aspiring actress, needed someone to escort her to a cocktail party being thrown by a very wealthy theatre patron. Jim was the only one available to act as an escort, so Elaine got Jim all cleaned up and took him along. She told him to be quiet, and he was doing an OK job. But during the course of the evening, the pianist who was supposed to entertain the guests failed to show up, and the hostess was bemoaning her plight. Jim said he played the piano, and the hostess promptly took him up on his offer. So Jim sat down and began clunking out "Chopsticks." Elaine was slowly dying. Then Jim suddenly started to play gorgeous classical music; he stopped only briefly and said: "Hmmm... I must have done this before!"
At Meadowlark Coffee, there's a fair number of Jim-like characters hanging outside, because it's across the street from the hospital that houses the county mental health facility. The outpatients sometimes sit outside at Meadowlark waiting for the bus. There's one guy who's obviously medicated to the gills, but he's still somewhat coherent, just a bit dazed.
Last Friday I was sitting inside Meadowlark, reading, when someone began playing all sorts of songs on the piano. The repertoire ranged from jazz standards to show tunes to Beatles songs. I couldn't figure out who was playing the music, and I couldn't see the piano, so I stood up to take a look. And it was the Jim-like guy, playing them all from memory! A woman who was probably his caseworker from the mental health center was sitting with him, and every now and then, they'd start singing together.
Amazing. It was really very funny in a Reverend Jim sort of way, and it was also sad, because you wonder what this person was like before the schizophrenia, or whatever is organically wrong, got to him. He never did say "Hmmm... I must have done this before," but he did at one point stop, look at the keyboards and say: "Not bad!"
Thanks to YouTube, I can now find 1980's music videos to see if they were as good as I recalled. I always loved this one. In fact, it drove me crazy. And it still does! (Sorry for the primitive link, my operating system here at work doesn't let me use the link function.)
BTW, while this video aired at all hours of the day on MTV, I don't consider it entirely work-safe if your screen is exposed to interlopers.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QjYuPAC6-lo
There's a end-of-season sale extravaganza going on at the shopping mall not too far from where I live, so I had to stop by long enough to see if there were any really great shoes or boots on sale in my favorite shoe department. The answer was, of course not. The serious shoe and boot sales start in February. I am still delighted about those $150 Diesel boots that I got for under $20 a couple of years ago; I always attempt to equal the experience, but have yet to do so.
Anyway, I found a parking place and thought that the fastest way into the mall would be through the David's Bridal store. I've never been in a David's Bridal before, and I wasn't aware that this place didn't have an opening into the rest of the mall. As a result, I wandered through the store and its various viewing and fitting venues before leaving in horror through the door that I used to enter. I am absolutely convinced that drag queens should be hired by bridal shops to help prepare young females for the absolutely intricate selection and fitting process that seems to surround either wedding or prom attire. Drag queen can work it, and some of the females that I saw today needed a lot of encouragement to work it. Why not get tips from the masters?
I'm only half-kidding, but I know a lot of the ladies that I saw today would bristle at the notion of a gay cross-dresser helping them cross the street if both of their legs were broken, much less getting clothing and style tips from them.
Not to run down anyone's prom or wedding experiences, because if you wanted to work it up big-time, more power to you. I tend to be the kind of person who will get all done up because I'm having fun putting together quite the little get-up, or because part of my job is working it and creating my "you can look, but don't even think of coming near me" aura.
And maybe that's what disturbed me about today -- most of the females I saw trying on gowns or formals weren't wearing styles right for their bodies and they looked miserable and unhappy. It should be fun, they should be snappin' and happy, and instead they just looked sick. A nice drag queen doing a happy squee when a hesitant young lady emerged from the dressing room would do so much good!
And in the end, is everything being so ornate and perfect and more gorgeous than imagined on that one day going to make the rest of your life together better? Of course not. I can be so pragmatic sometimes, but for whatever reason, my dreams never did involve ornate weddings, much to the relief of my father.
I need to get my booty in gear and do something that has a time deadline on it, but I wanted to say thank you again for all the words of encouragement about my presenation. And I'd like to report that my presentation went just fine yesterday. No non sequiturs, just lots of good questions and good discussion. I was happy. It took a long time because there were several people learning how the process works, but that was fine. I don't mind that.
What I did mind was how management of my office tried to deliberately frighten staff into believing that this was going to be the second ring of hell, and unlike anything we've previously experienced. They are so out of touch with what their staff are able to do, and they always assume we're the most incompetent boobs on the planet. I believe what's going on here is what the psychologists call "projection."
My boss, in fact, informed me yesterday morning that he was tired and frazzled and wouldn't be able to help me much at all during the presentation. The reason? A pipe had frozen at his house the day before. It was unfrozen and all was well, but his wife was upset that they'd had to drill a hole in the new basement drywall and her anxiety had ruined his life. Now really, WTF? And just because his wife is high maintenance does not mean that he should return the favor with his staff! If I had walked in and swooned over my basement drywall, and said I couldn't possibly do my presentation, he would have told me to put on my big girl panties and get busy. So when my presentation was going well, he kept jumping in trying to participate and get attention. I do forget, it is All About Him.
And the cold hard fact that I forget over every interim, is one that I have to relearn every year: If you're a female in the environment where I work, and you're not a needy wreck who requires propping up, and you're reasonably decent to look at, you will be run down at every possible opportunity. Insecure men love strong men, insecure men hate competent women. This fact is true all over the place, and it's just a matter of degree. I know there are many places that are much worse, if only because my bosses are too lazy to really make trouble for me -- they just try to run me down in subtle ways. They manage by fear, and that's a game that cowards play.
I listened to T-Rex on the way to work. I'm wearing Snake Oil and my burgundy patent leather boots. The assholes don't get me down, because underneath it all, I'm entirely too weird for this place and they'll never figure me out.
For everyone who has at some time felt what I'm describing today, and that would be most of you, here's one of my favorite quotes, from E.E. Cummings:
To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best day and night to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight and never stop fighting.
I was late, as usual, for work (it's a slow time of the year and no one really cares), so I did my usual run to the coffee house. I was still in my weird semi-funk that started last night. So here's what happened.
I got out of my car, and a guy who works at a store next door, who I visit with a lot, is getting off his bike. He's gay, but he's very sweet about giving his female friends compliments, so he started whistling and yelling that my outfit deserved a hug. So he ran over and gave me a hug.
Then, sitting outside the coffeehouse, was one of the characters who frequents the place. This guy seems like a bit of a burn-out, although he bikes a lot and is pretty good shape, although he was sitting around talking to me about long-distance cycling as he smoked his cigarette. (People who do things like that crack me up, I think it's exquisitely amusing.) I don't know his entire story, except that he has been around and around and around. He likes to tell me that he's in love with me, which always confused me, because I was sure that this guy is gay, but I think the honest truth is that he loves everyone so much that he sleeps with men and women. He just can't help himself, you know. So much love, so little time... Last week he told me that his name means "wandering gypsy" in Czech (yeah, right) and now he calls me his "gypsy girl." So I've been called worse, and actually, I like that moniker.
I noticed the barrista who normally works there in the early mornings was standing outside talking to someone in the parking lot. I walked in to find one of the owners there, in a very weird mood. He blurted out me that he and the barrista wouldn't be working together any more, because they just got into a big fight in front of customers. I tried to sympathize, but he was about ready to cry and he couldn't talk.
I went back outside to talk to Mr. Wandering Gypsy, who is friends with both the barrista and the owner. The barrista then drove past in her car, stopped and yelled out the window: "Just so you know, I just got fired. Just so you know." I'm thinking, hmmm... I just thought you got moved to night shift, not fired. I think she'll still have a job if she wants it -- she was probably fired when she walked out, but the owner had started to change his mind and come up with other options.
The Wandering Gypsy and I visited a bit and I discovered he's not the brain-dead slacker that I thought he was, he's just a character and a horny slut, but otherwise an OK sort. I went to work and he went in to talk to the owner and try to figure out what the story was regarding the firing and/or reassignment of hours.
I got to the office to discover a phone message from a friend announcing that she'd spent $150 to purchase something from a dermatologist that's supposed to make your eyelashes grow. Then she called me to tell me the same thing one more time. Considering she called me about 5 times a day Monday through Wednesday to obsess about her job, this is at least a change. Do I ever call this woman and freak out about my problems? No.
Then I got a phone call from a woman who used to work across the hall from me, until she had a stroke. Her optic nerve was affected and she sees prisms if she doesn't wear special glasses. I feel very badly for her, but she was a treacherous and difficult person to deal with professionally. Most people in this building stayed the hell away from her. I used to be cordial enough with her, and apparently she has decided that I am a good friend. That is so sad -- she had so few friends that someone who was merely polite with her is a good friend. She was upset I hadn't responded to her email from last Friday and wanted to make sure she hadn't offended me. I feel sorry for her, being stuck at home all the time, and I'm sure she needs human contact. I'll talk to her every now and then, just because if I were in the same situation, I'd want as many outside world contacts as possible. That's one of those things where I'll invoke karma, and say it just must be part of my karma.
But. Le sigh. I get really tired of being a ray of fucking sunshine or a wailing wall. Nevermind that most of my troubles are things that I won't or can't share with anyone, much less acquaintances. And a lot of my troubles are so sterotypical that they embarass me. I would sound like a composite of the "Sex And The City" characters, but mainly Carrie. That alone could get me in a bad mood; can't I have more unique "issues?" I'm just joking here. None of us want to have issues or problems or ill health. I am Miss Crabbypants and this morning I've seen someone lose their job and talked to someone who can't see unless she wears special glasses to make the prism-vision go away.
It is all a matter of perspective, I say, and yet... I still want what I want and I want it now. Waaaah! But I better not say that, I'll probably get it, and then ask "What was I thinking????"
I was out trying to buy a pair of black tights yesterday and couldn't find them where I was shopping (sold out, I guess), so I bought a pair of black fishnet tights. Practical, huh? No, she never did believe in having the big wedding with the while lace gown, but by god, let's get fishnet stockings because they're there.
I think I might wear them tomorrow. I have this retro-style black skirt that begs for a pair of fishnets. Everything else will be black and white and muted, and the fishnets will be the wee little touch. Well, probably more than a wee little touch, maybe a serious jab in the ribs, but who cares... I'm a fiscal analyst, for hell's sake, no one expects it. It messes them up.
You know, people ask me to go to lunch with them (as did the lobbyist a couple of weeks ago), and I really don't like to go to lunch with other people. It's one of my least-favorite things to do on my lunch hour. I would so prefer to go to my nice little bohemian coffeehouse hang-out and get an hour of quiet time before I re-enter the fray. My inner introvert needs to be cared and nurtured, especially when my workplace is a zoo. I know going to lunch is "networking," but gah, most of the time it's just bullshitting while you feed your face. It wears me out.
I suppose if I didn't wear fishnet stockings, people might not be so inclined to try to figure out what the hell I was all about, but I can't let go of all of my personality for the sake of being left alone. I told someone not that long ago that I'd probably dress like a churchmouse this year during the session, and I guess I lied. Actually, I was being a bit sardonic when I said that, but I think they believed me.
And why is it, when the legislative session starts, several of my close acquaintances get needy? As in, really needy? I won't bore you with the stories, but it happens EVERY damn year -- the session starts and they start calling me or emailing me a lot or even stopping in my office to see if I have time to listen to godknowswhat. And it always starts with "I know you're busy, but..." The "but" should be followed with "I WANT ATTENTION! AND I WANT IT NOW!!!" It's not -- it's followed with whatever semi-crisis or love affair they want to tell me about in utmost detail. Gracious. My friend and coworker Scott suggested I hang up a sign that says: "I AM NOT the wailing wall."
I am not a callous bitch. If it were a bona fide emergency or major life event, I'm there for people. But their annual job review that always goes well, or the new girlfriend, or generally noodling around about your philosophy of life are not emergencies.
In a total non sequitur, I had a dream Sunday morning that I'd given birth to a baby but I'd forgotten about it and gone off to a marching band rehearsal. Then I remembered: George Clooney was the dad! I'd go over to the dream interpretation thread on the forum and ask them what they hell they thought that meant, but I think I'd be booed off!
For anyone who would be doing some back reading in my blog, first I have to say, "Why?" Then I have to say thank you for reading this far back in my blog. What are you looking for? Anyway, you won't find photos of me anymore. For reasons I won't get into, I decided to take them down. I think my descriptions are pretty vivid, let your imagination do the sight-seeing. It's more fun that way!
This is me. I've never posted my photo in the thread where everyone posts their photo. Most everyone on this forum is very young and very gorgeous. Sometimes I feel so ancient, but hell, I'm immature, so that makes up for my chronological issues. I cropped my friends out of the photos. While I'm choosing to put my picture up online, but I'm not infringing on my friend's privacy by including them in the shots. Let's see... I've been told I look like Frances McDormand, Wendie Malick and Jane Fonda. I dunno.
I think I look like I'm at a former Aerosmith groupie reunion in this picture. For the record, I never was an Aerosmith groupie, but if I had been, I would have been all about Joe Perry:
I looked subdued and confused here, and I did have a migrane. I was also sitting on the floor talking to a 2-year-old. However, it is a damn fine shot of the highlights I had put in my hair and I love my new hairdresser. Let's give Brandi a round of applause for her handiwork.
So that is me, patron saint of lost dogs and lover of all things that look and smell really really nice. If you ever see me around, do stop and say hey...
Yeah, well, hey... I haven't written here in a while. I had to really buckle down to work at my job and something had to go, so meandering around on the internet was one of them. In addition, my winter solstice mood has been coming on, and that's not really a bad thing. When the days get shorter, I start getting quieter and more contemplative. I think it's reasonable behavior for a North American mammal. I see so much really bad behavior this time of the year that reminds me a lot of how animals in captivity act if you jam them into too small a space and don't give them enough food. Seriously -- you can go to a mall and see that sort behavior being acted out all over. I haven't seen anyone chewing on another shopper's ear, literally, but I've seen figurative versions of it in the tiny little forays that I've made out into the retail realm.
So no, I haven't been spending my time at the mall. I just completed some shopping online on Saturday. The internet is quite the blessing for the semi-hibernating North American shopping mammal. Except don't try eBay; you get into online captive behavior there.
Have any of you experienced what could be called clairsentience? It's the perception of energy fields through physical sensations. Scientific-rational types consider it hooey, because it's not a regularly occurring measurable phenomenon, but since our nervous systems send out energetic impulses are measured all the time with machines, I can't really understand why they think the human body isn't able to detect external impulses on its own. Any everyone has this ability, it just depends on how open or closed off to it we happen to be.
I'm just asking because it happens to me, and I think there's a lot of cool stories out there that most people won't talk about, lest they be considered "weird." And what I think is weird that that we can't acknowledge or talk about it without being seen as spooky. I was reading the New York Times yesterday, and being the incurable romantic that I am, I was looking at the weekly Sunday feature about a couple who had just gotten married. The woman in the couple featured yesterday said that during their second or third date, she felt a strong pang in her chest and she knew that something very special was happening between the two of them. How cool! There are so many people who would say she just had indigestion or an anxiety attack, and I get so tired of that "it's only..." blow-off to any mystical or emotional reading of a physical clue.
I do know that there are people who get those responses and then cut and run from whatever made them feel that way, because they find it scary and it makes them feel insecure. There is nothing spooky about it to me, it's a part of being human and having fully-functioning senses. There's a lot of mystery to it, but that's what makes it so remarkable. And because you never know when it's going to happen, you can't sit around and watch for it, which makes it even better.
So if you have stories, tell them... I'm listening!
I have my satellite radio in my car and it is such a novel experience for me, because I'm used to playing CDs all the time and generally controlling what I listen to. I have all my presets so I can move around if a station that I'm on is playing something that I don't like. But today, at noon, it was like a train wreck. I wanted so badly to change channels but something was keeping me there. Before the signal came over the radio, the digital read-out was telling me "Stevie Nicks." Then I was "treated" to Stevie playing the piano and talking in this dreamy-stoned-stream-of-consciousness way about Rhiannon, what a beautiful name, and how she loved her story, oh Rhiannon, the name, the story...and then the music rose a bit and she began to sing "Rhiannon rings like a bell in the night..." but all I could hear was "baaaaah-baaaah-baaaah." The woman bleats like a goat. I swear the reason she wears those long floaty dresses and big-ass platforms (even when they weren't in style) is to cover up her cloven hooves. (Hmmm... french manicured hooves?)
So then I did switch channels, because vomiting and driving just don't go hand-in-hand. If I have a bitch about Sirius, it's that whoever is doing their music blends gets into a rut and they play the same stinking people ad nauseum on any number of channels. For instance, for the last two weeks, Dave Matthews and Coldplay were getting flat worn-out. Now they're on a kick where if they can find an excuse to play Bob Dylan or Springsteen, they will. It is wearisome. I switch to jazz or electronica when that happens.
I also get a kick out of the Met Opera channel, especially when they're playing the ending of an opera, and the announcer is talking about what's happening on stage during the curtain call, describing the costumes, what the audience is doing, and all that festive stuff. It reminds me of listening to golf when they're broadcasting from the actual green that the players are on, and they're whispering "and now, for a birdie on the 16th hole..." I don't think they do that anymore when golf is on TV, do they? The announcers are in a remote truck somewhere? It's not like I watch a lot of golf. Maybe they do it even if they are in a remote truck, because it's just fun to whisper melodramatically.
If they did a wrap-up of a Stevie Nicks concert over the radio, the announcers would be saying: "And now, the audience that actually purchased tickets to see Ms. Nicks are standing and applauding, and their companions who came along as part of their martial obligation or who simply lost a bet are removing their ear plugs. Ah, Ms. Nicks bows again, and oh, now a lovely, lovely curtsy with her long flowing gown, oh my, her mammoth platform shoe just ripped a piece of her dress! Oh well, no one will notice on that tattered hemline anyway. Oh, and how lovely, how dramatic! Now the goat-herding Australian Shepherds and Border Collies are escorting Ms. Nicks from the stage..."
Oh, that was just too mean. I did see Fleetwood Mac in concert once because the guy I was dating got free tickets, and I was never so bored in my life as when Stevie was on stage doing her Welsh-witch ballerina swirling around bullshit. I think we left before the concert was over, because it did make me want to go drink beer and listen to the blues at The Zoo Bar. If anyone is a fan of Ms. Nicks, sorry, but that faux witchy woman behavior always drove me crazy. If she'd just gone with the California hippie chick all hopped up on coke image, I would have a lot more respect for her.
Here's a visual for you: Last night I came home from the gym and decided to go sit in the basement and watch a bit of a Lucinda Williams "Austin City Limits" DVD with Puddin' Tom. Ella Bean and Mugzy had to accompany me, and at some point, I was sitting on the dog couch (a $5 garage sale loveseat) with Puddin' Tom across my lap and Ella Bean next to me, her butt facing me. Puddin' was doing his happy cat paw kneading thing, and he had his legs stretched out so far that he wasn't kneading my leg, he was kneading Ella's butt. Ella's hair is thick enough and her butt is squishy enough that it apparently felt good. In the meantime, Mugzy has crawled up and sprawled out on the other couch, which was my Mom's old couch and must be about 7 feet long. (She got it so my 6'4" father could take naps on it and not have to scrunch up.)
And I thought, something is really odd about this picture, although it's rather typical of my life. Just crawl on me, everyone, that's my purpose in life!
A note about the Lucinda Williams DVD -- it was from a 1998 Austin City Limits performance, so it showcases the earlier part of her career. Her sound back then was a folk-country-cajun-blues brew. And absolutely, the song "Sweet Old World" makes me want to cry every time I hear it. I never do cry, but I want to. Lucinda wrote a few suicide songs in the earlier part of her career because he was involved with a guy who killed himself. "Pineola" is a pretty graphic description of a suicide's aftermath, but "Sweet Old World" is a very poignant reminder of all the little things that are very precious about being alive and embodied. It absolutely makes you want cry, but then you want to run out and find the person you adore the most in the world, just so you can to be around them. Or at least that's the response that I have to that song. A friend of mine is always bitching that I adore these songs that would make most people take a fistful of antidepressants. I think I've talked about this woman before -- she listens to The Andrews Sisters, the Monkees, and old-time musicals like "South Pacific" and "Oklahoma." I told her that is the most mind numbingly annoying musical blend I can imagine. I am often shocked we are friends.
Anyway, there I was, sitting on the dumpy little couch, covered with animals, listening to "Sweet Old World." Not a bad thing for a rainy evening in October!
What color, dahlings, is your underwear today? I'm wearing a tangerine-colored bra. Very sassy. And I have on a tangerine and yellow mesh bikini that ties on the sides.
And underneath the underwear, I'm wearing a combination of Tunisian Patchouli (from DSH) with O over the top. Damn, that is a fine combination. I think O is great alone, but I love it as a mixer.
Now this might be an interesting thing to track... I normally put my BPAL on prior to wearing underwear. Does the BPAL that I pick for that day affect the type of underwear that I pick? Ah, I have found a purpose for this blog... I'm going to track the influence of BPAL application upon my choice of lingerie.
My serious, Kinsey Report-like analysis has begun...
A few of us in my office found out that our former coworker isn't expected to make it to 2007. He refuses to take a defeatist attitude, and while some people might call it serious denial, I've never read a story about someone who beat the odds who didn't have that positive attitude. So I think he should just go for it, and the rest of us can steady ourselves for what might happen, but in the meantime, support him in every step of his process.
One of my coworkers took him to the doctor today, and was given instructions to give a couple of us in the office thank-you hugs (both females, of course). So my coworker gave me a hug, and he told me that he later on got a waft of Snake Oil that had apparently transferred from me to his shirt. Hee! He wasn't complaining, not in the least. In fact, he said he might wear that shirt all weekend. Goofus.
So I'm making chicken and sausage gumbo this weekend and I'm packing up some for my ailing buddy. He does like Cajun food, I know that much. I wish I could brew in some get well voodoo, so maybe I'll try to hold those intentions while cooking it. I went to an aryuvedic cooking workshop once, and the teacher talked about the importance of cooking with good intentions. It can't hurt. However, if I'm making a gumbo, it's really difficult not to have sexual fantasies while making a roux. You have to stand there and stir so long, what else is there to do? I am such a perv. I will control myself. Otherwise my poor friend will call me up and tell me that he wanted to listen to Aerosmith after eating that gumbo, and damn, is that Joe Perry something else or what?
I had a PayPal balance that I didn't expect to have, so I went in tonight and spent it on the Lab. I purchased 4 GC bottles; I have a decant circle set of holiday scents coming later on, and I may order a few of them. But the PayPal balance was going to burn a hole in my brain, and I couldn't wait. I keep falling in love with GC scents, and for that, I feel fortunate. (Now watch me go berzerk for the bottle of 13 that I have on order.) But tonight I ordered The Lion; I am a Leo, how did I go so long without The Lion? I know why -- I didn't like amber until I tried BPAL, and it took me a while to work up enough courage to test BPAL amber scents. I also ordered Dragon's Milk (never tried it, but if it doesn't work on me, I know a couple of nice people on the forum who could find a wee bottle of Dragon's Milk in a surprise package), Perversion and Follow Me Boy. FMB smells great on its own, but I love layering it with Siren.
I love the sight of all of the little bottles, all lined up in a row. Damn. I am so lucky to be healthy and have a sense of smell and be able to enjoy this stuff.
It's been a long month at work, since the start of the Legislative session. I've had a headache on-and-off since last Friday. It's indoor allergies and stress and not eating right and all that jazz. Thus, I've not been posting much around here, but I could not resist telling this story, courtesy of a coworker.
My coworker, W., has a daughter who's in 6th grade. Apparently the teacher was doing a "having fun with alliteration" project, and the kids had to make up a fun alliterative sentence and illustrate it. W.'s daughter was doing something like "Cool California cats cook chewy chocolate chip cookies." An impressive alliterative string, and rather Kerouac-esque, if you ask me. I asked W. if the cats were wearing little berets and playing bongos as the cookies cooked.
But I digress. W. told me that her daughter told her about a a friend's sentence, which was about "Big bald Bob." W. said she looked at her daughter and said: "What was that?" W. looked at my face, and started laughing, because I had taken it the same way that she had (for she's a perv too). We thought it was about "Big-balled Bob." I said I was picturing a 6th-grader's drawing of some guy with a wheelbarrow in front of him so his scrotal sac could ride on it.
Gah, I'd hate to be the teacher in that class, trying to keep a straight face when that one was read out loud.
Since I work around politics, you're going to have to get a bit of it today, but you'll be entertained enough, since I'm not going to go on a rant.
The 3rd Congressional district in my state is basically the western two-thirds of the state, and it can range from typically midwestern farms to very western ranches. (I don't live in that district.) It is also Republican as the day is long, but this guy is running as the Democratic candidate and he might just win. The race is so close that el presidente is actually coming to campain for the Republican candidate this weekend. This district hasn't sent a Democrat to Congress for 40+ years, I believe. There's no incumbent in this race, the retiring Congressman is the ex-football coach. Yes, I'm serious. The major newspaper in the state endorsed the Democrat, something nearly unheard of. This is an entertaining race to observe, and women statewide have been happily watching his commercials. Go to his website and see why: http://www.scottkleeb.com
Even though he's a Democrat, he is a Midwestern Demo running in a conservative district, so temper your expectations if you're a blue state Demo.
But I love a good barnburner of a race with a new candidate who is creating excitement and buzz. And I really am talking about it on a political level. A lot of people aren't being so wonkish -- many women talk about him the way I talk about Bob Schneider. I do think he's inordiantely photogenic, although he's not ugly on video. (You can watch his commercials on the website.) And if you look at the photos page, notice all the hysterically giggling women wherever he goes. Some of those women probably haven't squealed like that in years. I think some women have an involuntary physical response to cowboy boots and jeans, worn very, very well. They just can't control themselves. Whatever it takes to get elected, baby! Even if he doesn't win, it's not the last of him. Anyone who can come out of nowhere as a Democrat in a district that usually gives the Republican candidate 80% of the vote isn't going to be held down.
It's stuff like this that makes me remember why I do enjoy politics. And even if you're apolitical, you can just look at the scenery.
And now a missive from the other side of my personality: I decided today, because I was wearing my fuchsia and purple zebra print panties, that the other people in my office should get newer and better underwear. Why, you ask? Because they're all into some form of mass hysteria as their presentations draw near, and I find their tension to be relatively counterproductive, since if you walk in the room nervous and insecure, you only hurt yourself. But if they had better underwear, they would value it and love it and not want to get their panties (or knickers) in such a big, giant knot.
OK, bad joke. I was somewhat resigned to having a bad experience when I walked in the room, and low expectations are sometimes a blessing. I came into work on Sunday to prepare for the presentation. I can appreciate their anxiety, but I don't appreciate them being in my face all day about how scared they are. My bosses really got into their heads in a big way.
But life is good when you can come home, drink a glass of wine, eat some pasta with smoked salmon flaked over the top (with olive oil, garlic and good parmesan), freshly-made French bread (a great new bakery close to my house!) and then drink a cup of really great coffee afterwards. And to make it better yet, you have fuchsia and purple zebra print panties covering your bum. What else is there?
Well, plenty. I want many, many things that I can't have or I won't get, but if I truly get my knickers in a big, huge knot, it should be over something really fun. Gotta remember that one!!!
OK, this is a hang-up of mine, a silly pet peeve, and if any of you do this and your man-things or woman-things think it's hot and sexy, good for you and good for them. It's just something I'm not going to do, ever.
I have a hang-up about women who grow their toenails long and paint them in a French manicure. As in long, I mean that the nails may reach or surpass the toe-tip, depending upon the shape of their nails and their toes. It makes their feet look like little paws. And then the French manicure -- I think that looks just plain goofy. French manicures on the fingers are rather pretty and I can appreciate it. Especially because my fingernails never get long enough to do that. But on the feet, I don't think so.
I think my hang-up stems from the fact that prior to this recent trend, the only people with long toenails tended towards being unkempt. There were usually other hideously disgusting things going on with their toenails or feet that I won't even bother to mention.
I have a foot fetish, I will admit, and I like to see nice feet. But when I see toenails that look like they could leave a swipe across your skin like a cat's claw, I just cringe. Toes should be able to move all around the body without accidentally drawing blood, you know.
A few years ago, I decided that it would be fun to make odd papier mache heads for Halloween. My original notion was to make jack-o-latern heads in the style of the old German papier-mache pumpkin heads, but my mind soon went off into stranger things. I made a few almost life-sized heads of individuals, all with their own names and stories. As a friend at work told me: "I'm not sure what I find the most disturbing -- the fact that you made these utterly odd things, or the fact that you developed names and a biographies for each of them."
There's a stuffed dummy in farmer clothing sitting on the front porch at Halloween. Most of the time it has a generic head on it, but when my creations wish to have a body, they get to "head it up." Here they are, along with their stories.
Fred Frankensteer has his name because he's a cross between Fred Flintstone, Frankenstein, and a steer. An actual person was the basis for Frankensteer's creation. Frankensteer is the result of a research project carried out by an insane UNL ag institute scientist. He now lives on a farm and is frequently anxious about his life, but is too dumb to really know what to do about it. For that reason, he fits in well and votes Republican.
LaVerna is the daughter of LaVonne and Vern. She's a waitress at the local greasy spoon and is also Frankensteer's girlfriend. While she has a ring in his nose, she doesn't have his ring on her finger, thus accounting for her rather truculent demeanor. She once set a field of Frankensteer's hay on fire with her cig, but he didn't yell at her, mainly because he was too afraid she'd kick his ass.
El Cockatillo is a famed Mexican wrestler who aquired his name because his mask resembles a Cockatiel. He is also known to shriek madly for no good reason. He was driving through Nebraska on his way to visit family in the U.S., when his transmission blew out next to one of Frankensteer's farm fields. He has remained on the farm ever since, but can't figure out exactly why.
Fergus is a soccer hooligan from Scotland who was sent to Frankensteer's farm courtesy of a U.K. version of the "scared straight" program. It has been unsuccessful. Fergus takes great glee in picking on Frankensteer and then getting the snot beaten out of him by LaVerna and El Cockatillo. He proudly sports his latest shiner, courtesy of LaVerna crushing a beer can on his face.
And from everyone at my house to you, Happy Halloween!
I've been really busy at work. I'm tired. I go to bed late, because I'm such a damn night owl, but lately I've been waking up at 3 in the morning and don't get back to sleep for an hour. Then at 5:30 the cat comes meowing his little cat butt off, asking to be fed. I put him on the bed and then he stands on me, kneading his paws on my chest. Oh, how relaxing. Then I got to work and run on pure adrenaline for 8+ hours. No wonder I can always lose weight in the legislative session.
So it was such a rush when I came home yesterday and found my Lab order. I ordered another bottle of teh Smut, Chintamani-Dhupa, Swadinapatika, Vasakasajja and Bakeneko. Filgree Shadow already has my bottle of Vasa heading her way, because my body blew up the orchid in that one and 'gree is a vasa junkie! And bless her, she swapped me for the Bakeneko, because I ADORE that scent. Holy crap, I've never had a lunacy that I liked, much less loved. Swadinapatika is nice, it gets nicer after I wear it for an hour, even better after two hours. I think I should wear it on days that the little asshole wakes me up at 5:30, because if I put it on really early in the morning, it would be to its gorgeous mellow level by the time I got to work. I have Chintamani-Dhupa on my sales thread right now, but if no one buys it tonight, I'm taking it down. I don't adore it, but I don't dislike it. And Smut, I love teh Smut. Needed another bottle, but I don't wear Smut in the winter. The pure holy musk can be a bit much for me right now.
My yoga teacher always says this, and it's very true, the brain needs to be scrambled and stimulated every now and then to keep on top of its game. When I meditated last night, I was as quiet as I'd been in a long time. Lately, my brain has been whirling a lot when I meditate, because work can be an obsession this time of year. I can't let it drop. But I swear, what stilled me last night was that I'd spent all evening sniffing and testing BPAL. For the people to test BPAL a lot, you know it's a very sensual and analytical process, all at the same time. You're kicking your senses into overdrive, but your brain is trying to decipher what you're smelling. Last night, it was what the doctor ordered, because it kicked my brain out of those old thought patterns and into something entirely new. How fabulous.
So I'm off to meditate and to then attempt to get ready for bed and to find slumber early (ha!) and to dream sweet-smelling dreams. And if the damn cat wakes me up at 5:30 again, you know I'll be wearing Svadhinaopatika tomorrow!
There's a thread in Randomness about what you'd like to pick as a member title when you get enough points. It occurs to me that some day I may have enough points and I can choose my own member title. So I began to consider options.
I cracked myself up with this one, and it would be simply odd to most people, who would probably assume I was a perverted little goth who was overly identified with a certain part of the male anatomy. (This may in fact be true.) But let me explain -- I work in this building:
It's nicknamed the "penis of the plains," although I prefer calling it the "prairie phallus." And I think a BPAL forum member name like "Phantom of the Phallus" would be good for a giggle as an inside joke. Besides, if a group of malcontents decided to get all prudish on Live Journal, it would take pressure off of Andrabelle and her Ron Jeremy joke icons. "Who is that valentina who calls herself the "phantom of the phallus?" What is she talking about? Eeeew, gross!"
P.S. Spellcheck keeps suggesting "Phyllis" as a correction for "phallus."
(Of course, when I say "back in the saddle again," Steven Tyler's voice goes through my head...)
I don't really hide the fact that I work for a legislature, and today is the first day of the new legislative session. It will run until June. Anyone who reads this page will no doubt hear more about it than you will care to stomach. You will celebrate the end of it as much as I will. However, I'll try to keep a good attitude as long as possible, although I've already started it on a snippy, but personally meaningful note.
I was beginning my dressing ritual, which during the session, is a much more conniving process than the rest of the year. I tend to create a bit of an image that serves as an armor. There's a few people, mainly my friends, who see through it, but I can even fool some of my friends. The administrative support staff in the office get intimidated by me during the session, which always dismays and amuses me.
Last year's armor was some very nice pant suits, which I will of course continue to wear this year. The new additions to my armor include slightly above-the-knee pencil skirts, to be worn with very simple, long-sleeved tops. I have on such an ensemble today. Along with The Boots. The Boots are a new acquisition, and are black, knee-high faux suede boots, aprox. 3 inch narrow heels, pointy toes, and they have corset-style lacing up the back. From the front, I'm one thing, from the back, I'm another. The lobbyists will notice them, the senators won't. And in honor of the lobbyists re-entering the building in droves, I'm wearing Snake Oil as my fragrance. The choice was between Mme. Moriarty and Snake Oil, and I just didn't want to wear the Misfortune Teller the first day of the session. The Madame can be trotted out the second day.
I also have on my new red jasper pendant, which goes with my red jasper ring. I wear the ring all the time. I purchased it in late November because I felt I needed a ring with a red stone to provide some grounding energy. People are very attracted to it, but also a little intimidated by it. So of course, I had to wear the red jasper pendant on the first day to ward off whatever demons may approach. I am only half-kidding. This year I'm feeling very aware of the energy that some of these people (the politicians and the lobbyists) create, and I know what I want to avoid.
Today also marks the first day of the rest of my obsession, which is a really long story that I'm not going to tell. (How coy of me, I know.) Suffice it to say that a process of mine in a 12-year obsession is over. It makes me sad, and part of my recent red jasper wearing is to ground myself so I can move beyond that process. I'm not sure the obsession is over, but I know a certain process is over. That's as clear as I'm going to get.
But rather than be wistful about the end of something, I'll endeavor to remember that on New Year's Day, it occurred to me (out of the blue, while working out) that we can all grow our own power to whatever level we want, and we need take back seat to no one else's. While I work in a place where supposedly "powerful" people move about, political power is only one sort of power, and I sometimes think a rather pathetic sort of false power. Getting elected to an office is a way that some people use to create their own power, because they're so needy that they don't know how to back off and find the power in their own center. Certainly, there's a few elected officials who aren't that way -- they either ran for office out of a true sense of public service and dignity (rare), or they found something inside of themselves while they were serving. I've seen that happen, and it's always very nice to watch.
So let the madness begin, I have my look on and I'm really starting to think that most of them are completely full of shit. But I'll do my very small part to try to contribute something useful to the process. My my heart really isn't in it, not at all.
I am not making this one up, kids.
When I was at the hair salon on Wednesday, I was looking down at the floor while my stylist had me tip my head forward and down just a bit. The stylist at the next chair over was wearing jeans, a tank top and thong sandals with little kitten heels. The fact that I even noticed what kind of sandals that she was wearing is a bit of a miracle, for I was very busy looking at her toenails. She had the French pedicure toenails, only where the little strip of white polish would be at the end of each toenail (which were rather long), she had a strip of dark blue polish. I sat there, looking at them, trying to decide if I liked them better than the traditional French pedicure, of if I found them more horrifying. It was a bit of a flip-off at the traditional style, which I can appreciate, but it also appeared as if each toenail was growing a nice, even strip of blue nail fungus. I still haven't decided.
Her pedicure is rather like this man who shows up at the outdoor pool at the health club. He's probably in his mid-late 50's, and looks a bit like a puffy, going into corpulent Rutger Hauer. He shows up to swim laps, and he's really a very strong swimmer. But he wears a Speedo. It is most unappealing, but I've noticed that everyone's eyes drift over to this man. It is like a train wreck. It's impossible not to look.
