Today I decided to put on some Monster Bait Underpants because I hadn't worn it in a while, and then I put a touch of Bengal over the top. This blend could be called "Panties on Fire." Hell yeah!
That "hell yeah" reminds me -- because the t-shirts you buy at Bob Schneider's concerts have that on the front -- Bob has a new recording coming out on August 8! Ah, something to live for! Bob can set my panties on fire, I tell ya. Plus I really do like his music.
I decided to get all dressed up this morning because I was having one of those days that, when all else fails, be a diva. On the way into work, I decided to stop at my favorite locally-owned coffee house (this town is big into non-franchise coffee houses) called Meadowlark. There's outdoor seating for the smokers and people who generally just want to hang around outdoors, and often there's a real blend of denizens at the outside tables. I've seen residents of a nearby halfway house for mental health center clients sitting at one table and a stockbroker sitting at the next table.
This morning it was a group of characters that I've never seen before at the outdoor table. They were unique. I walked past them and one of them, who had a mullet and was wearing a "Got Milk?" t-shirt, looked at me and said: "Wow, baby!" I walked into Meadowlark and the barrista behind the counter looked at me and said: "You're so fancy today!" I think I may have diva-ed myself to excess...
It's going to be a skort and a black tank top tomorrow!
A nice photo of Bob Schneider, whose CD I listened to as I was driving around town in the rain today. Queensryche can remain novel only so long, you know.
Look at the great joke icon that minilux made for me:
And if Beth ever makes an actual scent with that name, I will to her even more than before.
Does anyone remember the Alan Cumming fragrance commercial from last summer? Someone linked to it on the forum, and I feel compelled to link to it again here in my blog. It's great, and I believe Alan is a naughty little Scotsman himself: http://www.cummingthefragrance.com/html/commercial.html
In the state where I live, there's a Cumming County. I have a friend who moved here several years ago, and when he was driving down the road and saw a sign that said: "Entering Cumming County," he just about wrecked his car. He pulled over, laughed, and called a friend in his home state to say: "There's a Cumming County in this state!!!"
There also used to be convenience store/gas stations called "Cum and Go" in this town. Another friend used to live around the corner from one. When the chain (all 3 or 4 of them) was purchased and turned into Quik Shops, my friend and her boyfriend had their photos taken in front of the old Cum and Go, because it had been such a source of amusement for so long.
From Bob Schneider to underkilts to Alan Cumming to Cum and Go. What else is left to say?
I was petting Ella Bean, Basset Queen, because she was feeling a little needy. Ella is more or less a rescue dog, and she wasn't treated very well in her previous home, judging from the lump on her rib where it was probably kicked and broken. When she gets needy, I sit and pet her and talk to her for a while and then she just gets giddy and runs around like a maniac. She tucks her butt down, causing it to come very close to hitting the floor as she runs. Then she grabs a dog toy or dog blanket and drags it around or tosses it in the air. It is hilarious.
Tonight I was petting her and she went into her happy dog frenzy. I wondered what dog toy was that red-maroon color and why she could so easily toss it in the air. It was a pair of my panties. She'd done a detour into the bathroom and with missile-like accuracy, dove into a pile of clothing that I was preparing to take down to the washing machine and grabbed my underpants. Then she played hide-and-seek with me, undies in her mouth.
I finally retrieved them. Bassets are notorious for having an underwear fixation. One woman on a Basset list that I belong to told a story of signing for a package, while her Basset appeared beside her, toting a bra for the postman to admire. (Lucky it wasn't the perv postman, he would have taken it as an omen.)
Anyway, I think this panty-stealing incident was in retaliation for my public airing of Ella Bean's fetishes. Considering I have now only revealed more of her fetishistic behavior, more punishment is certain to come my way.
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!
Here'a a photo of Puddin' Tom, the cat who came to live on my front porch. He's lounging on the bench, contemplating his next nap. As you can see, he's a little rough around the edges, but he's probably around 10 years old and he's earned his rugged good looks:
Woooot! I went to coffee at noon with some friends who don't go to my customary coffeehouse (a much more bohemian place). The place where we meet is an in-state franchise, kind of a Starbucks-for-people-who-don't-want-to-go-to-Starbucks place. Not a lot of soul, but it's clean and well-lit and in a converted old department store. Right across the hall is a funky little store called The Uncommon Market. It sells used clothing and some new clothing, plus the owner of the store makes her own creations. It's fun.
I had to wander over there, just 'cause, and found a long-sleeved Custo Barcelona shirt. It was pristine and looked almost unworn. The colors are a bit like darkitysnark's walls, that is, bright , and the design is a bunch of big ol' samari/sumo wrestler guys. It cracked me up. And it was $7! I bought it. I know the snobby fashionistas would say that Custos are so passe, but I am always amused by them. Especially for $7. The bitches cost around $175 if you purchase them new.
It's supposed to be cool tomorrow, only in the low 60's, I may have to wear it to work. My favorite way to dress, if I can get away with it, is to wear something funky with something rather sober. Juxtapositions like that can be rather entertaining.
So has anyone else looked at/tried on an Ed Hardy shirt? I love his retro tattoo artwork and even went so far to try on a few t-shirts, but holy hell, they cost around $70 or $80. I just couldn't. And anyway, I'll find one at The Uncommon Market in a year or two for $7.
Divas! The empress of this blogdom is going to fall under the spell of darkitysnark's third person Bob Dole-certified writing style tonight, since valentina wishes to disassociate herself with this sort of mood as much as possible.
valentina is terribly wistful, and almost sad. She may have to go sit around and cry to see if that helps. It was an emotional day at work, a long story that valentina doesn't care to recount, since it would turn into a detailed politics and government lecture and 'tina does know how deathly boring that becomes. Long story short, it was a day of goodbyes to people that valentina has known and worked with a lot of years, because they're leaving. Some of them 'tina knew longer and liked more than others, and a couple of them tugged very hard at the heartstrings.
It was an ending and it was bittersweet. Goodbyes are never easy, but valentina has to be thankful that she was able to forge such relationships. And there's also a beginning. The beginning is a little scary, maybe. Beginnings bring mystery and uncertainty, and like anything in life, there will be joy and sadness in what lies ahead.
valentina also realizes that she can be such an empath, but she normally assumes it's her imagination speaking. Several things in recent days have shown her that she should get out of her own way more often. 'tina has a bad habit of ignoring her inner voice, and her left brain and right brain spend a lot of time arguing with each other. Usually the left brain will overthink what the right brain is channeling out of her heart. Then the left brain realizes that the right brain was correct, and her right brain and her heart in unison say, hahaha, we knew it all along.
And even in the middle of all of this, there's a part of 'tina that is so fucking happy, she can't believe it. The empress of this blogdom wishes to inform you that tomorrow she has the day off of work and will resume her breezy first-person lingerie and shoe and BPAL chatter.
I think "satiate" is a great word to say out loud repeatedly. It's difficult to say it out loud a number of times without putting a bit of an inflection into it, but that's part of the fun. Let's head off to the dictionary:
Pronunciation: [v]'seyshee`eyt, 'seyshi`eyt
Etymology: satiate (v.) c.1440 (implied in pp. adj. satiate), from L. satiatus, pp. of satiare "fill full, satisfy," from satis "enough," from PIE base *sa- "to satisfy"
Satiate is the root of "insatiable" and while I also love that word, it takes on a harder edge when said out loud. However, if Beth ever made a LE called "Insatiable," it would rank right up there (at least in my own private universe) with Smut and Monster in the Panties. I would buy it even it had jasmine and gardenia and rose and leather and everything that amps up and doesn't smell good on me. I'd decant it into imps and keep the bottle.
My tendency to talk about words that I like to say out loud, repeatedly, comes from a character in a short story called "The Smoker" by David Schickler. That story ran in the new fiction edition of The New Yorker in 2000, and as legend has it, Schickler had a book deal by noon on the day the story was published. You can find the story as a chapter in his book "Kissing in Manhattan," but I prefer to read the story as it stands on its own. It's a funny, mysterious little fantasy about a young man who's an English teacher at an all-girls private school in Manhattan and his most extraordinary student. The student, whose name is Nicole, likes to point out that certain words are nice to say out loud, repeatedly. I think "rinse" is one of them. "Trauma" is another.
But I like satiate the best.
I have on a new layering adventure today; I bought a bottle of Bengal from chappiti on the forum (BTW, check out her avatar, I love it). While I really love Bengal, (or why would I have a bottle of it?), it tends to light up on my body for a bit. By that I mean, the cinnamon bark makes my skin flush rosy red for a brief time. So this morning I put down a nice layer of O (kind of like a paint primer) and then put Bengal over it. Yummy! Since I think Bengal smells like redhot candies over musk, and O smells, well, like O, I'm calling this blend Candy-O. That name is stolen from the title of an album by The Cars, which had this cover:
And now, for a brief aside: A friend called me and told me to turn on the Today show, because they were doing a shoe fashion show. Naturally, the Shoe Whore-Foot Fetishist turned it on right away. I just finished watching it. They were doing very close close-ups of each model's feet, and ARRGGHH! One of the models had on a pair of open-toe, slingback shoes and SHE HAD CRUSTY HEELS! OK, I know it was a big closeup, but I shudder to think how it looked on HDTV. I probably would have vomited. And who picked her to model shoes? Why didn't they put her in a pair of closed-back shoes? And if you had even 1 hour's notice that you had to sub for someone as a shoe model, would you at least do a little buffing and shining? Arrggh!!! At least I didn't see any French Manicures on the toenails, thank goodness. I would have screamed so loud that I would have frightened my coworkers.
Ahem, sorry to anyone who was eating as they read this. You probably had a hard time swallowing.
Happy Mother's Day (in advance) to everyone out there who's a mom to a human kid, and also to everyone else who has pets, since they certainly do become our babies!
So here's my kidz... Mugzy and Ella Bean. Mugzy's a Boxer and Ella Bean is a Basset. Mugzy and Ella were both abandoned dogs found during cold, snowy winters.
Mugzy was found wandering down a country road by a farm family, who located his then owner. The owner said to shoot him. Thankfully, they knew they had a sweet, sweet dog on their hands and turned him over to Boxer Rescue. The poor little guy had pneumonia, but he recovered nicely and came to live at my house 5 years ago. The Mug-Bug is the sweetest man on the planet. He is utterly devoted to me and he follows me everywhere. Now that he's getting to be an older guy, I cherish every day that he's still here.
Ella Bean was sighted wandering near the Interstate in a rural area. Her rescuers had quite a time catching her, because she'd probably lived on her own for a while. She was eventually captured and turned over to a shelter. She was a wreck when she came to live at my house; she was stressed, skinny and extremely distrustful of humans. She has a big lump on her ribcage, the probable result of being kicked. But two years later, she's a squishy, happy, devoted little soul. Basset feet are the cutest things on the planet. I never knew I could be so endlessly charmed by dog's tooties!
We all work out our maternal instincts one way or the other, don't we??
Yesterday I went to the hairdresser and she and I contemplated the condition of my hair. I apparently became a little impatient with the hair styling process when I was still really harried at work, and I turned my flattening iron up WAY too high. That, dear readers, can produce nice short-term results and nasty long-term results. I have a thing about fried-looking hair, and here I had it on my own head.
So I had her cut about 3 inches off the bottom. She's also starting to grow out a few of the layers, so what I have today is effectively a longer and wilder version of a Louise Brooks bob. My hair is still at the middle of my neck, so it's hardly as bobbed as LuLu's, but it has that wedge effect.
I thought this was a drastic change, so I walk into my office after getting my hair done and one person noticed. I walked back in this morning and a couple of other people (who would have said something if they'd noticed) didn't notice much of a change. Isn't it weird how we always scrutinize ourselves so intently and expect others to do the same?
I think as long as person is clean and well-groomed and doesn't display pet peeve irritants (such a French manicured toenails or artificial nails with rhinestones that may pop off and land in your lap), people really don't notice the little nuances unless you're a very visually oriented person.
So now I know that someone with a fried hair pet peeve won't be standing around, looking at me, thinking "eeeewww!"
Odd subreference with BPAL elements: I was looking at minilux's BPAL icons and noticed that Louise Brooks was pictured in a couple of icons, one being for the scent Beatrice. There's a town in my state called Beatrice; it's about 35 miles directly south of where I reside. However, it's not pronounced the way the woman's name Beatrice is commonly pronounced, which is "BEE-uh-truss." No, people call this town "Bee-AT-triss." (And put a hard midwestern "r" in the last syllable.) I do not know the source of this trend, but people where I live will jokingly pronounce the name of the town "Beat (as in the beat goes on)-Rice (as in the grain.) I don't recall what was in the scent Beatrice, and I don't think it was something that I would have enjoyed, but even if I had, it would have been terribly difficult to not tell people that I was wearing "Beat-Rice" that day.
Story that was jarred loose in my brain as a result of darkity's story from the other day, about the fake nail popping off the girl's hand on the bus and landing on darkity: A long time ago, I was eating with a then-boyfriend in a Grisante's restaurant. We were at a table that was separated from another table by a divider that was probably 4 feet high. At the other table was a couple with their young son (about 5 or 6 years old) and one set of grandparents. The kid was wired for sound anyway, and Grandpappy was not making matters better, because he kept saying to the tyke: "So are ya all excited it's your birthday? Do you think you're gonna have lots of presents when we get home? Huh? Huh?" The kid was thrashing around, kicking and waving his arms. A waitress, hoping to provide a calming influence, gave the kid some crayons so he could draw on the paper that was put on the tabletop over the tablecloth. Didn't work. Then, I looked down at my plate to take another bite of whatever it was that I was eating, and a crayon suddenly plopped down in the middle of my plate. The kid had lost control of the crayon in his hot little hand as he was waving his arms around and it landed in my pasta. The mother was mortified, grandpappy was unrepentant and the kid was too crazed from being driven into a frenzy by his apparently sadistic grandpaps to even notice. A waiter saw it happen, came over, grabbed my plate and told me he was providing me with a replacement. My boyfriend said that the look on my face, as I handed the crayon back to the mother, should have caused the entire table to turn to salt and crumble away. People! I wasn't really mad at the kid, but his adult entourage needed to have their butts kicked.
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.
There's a still-smallish pine tree in my back yard (probably 6 or 7 feet high) that has a cardinal nest in it. The nest is tucked in a bit, but is right at eye level. Mrs. Cardinal was faithfully sitting on the eggs, and would hold still if you approached quietly to look at her. Yesterday the eggs began hatching, and now there are four baby cardinals, making their tiny tweepy noises, little heads thrown back and beaks open wide. They are so cute. Both Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal are feeding and guarding.
About 5 or 6 years ago, a fledgling cardinal, really a pretty tiny little thing, was flapping around in the back yard. The parents were frantically accompanying it, trying to get it to fly again. It was almost 100 degrees, and the poor little thing was exhausted and stressed. All the wild bird experts say to leave the bird alone if this is going on, so I just watched it. But then I noticed a neighbor's cat rambling around and that was it -- I went out and picked up the little bird. I brought it inside, put it in an old finch cage and fed it watered-down canned dog food all evening. I got up in the morning and fed it. I came home at noon and fed it, and by this time, it was just opening its beak and crying for me to feed it when it would lay eyes on me. It would fall asleep in my hand after it ate. Too precious for words.
At that time, I had an Airedale Terrier named Karma. Karma was most interested in Birdy-Birdy (as I called him), and I let her sit in the room when I was feeding the little guy. She wasn't being mean, just curious -- she was used to my pet cockatiel and didn't consider birds to be food. When I came home at noon, Karma was sitting outside the closed door of the room where Birdy-Birdy was staying. It was a much nicer day, and the wildlife rescue folks had told me to put the little guy out and see if he'd fly again. So I did, and as it turns out, his parents had been hanging around waiting for him. I put him out and they were there right away. He fluttered away and I hoped like crazy that he made it to saftey.
But here's the strange thing -- later that summer, a male cardinal would frequently come sit on the fence and Karma would sit and look up at it as it gave her a sweet, chirpy tweep. She wasn't watching it aggressively, it was like she was just listening to it. She never acted that way with other wild birds -- she just ignored them. But this bird and Karma were talking to each other. I always wondered just what that was all about. I like to believe that it was Birdy-Birdy, back for a visit.
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
This morning I set the alarm for 7:45 (way, way early for me on a Sunday) and went out to my back yard and bailed out all the old water in my two small garden ponds. They're pre-shaped plastic liners and a once-a-year emptying and refilling is a nice idea. So I was bailing out all the stinky old water and sludge and slime and it made me thing of the LJ wank. Generally, I consider that sort of behavior to be stinky and slimy.
While we relish our freedom of speech, the institutions that help give us freedom of speech (unless the current administration gets its way), like legislative bodies and courts, have very structured rules of debate. The procedures are there for a reason -- if it's a free-for-all, discussions can drop to the lowest common denominator and nothing constructive occurs. I consider the anonymous wank to be a free-for-all and the resulting discussion is generally worthless. While there may be nuggets of a legitimate discussion here and there, the presentation does not lend itself to anything but discord.
And that's all I'm going to say about this topic, because I think the more we just ignore the behavior and refuse to give the wankers the attention that they want, the sooner they will pick up their toys and move to another playground or simply go home and pout.
But damn it, I do adore that asshattery word. And I did know who Ron Jeremy was, pervy old bag that I am!
Oh yeah, for those of you who are old enough, do you remember an INXS song where he's reciting words, like appreciate, dedicate, ect? They should have had satiate in that song!
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.
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.
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.
Do you like bubble baths? I luuuurve bubble baths. And I am a damn picky bitch about my bubble bath. I used to like the Kiss My Face Peaceful Patchouli bubble bath, but they changed the formula and the bubbles leave much to be desired. I went to Victoria's Secret last week (big shock there...) and got some of their bubble bath, and it's not bad. I got the Strawberries and Champagne scent, which is rather unlike me, but that scent combo has prurient associations (in my head only, not based on any actual experience) and I couldn't resist.
I actually enjoy the V'Tae bath salts in the Sacred Fire scent. That is a really, really sexy scent that is also very comforting. Their verbiage on the package always gets me -- "Anoint. Intoxicate. Enchant. Goddess. Ritual. Magic." Ah, it evokes a web-spinner to me. I just wish they made it in a bubble bath.
And I am a bit of a web-spinner. I don't mind spiders one little bit. I don't pick them up and play with them, but I tend to give them their space and I never want to hurt them. I once got rather upset with a secretary in my office who recounted screaming and running around her kitchen at the sight of a spider before beating it to death with a broom so hard that her kids couldn't even find the carcass when she was finished. The story kind of gave me a pain through the heart. I know we all have our phobias, but holy crap, show some restraint.
Now how the hell did I get here from where I started, on bubble baths? Well let me tell you, if there's a spider in my tub and I want to take a bath, I get a magazine and respectfully move it to a secluded corner of the bathroom. They aren't stupid -- they'll stay away from hot water and bubbles.
Off to my ritual and magic in bubbleland...
Hells bells, there are a number of very thoughtful new entries over here on Blog Island. Not me. I could try to follow suit, but there is very little in the way of profound thought in my brain today. My excuse? It's Friday afternoon!
Here's something to do!
Get yo' pimp name here homey hunny!
http://www.playerappreciate.com/pimphandle.asp
Big Playah valentina Flava
As someone who loves vintage pinup girl art and underwear, this homage to the peculiar illustrations of Art Frahm never fails to draw a titter:
http://www.lileks.com/institute/frahm/art1.html
"The Shakedown" is my favorite. The illustration alone is absurdly Freudian, and the description of it as being from Frahm's "Edward Hopper period" are spot on, although Hopper is probably rolling in his grave.
OK, I just channel-surfed past the Home Shopping Network or QVC, or one of those channels, and they were selling some skank-ho trashy platform sandals that had a peculiar "Carmen Miranda goes to Africa" vibe to them. And they were $150. You know 50ish fat ladies will be tottering around in them, their tubby little toes with toenails pained orange (and always long toenails, because they're too fat to trim them properly) spread wide from the tonnage inflicted upon them from being placed at such an odd angle. Christ, these shoes wouldn't be cute on you adorable young things with really cute feet and skinny little legs. You'd look like you were wearing cement blocks on your feet that were painted in a black-and-white tribal design.
Wouldn't it be great to have a goth home shopping network? Or just to have a few good goth merchants show up on QVC? Beth and Puddin' could do a BPAL and BPTP segment. I would pay good money to see it and of course would spend money like a drunken sailor.
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.
There's a line of thunderstorms blowing through out here on the prairie tonight, here in the land of Willa Cather, and I do love a nice rumbly thunderstorm. Nothing severe or tornadic, mind you, just a garden-variety thunderstorm. Rain, a bit of wind, thunder rolling in the distance. It's just so great.
The most utterly gorgeous drive I've had in some years was about 4 years ago, heading east out of Ft. Collins, Colorado. If you head east, you drive directly away from the Rockies and into a rolling grassland. It was about 1 in the afternoon and thunderstorms were moving across the area. You could look to the north and see blue-black clouds in the distance with sheets of rain whipping out of them. Occasional flashes of lightning, rolls of thunder. It was an incredible contrast to the rolling yellow-green grassland and the lonesome, winding road. I put on the Cowboy Junkies and sailed along. By the time I got to Nebraska, it was blue skies and clear sailing across the state. That was a great drive. I had soundtrack music for each part of the drive... I started out with the Cowboy Junkies and by the time I pulled into my home city, I was listening to cool jazz by Patricia Barber.
That was probably boring. You just had to be there. I was in a zone during that drive, I was so in love with so many things on that drive. There's a Buddhist nun named Pema Chodron (she's American, that's her dharma name) who said she became a Buddhist nun because she wanted to fall in love with not just one person, but the entire world. In a very pure sense, of course. My passionate nature doesn't allow me to forego the ways of the flesh, but I do, at times, truly understand what she's saying.
By the way, my favorite song by The Doors isn't "Riders on the Storm," it's "L.A. Woman." There's another driving song for you!
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?
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?
