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!!!
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!
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.
(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.
Here I am, checking in with odd comments and reports of the usual odd goings-on in my life.
Why would anyone drink orange juice when they could eat an orange? I love oranges so much. Apples are really great this time of year, but apples make me hungry. Does anyone else experience this? But oranges are so yum. And orange juice is a fine beverage, it's just that I'd rather eat an orange.
A woman that I know passed away yesterday. I was acquainted with her via my ex-husband and through my job; she wasn't a close friend but someone I always enjoyed when we ran into each other. She was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer on her 54th birthday, which was 3 months ago. Doods, that is express check-out. Like a Zen master once said, our problem is that we always think we have time. This woman knew a lot of people, she had a certain zest for the world, and especially this little corner of the world. A lot of people will miss her. The last conversation that I had with her somehow morphed into a discussion of how cute Che Guevara was, and her comment was: "Yeah, he even looked good even when he was all shot to shit." Her legacy for me is to live like there's no tomorrow, never be ashamed to be quirky, and to be proud to love all the things that aren't supposed to be cool to love, but you love them anyway.
I need to photograph my garden tomorrow; it's supposed to be warm and sunny, and the weatherdudes say that by next weekend, it's gonna be cold! Eeek! I tend to have a fall garden; my garden is really looking interesting when other people have ripped out most of their flowers. Of course, I let things get really wild-looking and I love it that way. I like to say I have a cottage garden or a more "naturalistic" way of gardening. I'm reading "Devil In The White City" about the Chicago World's Fair in the 1890's, and the man who planned the midway (Olmstead) went to England and decided he liked the more naturalistic, wilder, overgrown English countryside far more than the perfectly planned and ordered British gardens. I felt terribly affirmed when I read that.
So maybe next week, I'll post some wild prairie garden photos. The purple dome aster that has gone bezerk, the Mexican sunflowers that have run amok, the hyssop and cleomes that keep blooming, the salvia and the zinnias, the native grasses. I am lucky enough to actually love the plains plants that thrive in this environment.
So until later, be happy, be quirky, laugh a lot and of course, smell like an angel or a very sexy devil!
I have on a new layering adventure today; I bought a bottle of Bengal from chappiti on the forum (BTW, check out her avatar, I love it). While I really love Bengal, (or why would I have a bottle of it?), it tends to light up on my body for a bit. By that I mean, the cinnamon bark makes my skin flush rosy red for a brief time. So this morning I put down a nice layer of O (kind of like a paint primer) and then put Bengal over it. Yummy! Since I think Bengal smells like redhot candies over musk, and O smells, well, like O, I'm calling this blend Candy-O. That name is stolen from the title of an album by The Cars, which had this cover:
And now, for a brief aside: A friend called me and told me to turn on the Today show, because they were doing a shoe fashion show. Naturally, the Shoe Whore-Foot Fetishist turned it on right away. I just finished watching it. They were doing very close close-ups of each model's feet, and ARRGGHH! One of the models had on a pair of open-toe, slingback shoes and SHE HAD CRUSTY HEELS! OK, I know it was a big closeup, but I shudder to think how it looked on HDTV. I probably would have vomited. And who picked her to model shoes? Why didn't they put her in a pair of closed-back shoes? And if you had even 1 hour's notice that you had to sub for someone as a shoe model, would you at least do a little buffing and shining? Arrggh!!! At least I didn't see any French Manicures on the toenails, thank goodness. I would have screamed so loud that I would have frightened my coworkers.
Ahem, sorry to anyone who was eating as they read this. You probably had a hard time swallowing.
Hey there everyone... Given the somewhat decadent image I tend to craft for myself on the forum, I really do more than check my manicure and pedicure, fuss with my hair and peruse shoe departments and Victoria's Secret catalogs. (Although those are some of my favorite things to do.)
I also go up to the gym and ride cardio machines and I lift weights. I've become fond of doing lunges holding a 12-lb. medicine ball all the way around the indoor track. That would be approximately a block long. It's good for the legs and the bum, and at my age, I need all the help that I can get to keep the bum suspended somewhere above the back of my knees.
And I take vitamins, mainly out of habit, because when I was going into high school, I'd apparently had a bit of a rapid growth spurt that caused me to become really anemic. I had to take slugs of vitamins until that was remedied, and then I just kept up the habit.
I drink, but it seems that I've always tended to either get full (if drinking beer) or fall asleep before I get really drunk. I also had a formative experience on my 20th birthday that perhaps altered any tendency to drink a lot. I was living in a resort town for the summer and some girlfriends took me to a bar for birthday drinks. Various tourists hanging in bar kept sending me drinks. The notion of the lascivious geezers who were sending my innocent 20-year-old self tequila makes my current self shudder and thank the powers of the universe that I had several friends who didn't ditch me. Anyway, my friends deposited me on the front door of where I was staying, I crawled in and made my way to the shower. My roomie and her boyfriend kept waiting for me to scream and I didn't. I happily showered for about 15 minutes, puked and fell into bed. It seems the hot water heater had died and I took an ice-cold shower without knowing it. The hell that I felt the next day is something I still remember.
And I don't smoke, and I never have. I tried, but was hopelessly incompetent at it. I guess that was my good luck. And now I'm going to sound like a harpy old lady, but if you smoke, do think about quitting sooner rather than later. A guy who worked in my office up until a year ago, when he took a different job in the same building, was diagnosed with lung cancer about 2 months after he started his new job. He'd stopped smoking a year earlier. But he smoked entirely too long and didn't quit soon enough. I don't think he's going to make it. This sucks. He used to have a gorgeous head of thick wavy hair and now he's bald from chemo and he's holding onto the walls to keep his balance when he walks down the hall. When he stopped working in my office last year, I took a photo of him, copied it a number of times and "Andy Warhol-ized" it by coloring over it with pastels. I modified his hair, put glasses on him, turned him into all sorts of things. He loved it and took it with him to put away as a keepsake. I really don't want to see it hanging up on one of the memory posterboards that you see at a funeral, but shit, I think that may be what's going to happen.
Weird thing is, this guy was the king of kvetchers when he was well. If his lips were moving, he was probably bitching, albeit in a likable, often funny sort of way. After his diagnosis, he developed a shockingly good attitude. It's amazing. He's tried to work and stay social and even go on his powerwalks when he had the energy. And he never complains about being sick or losing his hair, and he flat adored his hair. It makes me really sad.
And my blog has recently sounded like the old lady in the retirement center with her endless stories of people dying, and seriously guys, this has been an unusual stretch. Lest you think I'm not myself, let me tell you this: I went down to my ailing former coworker's current office to say hi to him one day in late August. I wanted to give him a hard time about something or other, because he loves to be harassed and treated like nothing is the matter. I had on one of my summery wrap dresses that can dip kind of low in the front. Normally I'm pretty careful to keep the foundation garments out of the public eye, so I'd frequently check what the neckline was doing. So I was sitting there talking to him, and I knew my bra was showing a little, and I just let it. I know he noticed because he called a mutual friend and told him all about it. And I didn't care. So there. Vaguely naughty is a good, good thing.
Oh hell. I wasn't going to order Harvest Moon, the scent, until I read the update thread and someone commented that it was her birth moon, so she just had to get it. Well, it's my birth moon also, and while I'm not sure it will smell that great on me, it has all sorts of things in it that I hold near and dear, because I do love those late summer smells. Anything with Russian sage in it is worth owning, in my opinion. So I ordered a bottle. If it doesn't work on my body, it might make a wonderful scent locket or room scent.
And the t-shirt, I simply must order the t-shirt! Macha's design is astonishing. A bit of a Celtic/Gothic/Georgia O'Keefe quality, and who but Macha could weave all of it together so perfectly? I'm just really, really fond of the design, and hey, it's for my birth moon, so I simply must.
So the scoreboard says:
Update: 2
Resolve: 0
OK, the other matter at hand: I have enough reward points to cash in and change my member title to whatever I want. I love all the self-titled names, they are all so damn clever. I'm having problems coming up with anything like "rapscallion in fuchsia tights" or "1/32 too few" or "part-time ninja" or "fae fatale." Sookster just changed her title to "p-town's naughty sea monkey."
In a prior entry, I'd commented that I could call myself "Phantom of the Prairie Phallus," a reference to the building where I work. But it's not that funny, unless you know the architecture of my state's capitol building. I thought about calling myself "The Jean Genie" (as in the Bowie song), since it's a reference to my real name. Then I thought I could call myself "The Jean Genie in Joe Perry's bottle" because we know my feelings about Joe Perry. Or I could say I was "The Jean Genie in Bob Schneider's bottle," but very few people would know who I was talking about. (Bob may get famous yet!)
Then I remembered that in my review of Sacred Whore of Babylon, I was bemoaning that exotic flowers like jasmine and orchids are hardly indigenous to where I live, so I'm not exactly familiar with their exact scent. And I further postulated that exotic florals smell icky on me due to my geographical location somehow influencing my body chemistry (I don't really believe this), but if Beth ever made a scent called Sacred Whore of the Prairie, it would probably smell good on me. Now, "Sacred Whore of the Prairie" might be a good forum name, and it amuses me. (Some might heartily agree that I'm a whore, the sacred business is no doubt highly debatable; but the part about the prairie is indisputable.)
Any ideas, reactions, comments?
When you're out shopping for the lingerie with your man-thing or woman-thing or another girlfriend or a gay guy-friend, here's something to get a good laugh, or at the very least, a stunned look:
So you pick up the item -- the bustier, the panties, the bra, the frou-frou nightie, whatever floats your boat, and you hold it up in front of you and say: "Gee, I wonder how this will look?" The person you're with is going to mumble some sort of response. Then you take the garment and rather insouciantly toss it somewhere. I know the staff at most places might get a little fussy if you toss it on the floor, so toss it on a lower display rack or a countertop. Then you lean over, look down at it and say: "Oh, it's going to look divine laying on the floor!"
I know, I know, a lot of the underthingies that I buy are very functional and I want them to fit well to hold the girls in line and avoid VPL on the bottom, but it's a fun thing to do with an unsuspecting companion.
Speaking of underthings, I was at Victoria's Secret the other day and saw, on the sale rack, a bustier with a pin-up girl design on it. It was a size small, and there's no way that I'm a small. I have the shoulders and ribcage of a Soviet bloc swimmer. Well, maybe not quite that wide, but wide enough. I'm broad from the front, but narrow from the side. I know a woman who's built like me, but she's a bit thicker from the side. Not fat, she just has more volume than me. And her boobs aren't as big as mine, but she looks like she has two missiles jutting from her chest. They remind me of a horizontal version of the Grand Teton mountain range. She causes car wrecks.
I was at a party last night, end of the legislature. OK kids, I'm on the dark side of my 40's, but I'm well-preserved. I can pass for about 10 years younger than my chronological age. So one of my coworkers bought me a shot of tequila, because that's what I wanted. I decided a bit later to get some water, and went back to the bar. A really young guy who works down the hall from me came up and started giving me crap for getting water. I told him that I'd had a shot and I needed water. He thought it was so fucking cool that I'd had a shot, that he got a shot for himself and a shot for me. Somehow he made reference to younger men-older women. I told him to call me Mrs. Robinson. I asked him if he'd seen "The Graduate" and he told me that he hadn't, but he'd probably rent it on his way home.
So you know what my take is on this guy? He's probably gay. I mean, there are boatloads of gorgeous young women in their 20's in this building. As a guy in my office says, they're just smokin' hot. What is this guy doing, saying that crap to me when there's eye candy all around? And it's not like he's a total zero -- in fact, he's outgoing and kind of cute, but he's always pinged my gay-dar and now I'm even more convinced.
But he bought me a shot of tequila, so who am I to bitch??
As someone who loves vintage pinup girl art and underwear, this homage to the peculiar illustrations of Art Frahm never fails to draw a titter:
http://www.lileks.com/institute/frahm/art1.html
"The Shakedown" is my favorite. The illustration alone is absurdly Freudian, and the description of it as being from Frahm's "Edward Hopper period" are spot on, although Hopper is probably rolling in his grave.
OK, I just channel-surfed past the Home Shopping Network or QVC, or one of those channels, and they were selling some skank-ho trashy platform sandals that had a peculiar "Carmen Miranda goes to Africa" vibe to them. And they were $150. You know 50ish fat ladies will be tottering around in them, their tubby little toes with toenails pained orange (and always long toenails, because they're too fat to trim them properly) spread wide from the tonnage inflicted upon them from being placed at such an odd angle. Christ, these shoes wouldn't be cute on you adorable young things with really cute feet and skinny little legs. You'd look like you were wearing cement blocks on your feet that were painted in a black-and-white tribal design.
Wouldn't it be great to have a goth home shopping network? Or just to have a few good goth merchants show up on QVC? Beth and Puddin' could do a BPAL and BPTP segment. I would pay good money to see it and of course would spend money like a drunken sailor.
A nice photo of Bob Schneider, whose CD I listened to as I was driving around town in the rain today. Queensryche can remain novel only so long, you know.
Look at the great joke icon that minilux made for me:
And if Beth ever makes an actual scent with that name, I will to her even more than before.
Does anyone remember the Alan Cumming fragrance commercial from last summer? Someone linked to it on the forum, and I feel compelled to link to it again here in my blog. It's great, and I believe Alan is a naughty little Scotsman himself: http://www.cummingthefragrance.com/html/commercial.html
In the state where I live, there's a Cumming County. I have a friend who moved here several years ago, and when he was driving down the road and saw a sign that said: "Entering Cumming County," he just about wrecked his car. He pulled over, laughed, and called a friend in his home state to say: "There's a Cumming County in this state!!!"
There also used to be convenience store/gas stations called "Cum and Go" in this town. Another friend used to live around the corner from one. When the chain (all 3 or 4 of them) was purchased and turned into Quik Shops, my friend and her boyfriend had their photos taken in front of the old Cum and Go, because it had been such a source of amusement for so long.
From Bob Schneider to underkilts to Alan Cumming to Cum and Go. What else is left to say?
Hells bells, there are a number of very thoughtful new entries over here on Blog Island. Not me. I could try to follow suit, but there is very little in the way of profound thought in my brain today. My excuse? It's Friday afternoon!
Here's something to do!
Get yo' pimp name here homey hunny!
http://www.playerappreciate.com/pimphandle.asp
Big Playah valentina Flava
Here'a a photo of Puddin' Tom, the cat who came to live on my front porch. He's lounging on the bench, contemplating his next nap. As you can see, he's a little rough around the edges, but he's probably around 10 years old and he's earned his rugged good looks:
I am especially fond of running across people in relatively odd get-ups. Outfits that are vaguely off rarely mean much to me; instead, I'm talking things that don't even fit in the fashion faux pas category because you don't know where to begin. Things that are almost mind-bendingly odd, because they are being worn by a person who is obviously not mentally ill. There is a very distinct difference between mixed-up clothing thrown on by some poor soul who has a lot of personal difficulties and by an otherwise functioning individual whose innate style compass has become seriously skewed.
It's one of those weird autumn days when you just don't know what to wear; it's sunny, but only about 62 degrees and it's windy. Days like today are always a good opportunity to find some weird clothing combos going on, and I saw one when I was walking back into the building after lunch. This woman was evidently out on a late-lunch stroll for a bit of exercise. She had on a long, almost ankle-length skirt that had a design on it that was a cross between a batik print and a tropical print. The background was black and the design was a bright blue. I like black and bright blue together, and it was a nice skirt. But on the top, she had on a casual, sporty, waist-length, zip-up, water-repellent material windbreaker. Some sort of Nike design/lettering on it; the colors were white with baby blue. She had short hair and she was wearing a blue and white visor. On her feet she had blue and white flip-flops. The pretty skirt drew me in and then the picture became oddly distorted.
But my favorite weird combination is one I saw about 4 or 5 years ago; it was again about this time of year, but it was a cool and rainy day. I was walking downtown on my lunch hour and looked across the street as I waited at a light. There was a woman in a sort of Laura Ashley-style skirt, long, fluttery, a cream-colored background with a tiny rosy flower print. Suntan-colored hosiery. (Arghblargh! Maybe that's what Andy Garcia caught sight of at the end of "Ocean's Eleven?") Cream-colored, 1980's style pumps that were looking a smidge rugged. But on top of all of this, she wore a black NASCAR pit crew jacket. And the jacket was boldly emblazoned with the team sponsor logos, most prominently, Tide detergent soap. I think there was at least one beer logo, and maybe Slim Jims jerky snacks. I know all of this in detail, because the woman had her head down as she walked into the wind and misty rain, so she didn't see me when I stared at her as I walked by, and then when I turned around and walked backwards to check out the back of the jacket. I mean, wow. It's my favorite of all time. If she'd had on black leather pants and biker boots, the jacket would have been fine. If she'd had on a huge Irish sweater, I would have forgiven the '80's pumps. (Suntan colored hosiery is something that I never forgive. White legs are a far, far better thing, and actually make sense with a Laura Ashley theme.) The combination was, and still remains, unprecedented.
So, the guy at Meadowlark who always tells me he loves me, the one who said his name means "Wandering Gypsy" in Czech and calls me "gypsy girl?" He just put out an album. I am serious; it's a small local recording company. They're selling his CD at Meadowlark and he saw me this morning and cajoled me into buying one. Here is something from his liner notes: "A special thanks to all the girls I have known, starting with my Mother, for giving me such great material for my songs. And to all the guys, remember that you need more than a good line and a lure to get the girl of your dreams. I love you all." And amazingly, his CD isn't bad at all. So if you've read this far and you're the first reader to respond, I'll send you his CD. Not my copy, I'll buy another one! There may be a lot of you thinking, oh my hell, I am so NOT responding until someone else reads halfway through the blog and decides to respond about bad clothing combinations! So really, if you don't want his CD, just say so, because I do want to hear about bad clothing combos that you have seen in your life and time. I love you all.
Well, there's nothing like a good night's sleep to revive a person and my dream state must have cleansed my psyche of last night's abnormally wistful and weepyish fit.
I have the day off work, I'm going to meet a friend at a brewpub at noon for beer and burgers, and then I'm going to run off and enjoy the sunshine.
I would gather that BPAL cultists have really vivid dreams. Even if you didn't before, I'd wager that you did after you started using BPAL, because I think it has that effect. I think Beth is a shaman.
But dreams are great. Wild-ass shit can just whorl up out of the depths of the subconsciousness and you can have a real show for a while. (Does my adoration of the movie "Waking Life" make more sense now?)
I can tell the difference between "junk dreams," when my brain is simply blowing off the residuals of my day, and "big dreams," where I'm trying to tell myself something very important. I have gotten more efficient in my big dream process, for I had two of them last week, and they were brisk events. They got right to the point and I woke up from the power of the message.
I know a bunch of y'all are the same way, aren't you?
Dreams are fucking amazing. Ever had one that was a harbinger of something that was going to happen? That sense of deja vu, once it happens in your waking life, is pretty wild. However, I've gotten to the point that when it really happens, I think to myself: "Oh hell, I knew that!"
Did anyone else love "The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" as much as I did? You can pretend you've wiped your brain's slate clean -- but your heart still remembers. There's an enormous number of nerves in the heart center, I believe the concentration in that area is second only to the brain. I don't think their functions are entirely physiological machine-control, just like the brain isn't all about being a mechanical control center. There's something going on in the heart center that just doesn't articulate into words right away, but the emotional message is very clear.
I still am in a bit of a mood, aren't I? Well hell, that's OK. Tell me your weirdest dreams and make me laugh. Or tell me your saddest dreams, or most profounds dreams. I love 'em.
And for today and every day, smell divine and feel beautiful... someone always notices.
Since there's an 1980's retro scene going on right now, I flash back to the cartoon strip "Bloom County." And "The Far Side" was a big deal back then. And "Calvin and Hobbes." I had a discussion with a friend about the how the '80's was a golden age of contemporary cartoons.
As winter approaches, I inevitably get an email that is a compilation of all the "Calvin and Hobbes" cartoons where Calvin made snowpeople doing all manner of twisted things. And didn't almost everyone have a stuffed toy in the likeness of Opus the penguin? I still have both of my Opus stuffies, one is a Christmas Opus. But, I have a rarity, something terribly special and wonderful -- I have a stuffed Bill the Cat toy. Something about his scrawny neck always leads to an association with Nancy Reagan's scrawny neck. Last year for Christmas, I got "The Last Basselope" by Berk Breathed, the "Bloom County" creator. You'll recall the Basselope was the Basset Hound with antlers. I really do need to take a photo of Ella Bean in antlers and use it on a Christmas card.
And in the '80's and part of the '90's, you could liven up most stalled-out discussions with the question: "What is your favorite "Far Side?" You know what's coming next... in the '80's, there was this trend for all the yuppie moms in the first wave of minivans to have triangular "Baby On Board" signs. Some of you reading this were probably the babies on board. (Gah! I feel OLD!) Anyway, my favorite Far Side was of a lady mosquito (beehive hair, lipstick) driving a van with a "Maggot On Board" sign in the window.
I used to be a distance runner in the '80's. Running all over the place, I used to run by all those minivans and just get really depressed. Not because I wanted kids, but because I would see that lifestyle, picture myself in it, and feel instantly stultified. My running was a bit symbolic of my "running free" attitude in the '80's, when I used to toss throw pillows at the TV when Reagan came on the news and discovered the joy of mute buttons on remote controls. A few boyfriends were a bit confused the first time the "hit the mute and throw the pillows" drill occurred. Well, they're called throw pillows for a reason. I never dated Republicans.
Sometimes I think that maybe if I'd met the right person at the right time, I could have been a yuppie '80's baby boom mom. If the right sort of guy could have gotten my attention and married me really young... nah, no way! I didn't date Republicans! I'm not sure I dated a Republican, ever. Most of them take one look at me and see trouble. No hold it, I did date one, and that was in the early '90's. He was cute, but way too Rush Limbaugh-ized in the head, and I only went out with him once.
I have one wonderful, crystallized memory of the '80's, and I'm sure this says something about me, but I'm not sure what -- I was out for a long run, it was January or February, it was cold but not quite bitter (maybe 15 or 20 degrees), I was in my Gore-Tex running suit so I was warm enough, it was dark outside, maybe 6:30 or 7 pm, it was snowing a little bit and the wind was eddying the dusty snow around in the street. I was running towards a particularly busy intersection, and I hit all of the green lights so I didn't have to stop. The darkness, the snow, the streetlights and the headlights made everything in the world look silver and black. Running was no effort whatsoever. It was just perfect, away from Reagan on TV, the Republicans didn't matter, the minivan yuppie moms were all home being efficient, and I was running free.
There's a still-smallish pine tree in my back yard (probably 6 or 7 feet high) that has a cardinal nest in it. The nest is tucked in a bit, but is right at eye level. Mrs. Cardinal was faithfully sitting on the eggs, and would hold still if you approached quietly to look at her. Yesterday the eggs began hatching, and now there are four baby cardinals, making their tiny tweepy noises, little heads thrown back and beaks open wide. They are so cute. Both Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal are feeding and guarding.
About 5 or 6 years ago, a fledgling cardinal, really a pretty tiny little thing, was flapping around in the back yard. The parents were frantically accompanying it, trying to get it to fly again. It was almost 100 degrees, and the poor little thing was exhausted and stressed. All the wild bird experts say to leave the bird alone if this is going on, so I just watched it. But then I noticed a neighbor's cat rambling around and that was it -- I went out and picked up the little bird. I brought it inside, put it in an old finch cage and fed it watered-down canned dog food all evening. I got up in the morning and fed it. I came home at noon and fed it, and by this time, it was just opening its beak and crying for me to feed it when it would lay eyes on me. It would fall asleep in my hand after it ate. Too precious for words.
At that time, I had an Airedale Terrier named Karma. Karma was most interested in Birdy-Birdy (as I called him), and I let her sit in the room when I was feeding the little guy. She wasn't being mean, just curious -- she was used to my pet cockatiel and didn't consider birds to be food. When I came home at noon, Karma was sitting outside the closed door of the room where Birdy-Birdy was staying. It was a much nicer day, and the wildlife rescue folks had told me to put the little guy out and see if he'd fly again. So I did, and as it turns out, his parents had been hanging around waiting for him. I put him out and they were there right away. He fluttered away and I hoped like crazy that he made it to saftey.
But here's the strange thing -- later that summer, a male cardinal would frequently come sit on the fence and Karma would sit and look up at it as it gave her a sweet, chirpy tweep. She wasn't watching it aggressively, it was like she was just listening to it. She never acted that way with other wild birds -- she just ignored them. But this bird and Karma were talking to each other. I always wondered just what that was all about. I like to believe that it was Birdy-Birdy, back for a visit.
I came up with a descriptive line today that I felt was one of my better ones -- I was talking to a friend about how I'd been in an insanely bad mood a couple of weeks ago. In hindsight, I realize that it was because I was coming down with a bad summer cold, but at the time, all I knew was that I was not a happy camper. I characterized my mood in this manner:
"I wanted to shove kerosene-soaked tampons up everyone's butt and walk around with a flame-thrower."
Maybe TMI, or maybe a visual you'll enjoy. It probably depends upon your mood.
I'm still really busy at work and I seem to take time to comment on blogs but never write in my own, because I seem to thing that I have to write a lot. Why is that? Well, it's not going to happen today... I just want to put up a couple of quotes that are on my page-a-day Zen calendar.
The first one puts the Christmas frenzy in perspective:
"Our lives are lived in intense and anxious struggle, in a swirl of speed and aggression, in competing, grasping, possessing, and achieving, forever burdening ourselves with extraneous activities and preoccupations." -- Sogyal Rinpoche
Actually, that also sounds exactly like my workplace is like when the legislature is in session, and oh oops, that begins January 3. ArGh BlArGh!!
The second one is a reminder that you find the sacred in the mundane, and I do love it when Jesus goes Zen on us:
"Lift the stone and you will find me; cleave the wood and I am there." -- Jesus
There's a guy I know here at work who tends to use what I consider rather quaint and old-fashioned terms to express outrage, like "What in the Sam Hill?" and "Son of a buck!" I never hear anyone else use those terms, unless I would happened to head down to a senior center. Apparently "Sam Hill" somehow got started as a way to avoid saying "hell," but whenever I hear that term, I always picture the cartoon character Yosemite Sam.
I also used to know a guy from work who would say: "Well cheese and crackers!" when he was trying to not swear, which was on very rare occasions. I have never heard anyone else use that term in my life. I always found it really hilarious, because it was so odd and because this guy would normally use f**k like most people say "uh."
Then there was the guy who was seemingly the basis for Ignatius J. Reilly in the book "A Confederacy of Dunces." Seriously, he was a big, fat, extremely high-IQ person who lived in his own little la-la land most of the time. He made his living as a software tech support specialist. He used to go sit outside the building that he worked in and chain-smoke and hold court of the topic of the day. The bench that he sat on was made of some sort of industrial-strength recycled plastic and he warped the bench because he was probably 6'4" and around 400 pounds. His name was Jerry, but somehow I came to call him The Prophet Raoul, a term that amused him greatly. Two of his favorite terms were: "Well Christ on a bicycle!" and "I don't give a flying f**k at a rolling donut." The last comment always produced visions of this gargantuan man throwing himself at a huge rolling donut, trying to leap through the hole the way dogs jump through hoops.
Anyway, The Prophet Raoul shuffled off this mortal coil (another one of his favorite sayings, courtesy of Will Shakespeare) a few years ago. Anyone who has read "A Confederacy of Dunces" would probably agree that Ignatius was not a role model for health and long life. The Prophet was a huge football fan and he died laying around in bed while watching the Super Bowl on the day of the Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction. It is my hope that he said to himself: "I've just seen a tit during Super Bowl halftime, I can die a happy man," and did just that.
I think I must have lost dog karma. Or maybe some lost dogs have valentina karma. Anyway, I got up this morning and looked out the window, and there was a German Shepherd-type dog running loose across the street. No collar, looking very lost. I went out and called it, but it was scared and ran off. I called animal control and told them to go looking for it. I don't live that near to a main street, but if the dog went about 6 or 7 blocks, it would encounter a busy street.
This afternoon after I went to lunch with my friend, I decided to drive back down to my office, because I'd left something there that I wanted to take home. I was kind of in a state yesterday when I left, and would have forgotten my head if it wasn't attached to me. So I'm crossing the intersection of a really busy street, and there's a smallish, German Shepherd type dog, running around the intersection. I turned and watched as people drove around it or slowed down, but didn't help it. I flipped a "u" turn and went back, pulled over, got out and got the dog. A man was right behind me trying to do the same thing, and we took turns hold the pooch as we waited for animal control. This dog was a young fella, collar but no tags, just been neutered, a sweet handsome pooch.
So was that my lost dog karma in action? And is it me, or was it a little weird that I saw two lost German Shepherd-type dogs in one day? They just wandered into my path. It seemed really symbolic, and considering my mood of the last couple of days, it really makes me wonder what that was all about.
I have a book on animal totems, and dogs are commonly associated with the various goddesses, especially huntress goddesses such as Artemis/Diana, Sarama (Vedic mother of the Dogs of Yama) and the Hounds of Annwn, the Celtic goddess. Dogs are seen as symbols of dependability, loyalty and faithfulness and my book says whenever the spirit helper is near, you will feel strong emanations of love surrounding you.
Lost dog karma or a spirit messenger, I'm glad I was able to help at least one avoid death by a 50-MPH SUV. I do loves the poochies!!
Woooot! I went to coffee at noon with some friends who don't go to my customary coffeehouse (a much more bohemian place). The place where we meet is an in-state franchise, kind of a Starbucks-for-people-who-don't-want-to-go-to-Starbucks place. Not a lot of soul, but it's clean and well-lit and in a converted old department store. Right across the hall is a funky little store called The Uncommon Market. It sells used clothing and some new clothing, plus the owner of the store makes her own creations. It's fun.
I had to wander over there, just 'cause, and found a long-sleeved Custo Barcelona shirt. It was pristine and looked almost unworn. The colors are a bit like darkitysnark's walls, that is, bright , and the design is a bunch of big ol' samari/sumo wrestler guys. It cracked me up. And it was $7! I bought it. I know the snobby fashionistas would say that Custos are so passe, but I am always amused by them. Especially for $7. The bitches cost around $175 if you purchase them new.
It's supposed to be cool tomorrow, only in the low 60's, I may have to wear it to work. My favorite way to dress, if I can get away with it, is to wear something funky with something rather sober. Juxtapositions like that can be rather entertaining.
So has anyone else looked at/tried on an Ed Hardy shirt? I love his retro tattoo artwork and even went so far to try on a few t-shirts, but holy hell, they cost around $70 or $80. I just couldn't. And anyway, I'll find one at The Uncommon Market in a year or two for $7.
Today's animal story is that a cat was camped out on the front porch last night when I got home. There are feral cats in the neighborhood that are truly wild, and over the winter we'd put a dish of dry cat food out on the porch to hide them over. Lately, a yellow and white cat has been up on the porch, but vanishes when anyone appears. Until yesterday, when it was just hanging out, meowing and acting like it was at home. This isn't a feral cat, it's a poor house cat that was either abandoned or got out of the house and never made it home. The poor little soul has terribly matted hair and mite-infested ears. It's really skinny and a bit skittish, but it wants to be house kitty so badly! It starts kneading its paws and purring when you talk to it, and if it sees you through the window, it meows at you. It will let you pet it if you sit with it long enough and it comes to trust you. It's never hissed or clawed once; it's a sweetheart.
What to do? I can not let it in the house very easily, for Mugzy and Ella Bean would try to eat it. Mugzy has apparently declared cats to be his mortal enemies. I could get it inside and lock it in a basement room, but I think it needs veterinary assistance, because it lists around a little bit when it walks. I wonder if it wasn't hit by a car or injured in some manner. All the feline shelters are full, but I can't let this poor thing sit around much longer. I may have to use canned cat food to lure it into a small dog carrier and get it to the vet. I won't take it to the Humane Society, because considering the state of its coat and its tendency to list a little bit, they might euthanize without giving consideration to adoption. This kitty just wants to go home, or to find a new home. The poor, poor baby.
It's bad enough to have lost dog karma and baby bird in distress karma, but now lost kitty karma is following me around. For the time being, I'm calling him/her Puddy, since Tweety Bird has always rocked my world.
I made moussaka for dinner tonight and it was yummy. I can't eat lamb unless it's ground up and heavily spiced (I don't like the way it smells), so normally if lamb is served at my house, it's because I'm cooking Greek or Indian. For a white woman in Nebraska, I tend to do better at ethnic than whitebread meat-n-taters-midwestern.
I am re-testing La Petit Mort and I have determined that myrrh is my nemesis. It goes powdery on me every time, damnit! I am also going to try something that has ylang-ylang in a different combination. I've always assumed that I didn't like it, but I'm beginning to think in another blend, it might work. This last order of mine -- 13 and an imp pack -- wasn't one of my greater success stories. I'm glad that I ordered imps and not bottles! But BPAL, when it works, really works. I went to Omaha yesterday to buy some Arcana soap at Magical Omaha, and I picked up some of their scents for a friend. The owner gave me a bunch of Arcana samples, and they don't work on my picky body chemistry. None of them. But like I said, when a BPAL works on me, it's beyond glorious, and I'll take that any day.
I think that men are somewhat predictable creatures, especially the ones in my general age range, probably because I've simply been dealing with them for so long. But younger guys, I don't get them. There's the young guy at work (25 or 26) who very earnestly flirts with me, although we all know he's just a little poonhound. The senator he works for isn't much better, so my friend Ron and I call the young staffer "little dog" and his boss "big dog." Little dog has been emailing me lately, just being friendly and chatty, but his notes read like he's using a thesaurus for every other word. He's trying really hard, it is kind of sweet and I'll give him credit -- he's a bright guy, and I think he likes having a conversation about something more than drinking beer and watching football. I'm good practice for him, because some day he's going to meet a smart woman in his age range who can have conversations about things he talks about when he visits with me. I think he's afraid to show younger women his more intellectual and artistic side, and that's sad.
Then there's a guy who works at the health club I go to; he's the weekend front desk person. I think he's a grad student, so he's early 20-ish. His parents are professors, he's really smart, kind of chunky-but-cute, very friendly. Or, I should say, he was very friendly -- he spent a ton of time talking to me a few weeks ago and was trying to get me to take tai chi at the club. He already does tai chi, but wanted to try a different instructor, since he'd never taken from the guy who teaches at the club. I'd taken a session with this instructor, and while the guy knows his stuff and is very nice, he is almost incomprehensible as a teacher. Anyway, the front desk guy and I got into a big discussion about eastern disciplines and I gave him the name of my yoga teacher and told him to call her if he ever wanted to drop in on one of her classes. I told him I just didn't have time to add a tai chi class to my schedule. All was fine until about two weeks ago -- now he won't look at me, just types in my member number when I give it to him, halfway rolls his eyes at me when I walk through, and acts like it's a relief to see me leave. I want to say, "Pardon me sweetie, but WTF?" All I've ever done was be polite to him and chat with him a little bit. Christ, I'm old enough to be his mother, maybe he figured that out, but there's no need to act so strangely.
But you know, maybe he's nuts, or maybe he now has a girlfriend, so he's rather immaturely blowing off everyone that he used to get attention. It's really sad -- sometimes I think my intentions can be misinterpreted simply because I try to treat people as actual human beings. I work around the legislature and I'm fairly immune to being treated as a cog in the machine, as a means to an end, but there are times when a thank-you would have been nice, and then there are the times when a thank-you or a simple acknowledgement meant everything in the world. So I try to be genuinely cordial and polite to people; that's all. Everyone deserves that much, and it is a goal of every day of my life, although I forget about it entirely too often.
I was telling a friend the other day, I read things that I wrote when I was much younger and think they are alarmingly rational, considering what an interpersonal pinhead I used to be. It would be OK to be physically younger and cuter again, but hell, it's true -- I'd never go back to being younger because never again do I want to be that much of an emotional retard. Nor would I want to return to dealing with younger guys who were even bigger 'tards than me. Not that as people age, they necessarily mature emotionally, but a few do, and damn, they come as a relief.
All of you who are young and self-aware, you're pretty amazing. There's quite a few of you on the forum, showing you are smart about more things than how to smell really, really good.
I was listening to Lucinda Williams song "Essence" on the way into work, and while it's an amazing song in its own twisted way, and I have to admit that I really like it because it just throbs sexual energy, the male reaction to it has always mystified me.
I don't know if many of you listen to Lu, but I think of her as a southern gothic rock/folk/blues/alt country singer. She's just difficult to categorize. Her voice isn't very pretty, but her lyrics are so raw and real that they bleed. Her dad is Miller Williams, a nationally-known poet who read a poem at William Jefferson Clinton's* first inaguration. Lucinda hasn't exactly led a simple and idyllic life. Jesus Christ she has terrible taste in men, and I'm not sure that being happy and just a little bit content doesn't make her really really nervous, she's obsessive-compulsive about her music and apparently can be a real bitch to work with. But there's no one quite like her.
She also has a certain physical appeal, in this hot mama biker chick sort of way. (She's even older than me, but I've seen some pretty young guys get worked up over her, so go figure.) Lots of sulky surly attitude with a distinct vulnerability. Gets 'em every time.
So her song "Essence" is about a really obsessive stalker chick who wants her man and follows him all over the fucking place. And she wants him now, forever, and all the time, in a very twisted and addicted sort of way. ("shoot your love into my veins," "please come find me and help me get fucked up....") Printing the lyrics does not do justice to the song -- you have to listen to it. Her vocals, the guitars, the drums, the throb.
I've seen Lu in concert twice, both times in a smallish theater/club, because Lu likes it that way. When the guitars kick into the opening bars of "Essence," men rush the stage like bull elephants chasing cows in heat, bellowing "LU! LU! YEAH! LU!!"
I was aghast. I've always thought that the attraction to sick assholes who would make your life a living hell was a primarily female trait. Silly, silly me! I saw a small herd of goofballs who apparently have a fantasy that it would be cool to be stalked by a woman as hot as Lucinda Williams. Yeah, right fellows. Maybe it might be kind of cool to have it happen once. But that sort of shit doesn't happen once, and the boys would get mighty tired of it. Besides, women like Lu don't need to stalk men; they're too busy hiding from their stalkers and feeling miserable because they're in love with the one man in the world who doesn't know that they're alive.
We humans, we're such perverse, perverse creatures!
*It made me happy just to write out his whole name. It made me feel better just to think about him. You may have been an old poon-hound, Bill, but I miss you as President. A lot.
