It's summer! I know the solstice isn't until a week from today, but I had one marker last night and another one this morning. It's official in my world.
Last night I went outside at dusk and the fireflies are out! I'd seen one or two fireflies in the garden over the weekend, but it was during the daytime and I didn't notice them at night. Last night, at dusk, they were rising up out of the garden and twirling all over. The first sight of hundreds of fireflies waking up for the night always stops me in my tracks, because it is so gorgeous and amazing, especially living here on the prairie. We go through the harsh and barren winter, the mercurical spring, and it's hot and dry a great deal of the time in the summer, but you can go outside on summer nights and watch the stars rise in the sky and watch the fireflies repeat the act as they rise up out of the garden. It's just a miracle.
And when I walked out to check the baby cardinals in their nest this morning, I discovered that the first day lily of the year is blooming in my garden! Day lilies are named appropriately, since each lily lasts but one day, but fortunately they produce a lot of blossoms. The one that's blooming is a pink-peach color and it literally yells "summertime!"
I had someone recommend reading the poet Nikki Giovanni, so I went to her web site to see what her work was all about. This was the first poem that I clicked on. I liked it so much that I wanted to share with anyone who might choose to read this blog. I'm going back read a lot more of her work.
So here it is... I hope you enjoy it.
Poem (for EMA)
though i do wonder
why you intrigue me
i recognize that an exceptional moth
is always drawn
to an exceptional flame
you're not at all what you appear
to be
though not so very different
i've not learned
the acceptable way of saying
you fascinate me
I've not even learned
how to say i like you
without frightening people
away
sometimes I see things
that aren't really there
like warmth and kindess
when people are mean
but sometimes i see things
like fear and want to soothe it
or fatigue and want to share it
or love and want to recieve it
is that weird
you think everyone is weird
though you're not really hypocritical
you just practice not being
what you want to be
and fail to understand
how others would dare
to be otherwise
that's weird to me
flames don't flicker
forever
and moths are born to be burned
it's an unusual way
to start a friendship
but nothing lasts forever
Because I was writing about Lucinda Williams yesterday, I was reminded of her concert from almost a year ago. A guy there with his girlfriend was an obviously huge Lucinda fan. He was so freaking drunk, and he was a loud, snacked-out fellow. Very, very jovial, except he kept bellowing "MINNEAPOLIS" at the top of his lungs in between songs. It was apparently his favorite Lucinda song, and it was his quaint way of making a request to her. Thing is, that song is one of the most wrist-slashingly depressing songs that she's written in some time. Lucinda ignored his entreaties.
But this guy was so damn drunk that he couldn't really enjoy the concert; I think he and his girlfriend left well before it was over because he just couldn't stand up anymore. That was a shame for him, because Lu was in a good mood that night and kept playing and playing and playing. I was happy the guy left, because I didn't have to listen to his screaming and he had somehow decided it was good sport to take an occasional whap at my ass and comment on its firmness. His girlfriend was so toasted that she didn't care. My DH thought it was funny that some tubby drunk guy was alternating yelling "MINNEAPOLIS" at Lucinda and whapping my ass. Towards the end of the show I went down right in front to watch Lucinda and the band up close because everyone down there was very focused on her music.
Anyway, you have to wonder about these funny, fat class-clown sort of fellows. I think their dark side is darker than anything most of us could dream up.
In a complete non sequitur, there's a new "CSI" (Las Vegas version) on tonight. There's some teaser/buzz going around that Grissom and Sarah are going to get into bed before the season is over. Anyone else heard that? A couple of seasons ago, that would have irritated me, but at this point in the show, I think they should just do the horizontal bop and get it over with. Although I also have a theory that they may both end up in bed, but each with a different person. Why do I get so caught up in that stupid TV show? Oh, I remember why... William Peterson is hot.
Oh no! Fergus, the soccer hooligan, pushed LaVerna too far. Evidently she's watched too many Charles Bronson vigilante justice movies in her life, for she has utterly no remorse. Judging from his grinning death mask, Fergus was happy that he would be joining Beetlejuice's posse of the undead, and right now he's no doubt trying to get Wyonna Ryder to marry him.
Now everyone turn up Warren Zevon's "Werewolves of London" full-blast, and sing along!
I was at the health club, riding the cardio cross-trainer (I've nicknamed it the sadiomaster), but I'm having a fine time because I'm reading "Insatiable" by Gael Green, the escapades of an unabashed sensualist food critic who had lots and lots of fun in the 1970's, eating and screwing her way around New York City. And while I was reading and riding (the sadiomaster, remember!) I was listening to Billie Holiday.
I finished a chapter and looked up at a TV, and there was Andy Garcia on screen. What a fine man he is. Could I take much more? Of course, because then the scene switched to George Clooney. ("Ocean's 11" was on TV.) In a brief aside, I think Andy and George make Brad Pitt look plain, but I'm a sucker for dark-haired men.
Could I take much more? Yeah, the guy at the club that I mentally refer to as "Scenery" (I don't know his name) was walking around the track, cooling down from his weight training. He has dark hair too, plus he's classically handsome and he doesn't realize it. I think that men who aren't especially handsome, but act like they are, are really appealing, as are handsome men who don't understand just how good looking they are.
But after that flurry of man-watching, I was content to return to reading Gael and listening to Billie. It certainly did make the sadiomaster session much more worthwhile.
If you have the time, go to the BBC web site - www.bbc.co.uk
In the search mode, enter "brain test" and the first result you will probably get is "Science - Sex ID." That link will take you to a very comprehensive test that is designed to gauge if your brain functions on a more typically male, or typically female basis. Be ready to take time and have a ruler available -- you'll be doing some measurements of your fingers (index and ring finger ratios can indicate exposure to testosterone in utero and the degree of exposure can affect brain function). This isn't one of those little fun tests -- it's rather comprehensive and it makes you use your brain in ways that might not be your typical mode.
I have a male friend who took it who tested out as having more female way of thinking; this was no shock to him. He's the youngest child in a family with a stay-at-home mom and a military officer dad. He spent a lot of time growing up being exposed to a more female mindset. (And my friend isn't gay -- he's very straight, in case you were wondering.) I have a robustly hetero female acquaintance who last summer tested out as having a male mindset. Obviously, it's an indication of how your brain works, not your sexual identity.
How'd I test out? Directly between male and female.
Writing this made me think of a particularly idiotic quote from a politician of past years. Too bad that while he's still stooopid as hell, he seems almost innocuous in comparison to today's idiots:
"What a waste it is to lose one's mind. Or not to have a mind is being very wasteful. How true that is." -- Dan Quayle
It occurs to me that I have not provided a definitive update on the cat who took up residence on my front porch nearly two weeks ago. I was calling the kitty Puddy or Puds or Puddin', and a week ago I took the little geek into the vet to get the giant hairballs cut out of his fur and to get a general health assessment.
So here's the news: the kitty is a neutered male, the vet guesses he's about 10 years old. He'd probably lived on his own for a while, considering the extent of the matted hair on his back, but he obviously was someone's pet for most of his life. He had no microchip, and no lost cat report fits his description. His ears were simply very dirty, he had no mites or parasites except of evidence of some fleas, so he was treated for the nasty fleasters. His bloodwork came out clean and vet gave him vaccinations. The vet also said he was in amazingly good shape, considering his age and his recent "on the road" lifestyle. The shambling gait that he has is probably due to general age and perhaps some sort of old injury. But some of it, I believe, was due to the fact that the poor guy was skin and bones and half-starved.
So for now, he's living contentedly on the front porch with his little kennel for shelter and his food and water. He isn't going anywhere, believe me! He's filling out, I'm brushing him daily to get more of the dead hair out of his coat, and his wobbly gait is improving. He loves to crawl onto your your lap, purr and knead his paws. Ella Bean, Basset Queen, was taken out on the porch to meet him, restrained by her harness and her leash, and Puddin' Tom just watched her and gave a warning growl every now and then. She didn't push it. Mugzy the Boxer was curious, but not aggressive. If they keep meeting up, a truce may be established over time
And as you can see, I'm calling him Puddin' Tom. I think it sounds like a cross between a children's book title and a good ol' southern boy. He apparently feels like he's found his retirement home!
I work for a state legislature. They only meet part of the year and they're almost finished, but the final week or two can involve working some long hours, because they meet into the night. A lot of it is a hurry-up-and-wait process for my office, since if there's something on the agenda, we have to sit around and wait for it to come up for debate. There may be a lot of blog entries from yours truly next week...
Anyway, this afternoon a coworker and I were looking at Monday's very long agenda. He commented on a bill title -- something to do with obscene materials. He said: "Hmmm...it's a smut bill." I automatically said: "I love teh Smut!"
He looked at me and said: "Really?" Not that he's a prude, not one little bit, it was just the rapidity of my remark and my great comfort in saying it that took him aback. I told him about Smut of the BPAL variety. He said: "Is this the same group that made the Beaver Moon t-shirt and that Naughty t-shirt?" I said yeah, more or less. (No point boring him with BPAL and BPTP distinctions.)
I still hope the lovely and talented Macha makes a Smut t-shirt design some day, 'cause we do love teh Smut.
Yes, today I am in a tank top and a skort. The tank top is one with a retro Wonder Woman design on it, but it's distressed-faded looking, so the image of the Amazon doesn't jump right out at you. Most of my coworkers are used to my Wonder Woman fixation, although there are plenty of people who don't know me, who look upon my shirt with great curiosity. Or maybe it's just stupid men who will use anything as an excuse to look at a woman's chest, even one equipped with my middlers.
When I went into Meadowlark coffee this morning, the only people sitting outside were three relatively normal young women. No mullets. Maybe Wednesdays are Mullet Mornings at Meadowlark? You show up with a mullet and get your lattes at half-price? I'll have to ask them if that's the case.
I must now discuss a particularly annoying word pronunciation idiosyncrasy. I tend to wince at most odd pronunciations/mispronunciations, but some just drive me batty. One is when the word Buddha is pronounced "Beyoo-dah." I always think of "zippity-do-dah!" Then I get into associations with Zippy the Pinhead and the Buddha. I can just see a cartoon frame of Zippy saying: "Zippity-do-dah, I'm the Be-yoo-dah!"
And then there's the word emu, denoting the large, flightless ostrich-like bird. It can be pronounced either e-mou or e-meu, but whenever I hear e-meu, it annoys me. This is no doubt due to my provincial preference for the e-mou version, because at times, my accent comes dangerously close to bordering upon the Scandinavian/German influenced "Fargo" accent, as in: "Ya, fer sure, that was an e-meu runnin' across the road, Margie. Where'd ya think he was goin'?"
I'm sure that somehow I could weave together an idea about a Coen Brothers movie that would include emus, Zippy the Pinhead, Buddha, mullets and Wonder Woman. But it's lunchtime and I don't want to. However, I'll close with the thought that I'm pretty sure if he were around today, the Buddha would just call himself "The Dude."
I'm in relative slacker mode for a few days here at work. Woot! I've been a bit nose-to-the-grindstone for over a month now, and when I hit this point, I can breathe again. In accordance with my relative leisure, and the fact that I'm not going to wear a power suit if I don't have to do a presentation, I'm wearing a long-sleeved, longish black top with a skirt that has a black and brown Indian print, with a few gold sequins scattered about. Even with the sequins, the skirt is rather understated. And I'm wearing my black corset-lace boots. I'm wearing Mme. Moriarty, since my ensemble seemed a bit like a Misfortune Teller outfit.
Right before the New Year, and continuing into the month of January, I've been doing a brief Ganesha mantra at the start of my meditation each night. Silently. I'm not into chanting out loud, although I love to listen to chanting. If you aren't into Hindu deities, Ganesha is the elephant-headed man -- Ganesha was the subject of the amazingly beautiful BPTP Lotus Moon t-shirt. Ganesha is the remover of obstacles and the god of new beginnings. He also represents wisdom, learning and humility. I think he's a wonderful creature, whether you believe in him as an actual living, breathing diety or as a symbol that inspires you to use your own wisdom and learning to overcome obstacles (within and outside of yourself) and recognize avenues for auspicious new beginnings. And even then, to retain a sense of humility about the process. An elephant-sized order, but a good one.
I suppose my biggest task is to not overthink the entire matter. That probably invokes the humility factor, because I simply can't will things to be so, nor can I control inner guidance. You have to let it happen, you never know when it will arrive, you never know what it will be, but you have to be ready to listen to it. You just never know, and that is the hardest thing of all for me. In comparison, it's a piece of cake for me to walk into a briefing session armed with all sorts of information, because then I am able to say that I know the answer, or I know where to find the answer. To ask, to wait, and to not know about things that are much, much larger is truly humbling.
OM Sri Ganeshaya Namah. There are bigger things than this little place where I work.
I am a word etymology geek, and of course, any sort of "where did that world come from?" question sends me off in search of its origins. In this case:
Webster's New Millennium™ Dictionary of English-
Main Entry: blog
Part of Speech: n
Definition: an online diary; a personal chronological log of thoughts published on a Web page; also called [Weblog], [Web log]
Example: Typically updated daily, blogs often reflect the personality of the author.
Etymology: shortened form of Weblog
Usage: blog, blogged, blogging v, blogger n
______________________________
I admit, I was really down on blogging a couple of years ago, if only because the few blogs I'd run across were the most self-aggrandizing, nauseating pieces of crap I'd ever read. I realize now that the source I'd used to come across them led me to some very unsatisfying blogs. (A much different forum, I won't get into that right now, that's another entry in itself!)
Then I started reading political blogs, especially after watching a discussion on C-SPAN where a number of print media journalists were lamenting the demise of the newspaper as a source of true investigative journalism. The reason they most often cited for that demise was the proliferation of chain newspapers that functioned to reflect the views of the corporate ownership. One of the panelists was the woman who started the political humor-commentary blog Wonkette. Some of the more traditional print journalism panelists were dissing blogers because they lack the editorial control of journalistic ethics, and she retorted that when traditional journalism simply wouldn't look at the hard topics, investigate issues or print the controversial stories, blogs were stepping in to fill that void. And indeed, more and more serious journalists are running their own blogs these days, to the point that they're e-zines. I appreciate that a lot.
Since Wonkette is essentially a political humor blog, I started reading a few more general humor and commentary blogs, just because some of those people make me laugh like crazy. And my local newspaper makes me laugh, but only inadvertantly, and only because they are so hick and pathetic. Good blogs takes things to a higher denominator, and I feel like I'm actually a part of the world again.
So this brings me to writing in my own blog space, which I started mainly for the jollies of it. I saw it as writing practice, if nothing else -- I had no idea what I'd write about. But really, I tend to have a lot of stories. I see my life as an endless series of odd stories and observations, and I share the better ones. (Well, not all of them, but at least some of them.) Sometimes I get a little Zen or a little angsty, but that's human nature. And often, issues and problems take on a greater shape and clarity when one writes about them; the mere act of writing can help end the spinning-in-the-head that too often occurs if we just mull over things without setting them to print.
I think reading each other's stories gives perspective to our own stories. I have friends who know me well, who see me a lot, who have certain expectations of me, and who sometimes do not look at me with fresh eyes. (Not in that "fresh" way, for any of you perverts out there! Oh, oops, hold it...I'm the pervert! ) So many of you give me a fresh perspective, either from your own entries, or through comments on my blogs. Sometimes you are a realilty check that I just can't get from my friends. Hopefully now and then (when I'm not carrying on about underwear, high heels, BPAL or dreams of George Clooney), I give you a different perspective that might also serve as a reality check.
I think our reasons for blogging are as varied and nuanced as we are, and it only adds to the tapestry of our lives. All of you make my life so much more interesting, and for that I am most thankful.
I wonder if Greta Garbo uttered her famous "I vant to be ah-lone"* comment because she was simply trying to sit in a coffeehouse and write in her journal without goofballs or well-meaning sorts interrupting her?
Today I was sitting in Meadowlark, writing, when this old dude who's down there all the time stopped to ask me if I wrote in a journal every day. Well yeah... So then he had to tell me about his career as a journalist and then as an ad agency rep. There went 10 minutes of writing time.
And I don't think I told y'all about the guy, a few weeks ago, who walked up to me and said "You look like a rock and roll girl..." Away he went on a story about the band Badfinger. According to him, it's a tragic, tragic story, apparently there's only one surviving member, two committed suicide, one "just died" and the surviving guy won't return this character's emails. This guy had aviator glasses that appeared to be relics from when Badfinger was in their heyday (early '70's, I think) and what I can only describe as a Prince Valiant haircut. He did make me think of Toni Tennile of the Captain and Tennile. I let him go for 5 minutes and then shut my journal and declared it was time to go back to work.
You might suggest that I go to a different coffee house, but really, I am the least molested at Meadowlark. I used to go to a place called (imaginatively) The Coffee House, and there's a crazy guy named Alvin who goes in there. He's one of those brilliantly talented, smart, yet insane people. He came up to me and declared that in a former life, I was a Viking Queen. There was also the pervert mailman. He was one of those mensa-level IQ people who said the hell with it and became a postal employee. This guy was, at the time, in his late 50's and one day he felt compelled to tell me that he was having an affair with a disabled woman on his route. I nearly vomited. But later he told me (and a very appalled friend who had happened to join me) that this woman dumped him for a real boyfriend, and I was so happy for her.
Then I went to a place called Coffee Culture. It eventually closed down. Bummer -- the best coffee in town. Terrance, the guy who ran it was a master coffee roaster, and a complete character in his own right. But it was great, because he was so odd that he scared off the really kooky people. He was a Vietnam vet, an old hippie and somehow knew how to freak out the freaks. But he didn't try to do it; it just happened. I remember the perv postman wouldn't go near the place. Terrance got a lot of business from women fleeing the perv's haunts. I did my best journaling there, because even when Terrance came over to talk to me, he'd have to stop whenever a customer came in.
But I regale people at work with my coffee house stories and they love them. One coworker has declared me a "weirdo magnet." And I try to be philosophical, for if I get someone jabbering at me, I try to view it as probable fodder for later journaling efforts. And besides, what would I do with a vanilla life?
*Why is it that when I write something in a Greta Garbo accent, it will remind most people of Governor Ah-nold Swartzenegger? Damn his Republican ass. And BTW, I still do miss that ol' poonhound, William Jefferson Clinton.
Yeah, I read the Bronte sisters and Thomas Hardy, and I like to quote poetry every now and then, but I also listen to Ani DiFranco and I'm in an Ani mood these days. Not that Ani isn't poetic, in her own 20th/21st century way. And anyone who started their own recording label called Righteous Babe Records has to be alright.
Right now I'm listening to the "reckoning" disc of the "Reveling/Reckoning" double CD set. I was driving around last night singing along to "So What" and I looked over at the car in the lane next to me, and there was a teenaged girl, singing and doing upper body dancing as she drove. I thought, damn it, I miss the surly grunger days. In the town that I live in, there's way too many perky teenagers, but I was in suburbia and the closer I get to downtown, the closer I come to finding surly youth. However, a lot of them tend to sit around outside coffee houses and sing folk songs with people closer to my age, and I find it rather confusing.
Back to Ani. A few years ago in "Jazziz" magazine, in response to the question "What is your guilty pleasure?" Ani replied: "FUCK GUILT." That was my New Year's resolution that year. It worked. (I wasn't raised as a Catholic, so maybe it was easier for me.) Then a year later, I did a spin on that and made my New Year's resolution "FUCK 'WHAT-IF'S.'" I realized late last week just how well that one took, because I spent some time around someone who was spinning "what-if" scenarios, that to me, were no more than fantasies about something that was painfully impossible. I realized how I simply never go there, or if I do, I pull myself back. (Hell, I don't even fantasize about Bob Schneider, and that would be a sweet diversion!)
But as a result, I have a bit more of an Ani DiFranco attitude, which is to jam reality right back in my face. It makes for an interesting life, I'm not missing as much, except for when I'm so sulky that I'm not really paying attention. Better to be looking around than your head in the clouds or up your ass, right?
But even then, almost in spite of everything I've said above, I'm still a romantic. I've yet to figure that one out.
Billie Holiday simply rocks my world. I was listening to her a bit this morning. Her music simply hits you in the heart. Even when she's singing a happy song or a love song, there's always a little pathos in her voice and I love it. Billie isn't my only favorite jazz singer, I also adore Ella Fitzgerald, and if you asked me to pick my favorite version of "The Way You Look Tonight" it would be Ella's, and not Billie's or Tony Bennet's.
But I digress. Billie loved dogs, and she had a Boxer dog named Mister that she loved like crazy. Since I have a Boxer named Mugzy (or Mister Mug, as I like to call him), I know why she was so devoted to him. A lot of people enjoy Billie because it's cool to say you like her or because she was an such an iconic beauty in her time. Actually, she had a tiny little voice that wasn't that pretty, especially compared to Ella or Sarah Vaughn or other great female jazz singers of her time. However, her style was incomparable.
And Billie also made some great comments about life in the course of her time here on earth, so here are a few:
“Don't threaten me with love, baby. Let's just go walking in the rain."
"If you copy, it means you're working without any real feeling."
"You can be up to your boobies in white satin, with gardenias in your hair and no sugar cane for miles, but you can still be working on a plantation."
"You've got to have something to eat and a little love in your life before you can hold still for any damn body's sermon on how to behave."
I love that last quote. Amen, sister!
Do you ever have one of those spells in your life, where you'd just like to put the universe on notice that he/she/it can stop tossing grenades in your path? That maybe you're just tired of dodging explosions in the road, and a bit o' smooth sailing might be a lovely change? Just long enough to have a little time to get some things figured out? I think some people are given a life of more combustables than others. And my life, for the last year, has been a series of big-ass explosions and smaller rumblings, more akin to a volcano getting ready to blow. I'm getting weary of it.
Maybe if I could be a little more clueless, everything wouldn't seem so acute to me, but who wants to be clueless? Sometimes I think those of us who are rather gothic in our outlook are simply the people who just can't stop paying attention long enough to get clueless. Not that I can't be clueless about many things, but they usually aren't important enough to tranqulize me to what's going on.
But I suppose to be awake to the difficulty of life is also to be awake to the gorgeousness of life, so why be a whiny-pants about it?
I have not been the chattiest blogger in the world, lately. Bad blogger, bad, bad, bad blogger! Try to type "bad blogger" a number of times that not turn "bad" into "blad." I did it twice. ("Blad Blogger" sounds like the emo nephew of Dracula.) It's been over 100 degrees here the last two days. Blame any weirdness below on the heat.
Well, I've been quiet because I've been kind of angsty lately and I really don't like to subject people to my angst. I'm semi-finished with my angst, and I've basically decided, what's better -- to be someone who has a few things that I'd like to have, but don't, but in order to get them you have to be positively glacial, or to be sort of person who animals, little kids and old people tend to like. I guess it's best to just accept my gifts in the form of a trusting animal, smiles from little kids and conversations with old folks. And everyone else in between. I not a cold bitch, so I don't get the cold bitch acoutroments. End of story.
I'm going to try to brew up a good batch or two or three of sangria tomorrow. I associate sangria with the 4th of July. Now, WTF? A Spanish wine for an American holiday? It's just a summertime thing.
And what is it when you go to the pool and you see the man with his bald head, bobbing just above the water, and then he emerges from the pool, it is revealed that his body is one of the hairiest things you've seen? As in, more hair on the guy's back than on most men's chests, not to mention all the hair on the legs and the chest and arms? I know it's testosterone doing its thing, but it always amazes me. Not that I have a thing against a nice hairy chest or hairy arms or legs, for I like secondary sexual characteristics, but when the back is almost solid hair, I do draw the line. I'd be getting out the waxing strips and using them on the fellow. But it would be like trying to wax a Grizzly! It would be like pulling carpet! Jeez, and guys like that would clog up your drains all the time, and no one would be able to figure it out, because they have a cue-ball head. Where is that hair coming from?
You can see what I was looking at and pondering at the pool today!
You read all about it, here it is in graphic detail... just the usual goings-on around my house. Ella Bean gets busy on Mugzy: CORNHOLE!!!!
I know the photo development folks see it all, but methinks they had to wonder, just a bit. However, it may have been a welcome, if slightly odd, break from all the Christmas photo shoots.
I was planning to not order any BPAL this month and now, at the ides of May, I am considering what could almost be classified as a rather large order. Self control: gone, gone, gone!!
I want to order Litha, because the honey mead and honeysuckle elements can not be resisted. I also need a 10 ml of O, because I use it almost like I breathe air. Then, yesterday, I decided to test Kumiho again and I believe I must have a bottle. I am also terribly intrigued by Baobhan Sith; it sounds like it could be a winner. I love grapefruity scents. When it gets totally hot and steamy in July and August, I know I won't be wearing Smut as an everyday scent. I need my options. And there are my rationalizations.
I can be pretty cheeky in my lack of concern about "appropriate" daytime workplace scents. In interest of juxtapositions, it's kind of fun to wear "business appropriate" clothing and a smoldering scent. Hee hee.
I get my hair done on Wednesday, and I can hardly wait. Last visit, I told the most wonderful Brandi not to cut very much off the bottom. She complied with my wishes, but suggested that next time, it might be a good idea to neaten up the edges. She's no fool; she knew it would grow so much and get so freaking long that it would be driving me nuts by now. We're planning to put some more blonde highlights in it just to add to that summery kissed-by-the-sun look.
Speaking of the sun, maybe I'm attracted to the scent Baobhan Sith because they were the "ghostly white women of the Scottish highlands" and I'm part Scottish and I'm just about that white. This weekend, I purchased some of the tanning body lotion and it's helping. I'm not looking to become the San Tropez tan girl, but it would be nice not to have legs that look like a couple of glo-sticks heading your way.
Today's BPAL: Smut and O (aka Smut-O-Rama)
Today's underwear: Tangerine bra and bikinis with a retro tattoo design print
Today's music in the CD player in my car: "Polaroids" by Shawn Colvin
Today's non sequiturs begin with the fact that the Reverend Jim guy that I mentioned in my prior entry is, in fact, employed. I went into Meadowlark Coffee yesterday and he was sitting outside, wearing a shirt normally worn by U-Stop convenience store employees. I asked Debbie, the morning barrista, if he was actually a U-Stop employee and she said yes, she was rather certain that he was. I commented that I'd always thought that he was a client at the county mental health center. And Debbie said yes, she was rather sure he was.
I was watching "Austin City Limits" on PBS last Saturday, and I know it was a rerun, but I was deeply amused at the contrasts presented by the two featured performers. I like both of them, but who decided to put Lyle Lovett and Jamie Cullum on the same show? Lyle is tall, skinny, taciturn Texan who smiles only on one side of his face, is so rigid when he performs that one suspects he might break in half if he made a sudden move, and is entrancingly weird-looking. I figured out that part of what makes him so very odd-looking is that his eyebrows are almost nonexistent. He has all that hair on the top of his head (which styling products have really tamed in recent years) and absolutely no eyebrows. But don't get me wrong, I like his voice and a lot of his music, although I don't listen to him that often.
Did he burn his eyebrows off as a kid and they never grew back?
Jamie Cullum is a hyperanimated little sparkplug from England who runs and jumps all over as he is singing and playing the piano. He's so little that I kind of want to call him "Frodo," but he's also quite adorable. Maybe the Austin City Limits crowd for his show was the same group who showed up to see Lyle perform, and they just didn't get what Jamie was all about. They were as lifeless as the day is long, and I've never seen a group of such unrhymtic-looking people in my life. What was the matter with those white people? Get up and move! At least sway a bit! Granted, I love Jamie's music and his style, but I felt sorry for him, having to perform on TV before an alleged "live" audience.
Just. Plain. Cute.
I bought three bottles from the update -- two from Wanderlust and one from Carnaval Diabolique. Specifically, Cockaige and Lyonesse from Wanderlust and Midnight on the Midway. What is life without at least one or two pending BPAL orders? About as boring as a Lyle Lovett crowd at a Jamie Cullum concert!
Retail therapy, moi?
Well, I must stay true to my word, and when I say in my sales thread that I'll reinvest the proceeds from my sales in the Lab (and then some), I must follow through. I placed a tidy little order for a bottle of each of the following: The Brides of Dracula, Theodosius, the Legerdemain and Snake Oil. The Brides of Dracula was the only scent of the recent LEs that really tripped my trigger. I hadn't ordered the Legerdemain with my Carnaval order because the jasmine made me jittery. Then I tried Siren, fell in love with it and realized that jasmine need not be a reason to rule out a scent. So the Legerdemain it is. And of course I need a bottle of Snake Oil to sit in reserve and age like a fine wine while I use my current bottle.
And in the wine mode, I just finished regaling a friend about a Austrian (and I mean Austrian, not Australian) white wine, brand name Lois. Specifically,, it's Fred Lois Gruner Veltliner. It's very nice white wine, not too sweet -- dry, but not dry in an icky way. It's delicious. Really, really nice. As in, grab a bottle of it and sit in the sun and eat cheese and crackers over the long weekend. Preferably with someone you like, but if keeping yourself company is the best option, don't forget to treat yourself. Put on your favorite BPAL scent and let it waft around you.
What is it that the Lab's postcards say? Sensualist stimulation? By all means, go for it.
Hell, I have all sorts of time at work now... I can go back to reading poetry and posting favorite poems, so for all of you that detest poetry, just sign off now. And it's spring, so let's be romantic as hell, at least for a moment or two. Then I'll get real, but still in a romantic way. So for all you lovers out there, here's two ways to look at it.
A mushy poem that I love, by E.E. Cummings:
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
And a not-so-mushy poem by Wallace Stevens:
The night knows nothing of the chants of night.
It is what it is as I am what I am:
And in perceiving this I best perceive myself
And you. Only we two may interchange
Each in the other what each has to give.
Only we two are one, not you and night,
Nor night and I, but you and I, alone,
So much alone, so deeply by ourselves,
So far beyond the casual solitudes,
That night is only the background of our selves,
Supremely true each to its separate self,
In the pale light that each upon the other throws.
And you know, maybe they aren't so different, after all...
Well hells belles, I haven't written an entry in almost a week! What have I been doing? I'm getting busier at work and it cuts down on my recreational writing time. Whatta gyp!
Last night I went to the pet food store to get some kitty food for Puddin' Tom, and the Italian Greyhound Rescue organization had a table set up by the door. The guy who's the local IG rescue coordinator was there with two of his foster doggies. The one was a bouncy youngster, about a year old. The other dog had some white on his face and was obviously a mature fellow. When I kneeled down to pet them, the older guy came over, put his eensy teensy little paws on my legs and snuggled his head against me and kind of whimpered and cried. The sweetie, the honey! There was another woman there and I wanted her to be able to pet him, but this little dog kept coming back and just leaning on me.
I asked the IG rescue guy what the story was with the older dog -- he said it was an owner surrender. This couple had owned two IGs since the dogs were pups; one dog was 9 and the other was 8. They decided that the dogs were getting older and might get more high-maintenance, so they just turned them over to rescue. Kind of like the dogs were motor vehicles. What doucebags. This little dog kept looking at me with his big sad eyes, and you could tell he's just confused. And sad. And frightened. He's being very well-cared for in his foster home, I know, but the poor little guy wanted to adopt me. He broke my heart.
Look, IGs are really delicate little creatures and I already have a bossy Basset and a very possessive male Boxer. I would seriously fear for the poor little guy. I only hope that he turns on the big-eye nuzzler act on for other women and he gets a wonderful home very soon, so he can be curled up on a couch with a little comforter thrown over him on chilly autumn nights.
Wayward dogs and pain in the ass men, they all love me.
Since my previous entry was a prolonged rant, I'm doing another entry to lighten up the mood, and it's on one of my more favorite subjects.
I turned on TV last night and there on the screen was some absurd CBS 4th of July special, featuring Boston Pops doing a live outdoor concert. But when I turned it on, Aerosmith was playing along with the Boston Pops. What? I guess the Aerosmith boys came from the Boston area. But it was surreal, to say the least. First of all, these days, Steven Tyler has a tighter face than his daughter Liv. It does not look especially flattering on him -- a bit too much work, I think. But I could have lived with that, had he sounded halfway normal. Oh my hell, his voice made the menacing cat scream-growl noise uttered by Puddin' Tom sound like the song of a lark. Tyler at his best never had a resonant or clarion-clear rock star voice, but this was off-key and vocal chord polyp-inducing squalling. I nearly hit the mute right away. Actually, I did so when he started to hack his way through "Dream On." It was just too sad.
But Joe Perry was, well, Joe Perry. He and Steven did look like they got into a Clairol frost 'n tip hair highlight system together, but I like the way it looks on Joe. (Do I dislike they way anything looks on Joe? Probably not.) Joe has two big platinum blonde streaks running on either side of his part, and it looks rather dramatic, as if he needs any more drama and presence.
Poor Steven Tyler was working very hard to keep the energy and drama focused on him, and all Joe had to do was stand there, play the guitar and toss his head around. If you got it, you got it.
ETA: OK, I just read that Steven Tyler was "fresh from surgery on his vocal chords," so that's why he sounded so bad. But that's like getting a liver transplant and going out and drinking shots a month after you've been released from the hospital! Rest your voice, Steven.
The college football team that has the big-ass stadium in my town is currently in L.A., playing USC. I have some family members who flew out to L.A., and they're sitting in the stadium, watching it right now. I have the TV on in the other room and I'm only semi-paying attention. If I hear a lot of yelling, I stop and listen to what happened. I haven't been to a Nebraska home football game for, I don't know... over 15 years? I never sit and watch one on TV; it seems like a giant waste of time. When games are on TV, it's actually a very good time to go shopping, but there's a thunderstorm moving in and I really don't want to be in a store if a tornado warning happens. And we had one of those last night... it did rain like a bastard, but the ominous wall cloud skirted south of town.
But, back to football. It's not like I never watched football -- I used to watch it all the time. It's difficult to avoid growing up in this state. My brother started playing high school football when I was about 2 years old. I remember being miserably cold and bored at my brother's games. And even though I don't watch it very much at all these days, I can still turn into one of the boys for a play or two and get into discussions about the design of the play, spot the holding or facemask violation or watch a receiver closely enough to see if he's in or out of the field of play when he comes down with the ball. But then I get bored and leave. Too many people in this state base their identity around the football team's success or failure. There are many things in the world that you can use to make yourself miserable, but I don't think the relative success or failure of the Huskers is a valid excuse for depression.
Actually, what I did find depressing was when I flipped past the Nebraska coach's TV show the other night and he had on the most butt-ugly sports jacket I have seen on TV in years. From a distance, I thought it was some ultra-cheesy blue denim sports coat from the '70's. I kept watching the show just to see a close-up. It was a lighter (denim-colored) blue wool coat with a bit of a plaid design in it. Even worse! Shades of Rodney Dangerfield in "Caddyshack!" The previous coach turned the team to shit, but he was dapper enough. He was a spokesperson for a local men's clothier and they supplied him with clothing. I have no idea who is giving the current coach his clothing, but Pat Riley he is not.
Hmmm... I think the thunderstorm has passed and I can go to the gym -- it's another good thing to do during games. The game is usually on the TVs, so I can look up and check the score to see what's happening. Actually, I always want Nebraska to win, or to at least play well, because then I don't have to deal with everyone else's bad mood and complaining on Monday morning.
In closing, I really want to go spend money for sateen bedding. I have one set, and I want more. Why does it matter to me what the thread count is of pieces of fabric that I lay on when I'm mostly unconscious, or at least in an altered level of consciousness? I don't get it, but it so nice to wake up and fall asleep on sateen sheets, especially when I wear Mme. Moriarty, which smells so insanely good that it makes me want to have sex with myself.
I can't think of anything else to say after that last comment, so I think I'll just stop. Go Big Thread Count!
ETA: OK, I misspelled "thread" as "tread" because I was being inattentive, as all the weather bulletin beepers went off and I did want to jump up and run off to see what that is all about. A tornado was 50 miles or so north of us, around Omaha. It proceeded to rain like a bastard and even hailed a little bit, so I decided to not go to the gym. Once I ascertained that the tornado wasn't hitting hard in Omaha (it didn't do any damage), I somehow became entranced watching a cheesy infomercial for a 10-CD set of '70's music. The video clips of the '70's artists featured on the CDs were hypnotizingly odd. These CD sets have a lot of the pop music of the '70's, and the word "geek" kept going through my head. There was one guy, however, who was a one-hit wonder and he did look a lot like the guy who played Denny on "Gray's Anatomy" last season. I think the score of the game is USC 21, Nebraska 10. A respectable effort, considering we sucked two years ago and they were national champions. (See, I know more about football than I want to admit.)
