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.
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!
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'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'm in a rut, but it's a lovely rut, and a rut that I am happy to wallow in. I'm still wearing Tunisian Patchouli with O slathered over the top. It is a nice dirt rut with a bucket of honey and nuggets of amber poured into it. It works for this time of year. My body chem is very seasonal and this is the Tunisian patchouli time of year; it gets too overwhelming when the weather cools off, and even now, I like I much better when it's layered and softened with the O.
I have a tattoo of a triskele on my sacrum; I got it because I love Celtic spirals and it reminds me of the New Grange stone carvings. I've had it for several years now and I only recently discovered that in "The Story of O," the protagonist (or maybe I should say the pro-agonyist) wears a ring with a triskele design. As a result, in some quarters, the triskele is a symbol for BDSM.
So I wear O, I have a triskele tattoo, someone give me my leathers and a whip! A friend of mine used to get a catalog from a place called "Dream Dresser," and he always passed it on to me. Oh my. It made me want to become a domme on the spot. He stopped getting the catalog and we looked up the company on the web, and sadly, I think they're defunct.
All that said, I never do the domme act. I think I have more fun making people believe that I would make them get down on their knees and bark like a dog, than I ever would have if they actually did so.
Oh yes! I have on an eggplant-colored bra. One of the VSC bandolier minimal-padding numbers. I really like the way that the straps look, they're wider-set and very flattering. And I love the color. My panties are black mesh bikinis. I do have undies to match the bra, but they tend to produce VPL (visible panty line) and I have on a pair of those long shorts/short trousers with dark hose. I didn't want to ruin the line.
So I've been told that men love VPL as long as it's not incredibly evident. Just a shade of it that find rather sexy, just because they get to think about your panties. But is that true? What have you heard? Do report back...consider it a research mission.
Back to my fragrant rut...
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.
A year ago, my Airedale Terrier named Karma turned 9 years old, and that very same the day, the vet came to the house to euthanize Karma. She had a very aggressive bone cancer in her spine and by the time it was diagnosed, there was no treatment recourse. She was such a wonderful dog, very much a proud, haughty terrier who could also be silly and goofy. But largely, she was Princess Karma, and about 3 years ago, I found a tiara during Halloween costume season and purchased it for Karma's use. While she had a "don't hate me because I'm beautiful" attitude, she was also a bit of a ruffian and preferred to have her hair long and shaggy. She wasn't one of those preening terriers who came home from grooming with an attitude. Well, she did have an attitude after grooming, but it out of annoyance and embarrassment -- she far preferred her "au natural" state. Thus, her official princess portrait properly shows her in a bit of a wooly-bully dishevel. I do so miss playing with those curls. Here she is in all her glory...
I'm sleeeeeepy today. I worked late last night, didn't eat enough the entire day (that happens when I get hyped) and then a girlfriend from work wanted to get a quick martini after the legislature finally adjourned at 8:30 pm.
A Cosmopolitan on an empty stomach is rather potent. It pisses me off that I have to love the sterotypical "Sex and the City" drink, but I do, in spite of myself. I love Sea Breezes too, and maybe I should start ordering them. I just love booze and cranberry juice and I still prefer Cosmos to Sea Breezes because I could take or leave the grapefruit juice.
My friend had a dirty martini with olives and a little bit of blue cheese, or something like that, sprinkled on the olives. She said it was yum, it looked kind of good, but ugh, I know I would have hated it with a deep and abiding passion. I am a fruity sort, in so many ways.
My girlfriend is fun, a diva, and we had a nice chat. We've both been so busy with work that we haven't talked that much recently. Once the legislative session ends, we have to get back to that periodic check-in over martinis.
OK, my perfume is still in the Tunisian Patchouli and O rut, loving it, my bra is a pretty shiny pale blue fabric with almost goldish undertones, with a gold-bronze lace accent. The bits are covered by a thong, in this great retro tattoo print fabric. Mainly blue and white, but with some red tattoo heart designs.
I anxiously await a CnS on my first Monster Bait order (underbed) and a GC order. I've been tracking the CnS thread this week, and my time is growing near. I always feel like a virgin bride awaiting her beloved when I know an order is coming...
I stumbled onto the computer to find a PM from the esteemed minilux, notifying me of the Monster Bait: Underpants LE arrival. When I finished rolling around on the floor with glee, I picked myself up and immediately ordered two bottles. I also ordered a bottle of Beltane, because Scotland and gardens and spring just gets my sap flowing. And laying on a bed wearing lovely panties with flower petals strewn all around you is a lovely thought, no?
My ofrenda today is set to honor Beth, high priestess of panty lovers, and to the lovely mods, who invoked the priestess to develop her panty potion. For without question, only friendly monsters should enter our gorgeous panties!
I this place.
I have been reading through the blog and forum comments about how people react to the new update scents. I really enjoy that, it's fun to read. Seriously, we're all so attuned to scents and body chemistry and blends of aromas, it's pretty amazing. Compared to the rest of the world, it's astonishing. A lot of you have really sophisticated noses. I would guess that many of you are the type of person who sniffs their food. I could get a latte with flavoring in it, but not know what the flavor is, and I'm not always able to discern the flavor by only the taste. But if I smell it, I can almost always get the flavor category.
Many of us tend to get on ourselves about our BPAL addiction, and I'm certainly on that bandwagon. I showed a small amount of restraint this last update, although when you read what I did, you may not think so, but one person's restraint is another person's abandon, right? I got into a decant circle (eviltemptressd's!) so I can try out 6 or 7 of the Yule scents before I order. The new 13 sounded intriguing, so I did get a bottle. And as much as I wanted to buy bottles of Love Lies Bleeding, Mania and Horreur Sympathique, I ordered them in an imp package, because I've always wanted to try out Nosferatu, Miskatonic U and La Petite Mort. This will be fun, so much to sample!
I think BPAL is wonderful because it challenges us to use the wiring that's there in our brains to distinguish certain smells. This is something that the human brain can do (obviously, because even my brain can do it!), but it's not frequently needed for survival in the modern world. So rather than letting it sit and molder, we use it for our pleasure. So there's a very Gil Grissom-like rationalization for buying the shit out of BPAL. And as Ani DiFranco said, fuck guilt!
I haven't written a lot in the blog lately because I was rather -- oh, what should I say? -- spent. Last week was one of those weeks when everyone was interested in confessing things to me, wanting me to be their therapist or plugging into my energy. Whatever you want to call it, people were there, almost like zombies. I did have a relatively beneficial and mutual conversation with the guy at the coffee house (Mr. "Wandering Gypsy") about how he writes lyrics to his songs. He said something very similar to interviews that I've read with other singer/songwriters, who say that it's just channeled to them. They can't explain it any other way. They sit and write endless crap and then, standing at the refrigerator, something amazing downloads in their brain and they run over, find a piece of paper and write the lyrics to an entire song. I read an interview with Greg Brown, who said he had an entire album come to him as he was driving home in the dark; it was like he had the radio on, listening to new music, but he didn't -- it was in his head.
The psychology folks say that's just the left brain letting go and the right brain taking over, but my friend (and a lot of other songwriters) don't think it's that simple and/or simply biological. I read a book where a number of neurologists and researchers said that when one riddle of the brain is solved, it also leads them to discover that there's 10 more things that they don't understand. I don't think we'll ever figure it out, and why should we? Maybe the mystery isn't ours to understand.
And I'll get off that kick and close by saying that I tried my imp of Has No Hanna last Wednesday night when I thought a little boost would help. And if what happened afterwards was any indication, I can't explain it, nor do I want to, but it worked...
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.)
I was so busy this morning that I couldn't write in my blog. Horrors!
But let's talk about the ebb and flow of energy, or kundalini, or chi, or prana, or the life force. Holy crap, Batman, this time of year is astonishing to me. The vernal equinox is the equivalent of putting me on speed. Literally. I can't sleep, I don't want to eat, I vibrate. I'm not complaining. It makes me feel so fucking alive, I can't tell you how much I love it.
I'm just happy that I don't repress this.
It's gotten more pronounced since I've been meditating every night, which is something that's gone on for 7 years or so, but it really kicked into drive last year. Somehow, I've become more attuned to the cycles of nature, and there's nothing to complain about there. I may not be very enlightened, but I can feel the cycles of gaia, and that's fine with me.
So, you say, how does the above reconcile with the lingerie-obsessed, BPAL-addicted jabbering in prior posts? Maybe I'm whack, but like I told someone last week, this is what it's all about -- we need to enjoy our senses as much as we're able to. We're in this human incarnation and we have the ability to truly understand and appreciate our embodiment. Isn't that fabulous? Why do we try to shut ourselves down, why do we deny our senses, deny our emotions? Why do we avoid connecting with each other?
So I'll stop rhapsodizing and end with a couple of quotes from one of my favorite movies (minilux, are you out there??), "Waking Life:"
Hey. Could we do that again? I know we haven't met, but I don't want to be an ant. You know? I mean, it's like we go through life with our antennas bouncing off one another, continously on ant autopilot, with nothing really human required of us. Stop. Go. Walk here. Drive there. All action basically for survival. All communication simply to keep this ant colony buzzing along in an efficient, polite manner. "Here's your change." "Paper or plastic?' "Credit or debit?" "You want ketchup with that?" I don't want a straw. I want real human moments. I want to see you. I want you to see me. I don't want to give that up. I don't want to be ant, you know?
and....
The ongoing WOW is happening right NOW.
I am going to stay halfway on-point, considering that this is a blog on a fragrance fandom community. Not that our entries should always be about fragrances, but lately the BPAL experience is what piques my musings, or more accurately, my hallucinations.
I put on some Snake Oil yesterday because the Lab frimped it to me with my Harvest Moon order. (THANK YOU, Lab! ) I layered it over O, because a year ago, I didn't like Snake Oil when I tested it. Things change, and now I think it's pretty yummy. As did a coworker, who literally could not keep his train of thought going because the way I smelled was that distracting. I found someone who wanted swap their imp of Snake Oil, so I can give it to him and he can test run it on his wife. If it works, he will be taking runs at his wife, but we won't go there. She may or may not be happy with me. I think I'll also give him some O, just in case that was what was driving him nuts -- but I don't think so, because I've worn O a lot, alone and layered. The infinite power of Snake Oil, previously unknown to me, was powerfully demonstrated to me yesterday, and now I am a believer.
And if you get an imp of something that you really adore, be careful of the first time that you wear it. When I got my imp of Dorian, I loved it so much that I put it on right away. However, Dorian now has associations with the situation I went into right after I applied it for the first time. I get a very poignant feeling whenever I open the bottle and sniff it.
Smut is like a headbutt, O is a tease, Bengal is a dare, Underpants is a naughty giggle, Khajurajo is a shudder, Anathema is a leer, and Siren is a shimmy. But Dorian just makes me feel really unarmored and vulnerable. You can imagine, I don't wear it to work very often.
But holy hell, I may have to get a bottle of Snake Oil if it's going to get such rave reviews when I wear it. This has been my week -- getting eyes-rolling-up-in-the-head reviews about Siren and Snake Oil. Whodaeverthunkit? I have a bottle of The Mouse's Long and Sad Tale coming in the mail because I had GypsyRoseRed pick it up for me at Will Call. (BTW, GypsyRoseRed is a diva and a lovely person for volunteering to do Will Call runs!) I hope I like the Mouse, but I fear for its success on my person, simply because recently everything that isn't supposed to work on me has been great -- so something that should be perfect for me may not work. Confusing!
But if I love it, I'm going to be really, really careful to wear it out for the first time in a very neutral context. This much I know is true!
It's really rainy today, and that's so damn rare for the almost-high-plains where I live. It's supposed to stay this way all weekend, and people will be merging lack-of-sunshine bitches with the farmer-ish platitude "well, we shore dew need the moisture..."
darkitysnark was into a Thomas Dolby-style 1980's flashback a few days ago, and today, thanks to the rain, I entered into a power ballad/metal/late'80's, early '90's time warp. Every time it rains a lot, the brainworm power ballad "Another Rainy Night" by Queensryche fires up in my head. Today I was browsing the music store and checked out the used metal section. There it was: "Empire" by Queensryche. For $5.95, I got to play "Jet City Woman," "Another Rainy Night" and "Silent Lucidity" as I drove around town in the rain. (I also took shit from the store manager, who is unaccustomed to seeing me in the metal section. "Get your ass back to jazz" was the directive, I believe.)
Queensryche's music, and most metal power ballad music, now seems to me to have a rather earnest quality that I find both a bit cheesy and ingratiating. I used to think "Silent Lucidity" was really deep, and now I think it's a bit silly. It's still kind of a compelling ballad and the lead singer does have a great voice. I know Queenryche still tours, because I saw that they were playing in a casino or somewhere a little pathetic like that, and my, the lead singer looked worn and a bit snacked-out. Queensryche was from where... Seattle? Pre-grunge, as I recall.
Nevertheless, it's fun to own that CD again, if only to put in on whenever it rains a lot, and in this part of the country, that really won't happen very often.
So when someone starts the inevitable bitching about it "bein' bone dry" around here this summer, I can look at them and say: "Well damn, and I haven't listened to Queensryche in weeks!" It will be good for a confused look.
Lingerie divas, this blog is here to enable you. I happily encourage growing the economy by purchasing BPAL and lingerie. The two are like hand and glove, for gorgeous lingerie is made even more beautiful when you are wearing a white-hot BPAL oil.
I had a $10 credit to Victoria's Secret and wandered out there over my lunch hour yesterday like a crack-addled 'ho in search of her next fix. Naturally, I came away with a new bra, but just one thong undie. I had succumbed to the IPEX bra extravaganza out there last spring and summer and now have three pairs of those babies. I do think the demi version of the IPEX is the nicest, and that is, in fact, the model of my sassy tangerine bra. But yesterday I purchased their new Secret Embrace model in a lovely dark cocoa brown. The Secret Embrace underwires are barely detectable and there's no bulky snaps or even tags. It's intended for those clingy little spring and summer tops, BPTP baby doll t-shirts and the like. And it's got a bit o' subtle padding in the bottom of the cup, to give the girls a bit of an extra boost.
And while I wear a 36 C or D cup at VSC, that just makes me laugh. My girls are middlers at best. I have broad shoulders and a fairly wide ribcage, so there's a bit of a grand canyon between the girls; cleavage requires feats of engineering that are too painful for me consider, so I rely on the perkiness factor where the girls are concerned.
And I had my mammogram about 3 weeks ago. Divas, please do valentina a favor and do your breast self-exams, and if you're of the age where a mammo is indicated, get one. If affordability is an issue, many states have passed laws that help pay for mammograms if you don't have health insurance. Check it out. Our girls are wondrous things and we need to keep an eye on them. Also consider taking flax seed oil as a supplement; first of all, it's great for your skin and hair and second of all, there's some evidence that essential fatty acids can help diminish the risk of cancers, including breast cancer. If you won't do it because I say so, do it for Sheryl Crow. I mean, I don't really like her music, but to break up with Lance (not that I think he'd be an especially laid-back boyfriend) and then be diagnosed with breast cancer is pretty fucking rough patch, IMHO.
OK, when did this become a public service announcement? Oh my hell, you've probably stopped reading!! Let's talk about the flesh colored mesh thong with that little "Pink" dog VSC mascot depicted in red rhinestones on the upper left-hand side. I think that Pink campaign is a bit pruient and about as subtle as a 2x4 upside the head, but I have dogs so what do I do when confronted with a fleshy meshy thong with a doggie on it? I buy it, because I am a lingerie-addled 'ho.
And this 'ho keeps wear her O and Tunisian Patchouli combo. It smells really good together. I know I will tire of it, my body chem will do another seasonal/hormonal morph, or more likely, my order of the Monster Bait and Osun will arrive and I'll have a new infatuation, but for now, the O and Tunisian Patchouli cocktail is swoon-worthy.
I was still on my kick the other day about "The Philadelphia Story" and went online to see what DVD versions existed, and I found a box set of 1940's movie classics, that includes: "Casablanca," "The Maltese Falcon," "The Philadelphia Story," "Arsenic and Old Lace," "The Big Sleep," "Now, Voyager" and "Citizen Kane." Damn, what a set! It costs about $170 and I simply don't hold still long enough to watch movies very often, but it's tempting.
But actually, if I get a box set of classic movie DVDs, the first one that I must buy is The Marx Brothers Silver Screen Collection, which has their first five movies: "Cocoanuts," "Animal Crackers," "Monkey Business," "Horse Feathers" and "Duck Soup." They early Marx Brothers movies were the very best, when the boys still had their tendency towards political commentary and general weirdness intact. Granted, there's semi-cheesy musical interludes (remnants of the Vaudeville Days), but that's what fast forward is for.
I watched "Duck Soup" on the day of both George W. inaugurals rather than watching the real thing. Hail Freedonia! I'm rather certain Rufus T. Firefly was a more cogent leader that the W. could ever hope to be. That movie has one of my favorite Groucho lines, spoken at the "trial" of a political spy, played by Chico: "Gentleman, Chicolini here may look like an idiot and talk like an idiot, but don't let that fool you, he really is an idiot." Maybe now you see why I watched it on both inaugural days.
But as much as Groucho's acerbic humor makes me laugh, my favorite Marx Brother is Harpo. I was utterly fixated on Harpo when I was a little kid, and I still love Harpo. I am completely unable to look at anyone else if he is on screen. He is the consummate trickster. And he was really, really cute in his wig. Has anyone seen a photo of Harpo out of his wig? Gah. He and Groucho really looked a lot alike when out of makeup, except Harpo went bald at a pretty young age. I prefer to think of Harpo always looking like "The Professor" in Animal Crackers, because he was the horny little imp in that movie. Let's see... I have 3 Harpo figurines, a big "Animal Crackers" poster and a smaller "Duck Soup" poster in my office. That's in between the vintage Wonder Woman reproductions.
I think in a previous life, I had one hell of a good time in the 1930's and 1940's.
I remembered that I had an imp of Siren that I hadn't tested, so yesterday, when I had a migraine, I decided to try it once I started to feel better. I almost ran downstairs right away to get some vinegar to wash it off when I remembered that the description said something about jasmine being one of the ingredients. Jasmine is the bane of my perfume-wearing existence. I thought, oh great, the migraine will bloom again. Because truly, on my body jasmine smells like flower vase water that has been sitting around waaaaay too long. I've always wanted to love jasmine, since it seems so girly-girl and mysterious and it's so pretty on some people.
So I sniffed the swiped area and waited for the gag-a-maggot smell and the throb behind my eyes to reoccur. It smelled nice. My head didn't hurt. I waited a bit and sniffed it again. I could swear I smelled patchouli. I went to computer to look up Siren and yeah, there's jasmine in it and no patchouli. Weird. I was convinced that after an hour or so, I'd still be heading for the soap and then the vinegar to neutralize the stench. But I didn't -- it stayed the same and didn't morph. I was meeting a friend for coffee in the evening and I put on more. I'm wearing it today. It's nice! It's exotic-sexy-sultry and I can smell jasmine in it, but it smells good. What???? It must be the ginger offsetting the jasmine, that's all I can figure out. There's also vanilla and apricot in Siren, and I do get a fair amount of apricot, but I like it even better than the apricot in Depraved. What the hell? Just amazin.'
There's a song by Jamie Cullum called "Get Your Way" and some of the lyrics go like this:
I opened the door and you walked in,
(Sniff) The scent of wild jasmine.
The room, seemed to freeze in time,
My regular table will be just fine.
Radiant and elegant, you might be
But your concentration is so go-lightly
Both of your eyes reflecting the moon,
You really think you own the room.
I used to think, yeah, if I could wear jasmine, I could be that way, but it's not meant to be.
So now I can wear Siren and try to be like the woman in the song, although I'll probably fall off my heel or trip over the leg of a chair, or something dorky like Carrie in "Sex And The City" used to do. Actually, I liked her character better when she was like that, so maybe I should accept that my klutziness can be a bit charming at times. At least I will smell a bit like jasmine.
The domme of this blog is fighting off a cold and ennui, and she plans to go take a nap very soon. Ennui nonwithstanding, she is wearing to bed a pair of purple cutoff sweatpant short-shorts that she bought at VSC the other night. Sassy.
The poet of the day is Mary Oliver. I have a two favorite poems and I refuse to make a Sophie's Choice-like decision (because there are no blog Nazis here!) and I will run both of them. Both of the poems contain stanzas that I adore above all other poems. At least, so far... there's a lot of poetry to read in this world!
Enjoy, dear ones.
Wild Geese
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
When Death Comes
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
I must start today's post with a moment of love. Thanks to shriekingviolet (I corrected this from the original, where I called her "Ultraviolet." Sorry! If you're going to thank someone, it helps to call them by the correct name. Jeez.) and all the mods who helped get the forum running again and in its new, improved and expanded form, including this little blog corner. You guys are fantastic.
I went shoe shopping today. Actually, sandal shopping. I wanted a new pair of black sandals, femme-looking, and I was having a hard time locating such a thing. I like the wedges, but a lot of the wedges with black uppers aren't very delicate looking. Picky, picky, picky...
I'd actually purchased a pair of wedges a couple of days ago and hadn't worn them yet. I put them on last night and decided for the price I'd paid, they weren't exactly what I wanted. So I went back and found my usual salesman, who knows an addled shoe 'ho when he sees one, returned my first purchase and started on a new quest. I found what I wanted. I'd include a link to them, except they just don't look as hot in photos the way they do on the foot. They're Kenneth Cole Reaction shoes, the model is called "Float Ur Boat," or something like that. All black, kitten heels, a teensy wedge with canvasy edging, thong-style, and the thong has rhinestones and sequins (all black) on them. Got my toenails painted a nice burgundy, and I am ready to rock and roll. Foot fetishists, watch out.
If anyone likes jazz, go buy Cassandra Wilson's new CD called "Thunderbird."
The first time that I sampled "O," I was convinced that it smelled like b.o. on me. The scent had to grow on me, and it helped that other people would kind of have their eyes roll up in their heads and go "ummmmm" when they smelled me. A couple of people that I know did such a long "ummmmm" that I thought they were chanting "Ohm" like a yogi or yogini. And now, it's become my comfort scent. I love it alone, I love to mix it. But I'm really excited to get my order with Osun in it... it has honey and herbs, and that sounds OK with me. That CnS should be coming in a few days, since in my classic fashion, I ordered 1 LE bottle and then decided to go on a GC rampage. And then last week I went on another LE rampage.
Do you know why I stay in the blogs so much? It's to keep my no-self-control, goodie-purchasing ass out of Retail Therapy. I am rather easily enabled.
I have a dear friend at work, a great guy, our brains work in very different ways. He's terribly thorough and literally worries things to death. I am a classic Intuitive on the Myers-Briggs inventory and I will jack around seemingly doing nothing and then regurgitate a lot of work. My friend said to me yesterday: "You tend to read, think and write a lot faster than I do." A couple of weeks ago he walked into my office at the end of the day and said: "It's not that what I was doing today was so difficult, it's just that I had a hard time doing it." You have to love such goofy honesty about one's own self!
It's a quiet day around the blogs, I bet you were all out panty shopping, right?
I just love this -- there's a roller derby club in the town that I live in called the No Coast Derby Girls. The name alone is priceless. There's two teams -- Gang Green (team color green, obviously) and the Mary Kay Mafia (wearing pink, of course). There's a match in early July and I hope to attend. Several of the girls on the teams go to my favorite coffeehouse, and come limping in, sporting large bruises, all that jazz. They are just wild maniacs, and I do so appreciate that.
And speaking of being in No Coast land, if there's a beach near you, please go to it for me. I have a good friend in Tampa and I'm always asking her to at least drive by the beach and honk at it for me. For those of you who live near very large lakes with quasi-beaches, that works too.
I must share a bit of kitsch from my home state that is probably more evidence that since there's no beach or large body of water or mountains, we fixate on phallic symbols. (You need look no further than me for evidence of that. ) I believe it was in the 1930's that someone decided to create a lake and a faux beach between Lincoln and Omaha near the Platte River. It's called Linoma Beach (heh, heh, Lincoln and Omaha, get it?)
And below is a photo of Linoma beach, and yes, that is a light house. It's often said there have been no shipwrecks there, so it must be doing its job. That may be because the lake is so shallow and it's so dry in this state that only an inner tube can make its way out onto the water. I think I'll have to go there at least once this summer, if only for the amusement value.
I sit here on a late Sunday morning, with my cockatiel, Herb D. Byrd, sitting on my shoulder, doing his imitation of someone dialing a cordless phone: beep, beep, beep... He can also do a killer imitation of the phone ringing and then the answering machine going off, then the beep at the end of a message. He is a little character.
On Friday, the postman delivered a bottle of Dorian that I won on eBay last week! The seller charged me $5 for shipping, which seemed a bit high, but then I realized that she lives in Canada and she it airmailed to me. Bless her. I also bought a bottle of Dorian on the forum three weeks ago, and unless something changes soon, I think I've been swaplifted. I'm giving the seller one more chance to write back to me/send me the bottle and then I file a report with the mods. I'm more than willing to consider that it could have been lost or stolen by the USPS, but the seller's lack of a response to my PM makes me wonder what's happening. I've never had that happen before on the forum, and by and large, most people selling and swapping are incredibly nice and generous.
Anyway, the aroma of Dorian has some sort of effect upon me that I find hard to describe. It involves associations, and scents and music are my two major emotional associations. I love, love, love the smell of Smut and O and Urd and Underpants and Khajurajo, but Dorian almost makes me cry. I get over it after a while, but the first sniff gets me every time. But I love it, I want to wear it, and I think the emotional rush that it gives me is a cathartic thing I'm going through at this time. However, when I did wear it (when all I had was an imp), I had a couple of my male "noses" sniff it and they both responded with a dazed, wide-eyed "you smell so....incredible." Smut gets a vaguely drooly "ohmygodyousmellgood," Underpants and O gets the "yeah, that is nice," but Dorian, I think, has magic dust in it. I think it's the scent that Beth made for her beloved Ted, so maybe in a "Like Water For Chocolate" way, it reflects how she felt when she created it. My, I'm romantic this morning.
Like I said, music also creates some circuit-jamming emotional associations for me. I was at a wedding and reception last night, and weddings don't do that for me. I never cry at weddings. But at the reception, once the endless tape loop of Michael Buble music ended (he gets REALLY tiresome after 2 hours) and the lovely-dovey dance music was tuned on, I was somewhat relieved, if only for a change of pace. I was sitting there watching the bride and groom dance the first dance, thinking how sweet and cute they looked. And it was rather odd, no one else was watching. The parents were too busy being tense (bride's mom and dad are bitterly divorced, groom's dad had a lot to drink by that point), and the wedding party was utterly blitzed. Everyone else was eating, drinking and talking. I was glad that I gave that little moment of theirs my attention. I hope they never forget that they once were like that.
But then some country rock song came up on the rotation, and while I normally detest country rock, this song gets to me. I can't even tell you the name of the song, but it almost made me cry. I thought, well shit, I could sit here and sniff the inside of my elbow, get a big hit of Dorian, and just start sobbing, right here in the middle of the reception. I didn't. It was an open bar, and I got another drink and disassociated for a while. I hate to disassociate from my emotions, but sometimes it's what you gotta do, if only not to make a scene at a wedding reception.
My friend Ron always tells me that in spite of what I call my cynical attitude, I'm the most romantic person he knows. He says I'm not sentimental, but I am romantic. Did I read the Bronte sisters entirely too much when I was a teenager? Yeah, let's blame it on Emily and Charlotte! And Dorian, and that stupid country song! Charlotte and Emily and Dorian don't annoy me, but a country rock song? I humilate my own sensibilities with that one! But at least I take comfort that it wasn't a Celine Dion song! (Whew.)
Tonight I'm going to my home town (a small town an hour and half away) to put in my appearance at a post-Mother's Day mother-daughter dinner at the care center where my mother lives. My mother has Alzheimer's disease and while she's still coherent enough, she typically thinks she's still a teacher in a school, only this one is a boarding school. Hey, whatever works.
I'm the youngest of three kids -- my brother is 12 years old and my sister is 10 years older. My brother used to call me Boo-Boo when I was a little kid, probably derived from the Yogi Bear cartoons, but also a pretty apt descriptor of my appearance on the scene. Somewhere in between the birth of my siblings and my birth, my mother really, really changed. My memories of my mother are more akin to my nieces (the oldest being 12 years younger than me) than my brother's or sister's. And they're not especially pleasant. When my mother started showing signs of dementia, I thought she was getting abruptly nicer; my brother and sister thought she was getting meaner.
So when I tell people that my mother has Alzheimer's and they say they're sorry, I tell them thank you, but it's OK. It's a tragedy for my mother, of course, and for my siblings. For me, it's watching someone who never especially liked me leave and be replaced by someone who doesn't mind my existence. Of course, it would have been so much better for her to have retained her brain functions, and simply have come to terms with the demons that I represented. But it didn't work out that way.
I think a lot of her anger towards me was due to my "Boo-Boo" status and the fact that I had the audacity to represent the gene pool on my father's side of the family.
I was also very close to my maternal grandmother when she was alive, and I think there was also a certain jealousy there -- my mother didn't want to share her mother with anyone, much less me. My paternal grandmother died when I was about 3 or 4, and I barely remember her. No one really talked about her that much, even my father. But with my mother's loss of short-term memory, she talks a lot about the things still stored in her brain. I've found out a lot about my paternal grandmother's personality as a result of those little memory fragments, and my internal reaction is typically: "Oh, that's where that came from..." Meaning, those elements in my personality that seem rather foreign when taken in context to my siblings.
Ah, so I looked like my father's rogue uncles (that's another story), I was her mother's favorite grandchild and she had to watch her mother-in-law's personality bubble up out of me. It was probably too much for her to take. Not that it excuses how she treated me, but obviously she was too angry about too many things that I embodied.
I'll never know her reasons for being so angry -- part of the rules of my family were to not talk about feelings or ugly behaviors. Disassociation rules the day, and I've learned that it's a waste of breath to try to force issues. And over the years, and with a lot of help, I've developed equanimity around the matter. It was my only choice, really, in order to break the cycle of anger and lashing out.
As a friend of mine once said, we all need family, but they need not be our relatives.
It will be a nice day for a quiet drive, a little visit, and then a drive home. My mother won't remember yesterday was Mother's Day, but she will be happy to see me, happy to get attention, happy to get the teddy bear that I'll give her (for that is the level she's at), and happy to see me leave. And I'll feel the same way, although in so many ways, I left the family a long time ago.
The Puddy Cat, also known as Puds or Puddin' (a nod to Puddin' of BPTP!) has happily moved onto the front porch. She's sleeping in the small dog carrier that has a towel inside for her comfort, and is eating Tender Vittles and drinking water. I have this vintage wooden bench on my front porch that was originally a gym bench used in a high school in the 1950's or '60's. It's the kind of thing that basketball teams sat on during games -- it must be 10 to 12 feet long. (Speaking of that, I need to check the Dallas - Miami score...) Anyway, Puddin' likes to sleep on the bench. She's not crying as much and she likes to hop up in your lap if you sit on the bench. She's just a happy camper.
She's seeing the vet ASAP, probably Tuesday. I'll probably just drop her off on the way to work and let the vet's office scan her for a microchip, look at those poor ears, generally check her out, and get the hideous clumps of matted hair cut off. They will also be able to give us an idea of her age... I think she's older, looking at the color/condition of her teeth. Assuming she's not microchipped, we'll check Humane Society reports of lost cats. And there's a few people that my DH knows who might want her, although it's also an outside option that we could keep her in the basement. Time will tell! But she's already acting healthier and happier. And she is a sweet pea with such a cute little face.
About two years ago, a small town around 30 miles from here was literally flattened by a tornado. A family who lived there were running into their basement, and their cat got spooked and got away from whoever was holding it. They never saw the kitty and assumed it had been killed, until this spring, when the cat returned to their house, now rebuilt on its original site. They knew it was the same cat by the distinctive meow and markings. Where the little thing went for two years, and how it found its way home, is quite the mystery. Maybe little Puds has a similar story, but if not, she'll find a home somewhere, although she seems rather certain that she is home right now!
I think I've mentioned before that I have a lot of Wonder Woman stuff sitting around my office, in addition to Marx Brothers memorabilia and various quirky artsy things and photos of my dogs. I ascribe to the Wonder Woman archetype a little too much, I suppose, or I want everyone to believe I'm like that. I have a girlfriend who refers to me as the Wonder Diva. But like Wonder Woman, I sometimes get a little tired of everyone thinking I'm impervious to their bad behavior, or that I don't have feelings. Letting down my guard is not something that I do readily or willingly. As a result, people can hurt my feelings a lot, but they think I'm hyper-rational and bulletproof.
Which is why the Wonder Diva loves her dogs (and her Puddin' Tom and her birdies.) The doggies are probably a pair of overbonded creatures, but they don't buy into the Wonder Diva facade and they don't care that I'm not bulletproof. It's more important to them that I am soft and vulnerable, because they were both abused and neglected dogs when I got them. They know I'll take care of them and I'll never hurt them. That sort of trust means everything to me.
And lots of people find openness and softness really alarming, while animals breathe a sigh of relief and relax. My yoga teacher's other passion is dog agility training, and she and I often talk about how humans become very habituated to keeping their nervous systems in a constant state of agitation. Oddly, many people find quiet and softness more disconcerting that going 500 MPH all day long. I just don't understand that. You see, Wonder Diva is really a yogini who doesn't let most people know that side of her
.
So if you have a dog or a kitty, or any other sort of pet that you can sit and hold, go find the quiet that they love. It's great for both of you.
I am so much older than most people around here, so please excuse the ancient person song subreference, but there's a Joni Mitchell song called "Coyote" that starts out with Joni speaking, more than singing, the words "No regrets, Coyote..." THAT SONG HAS BECOME A BRAIN WORM! I got a bottle of Coyote in the mail yesterday, thanks to the lovely and generous GypsyRoseRed, who went to Will Call to make purchases for the non-L.A. dwellers. This no-coast girl owes her a serious debt of gratitude. Of course, I tried out Coyote right away, and after getting a sinking feeling because the grass-woods element of the scent bloomed so strongly at first, it mellowed into an outdoorsy amber-musk smell. And I can't stop "No regrets, Coyote...we just come from different sets of circumstances..." from playing in my head. That song, BTW, is from the album "Hejira."
And in a confluence of random mutant thoughts, darkitysnark's latest entry about the yin and yang of her personal style -- either femme or what I could call cute earth mother (because who can't look at the tree photo in her hair travelogue and not say "that's just cute!") -- reminds me of a line in "Song for Sharon," which is also on "Hejira." It's a song about about growing up as a romantic at heart, while still being a little wild and rough-and-tumble, and the line is "mama's nylons underneath my cowgirl jeans."
Since I was a kid who used to ride my bicycle up and down gravel roads while wearing my mother's old dresses, with lipstick no doubt applied clownishly on my face, I do understand that song a lot. I never was a normal farmer's daughter -- and that was probably one part disposition and one part environment. My father's mother had to run the farm and raise 4 children because her husband was chronically ill and was unable to work for long periods of time. She looked 60 by the time she was 30, and my father wasn't going to make any daughter of his work that hard. There are snapshots of her where she literally looks like a man -- weather-beaten, stringy-skinny, in work clothing, not a smile to be seen.
My mother has since told me that my grandmother didn't even want to live on a farm that badly, much less run one -- but through a series of circumstances, my grandfather took over the farm instead of his two older brothers. I'm sure when my grandmother and grandfather married, she thought they'd eventually move to a town or a city. But instead, she accepted the hand that she was dealt and became not just a farmer's wife, but a farmer herself.
Damn, and I think I have things to bitch about. I get to bathe with Villainess soaps, anoint myself with BPAL, pay absurd amounts of money to get my hair done, make my skin soft with oils and lotions, run about to the gym and to yoga class, and generally be a bit of a vain diva who likes to throw in touches of androgyny in the midst of her girlyness.
My life is pretty good, and no regrets, Coyote!
