Today's animal story is that a cat was camped out on the front porch last night when I got home. There are feral cats in the neighborhood that are truly wild, and over the winter we'd put a dish of dry cat food out on the porch to hide them over. Lately, a yellow and white cat has been up on the porch, but vanishes when anyone appears. Until yesterday, when it was just hanging out, meowing and acting like it was at home. This isn't a feral cat, it's a poor house cat that was either abandoned or got out of the house and never made it home. The poor little soul has terribly matted hair and mite-infested ears. It's really skinny and a bit skittish, but it wants to be house kitty so badly! It starts kneading its paws and purring when you talk to it, and if it sees you through the window, it meows at you. It will let you pet it if you sit with it long enough and it comes to trust you. It's never hissed or clawed once; it's a sweetheart.
What to do? I can not let it in the house very easily, for Mugzy and Ella Bean would try to eat it. Mugzy has apparently declared cats to be his mortal enemies. I could get it inside and lock it in a basement room, but I think it needs veterinary assistance, because it lists around a little bit when it walks. I wonder if it wasn't hit by a car or injured in some manner. All the feline shelters are full, but I can't let this poor thing sit around much longer. I may have to use canned cat food to lure it into a small dog carrier and get it to the vet. I won't take it to the Humane Society, because considering the state of its coat and its tendency to list a little bit, they might euthanize without giving consideration to adoption. This kitty just wants to go home, or to find a new home. The poor, poor baby.
It's bad enough to have lost dog karma and baby bird in distress karma, but now lost kitty karma is following me around. For the time being, I'm calling him/her Puddy, since Tweety Bird has always rocked my world.
My brother is about 12 years older than I am, and thus, I'm right in between his age and his oldest daughter's age. So once when I was about 19 and Lori was about 7, Lori decided she wanted to send my dad a letter, and she wanted to dictate it to me. It was really quite hilarious and I think my dad saved it for a long time. It started out: "Hi Grandpa. How are you? I am fine. The house hasn't burned down yet."
And therefore, the title of today's entry. For whatever reason, the firework lunacy around my town seemed to occur on the evening of July 3, rather than July 4. The next door neighbors have been out of town for over a week, leaving their 17-year-old daughter to care for the household. She was having an allegedly wholesome teen gathering at the house, complete with fireworks. Then, about 2 a.m., I was awakened from my slumbers because someone was frantically ringing the doorbell over and over. I got to the door and yelled "WHO IS IT?" and the response was: "YOUR FENCE IS ON FIRE!"
Great. I ran out the back door, turned on the hose and for whatever reason, ran to the right part of the yard. My DH was left standing confused and didn't even know where I went. But the time I got around the corner, the fire was almost out, for the neighbor's daughter had also turned out their hose and was spraying down the fence.
The explanation: although there were about 4 carloads of kids hanging around, they just all happened to be driving past, and hadn't been spending time there. They claim they stopped and rang the doorbell, couldn't wake us up, and went to her house and got her to come out and put out the fire. Yeah, right. I'm a light sleeper and one doorbell ding is all it takes to rouse me from horizontal slumber to a sitting-straight- up, wide awake state.
And the fire was really caused by a plastic gas can that was set on fire. The fence was scorched due to its proximity to the gas can. The kdis, of course, had no idea who had started it, or where the gas can came from, but it was a random act of arson.
Once the kids heard my DH has finally come to his senses and called the fire department, everyone who just happened to be driving by got in their cars and promptly left. This included the friend who was supposed to be staying with the neighbor's daughter. The neighbor girl's eyes popped out of her head when she heard the firemen were arriving, and that they would probably call the police. She yelped: "But the fire is OUT!" Apparently the two guys who knocked on our door felt it was a good idea to let us know the fence was on fire, while the others didn't want us to figure it out. Our neighbor's daughter feigned great innocence to the fireman and the cops and claimed she'd been indoors watching movies when the act of arson occurred.
The cops took forever to arrive, so we were up until almost 5 in the morning. The police just rolled their eyes at her story. By light of day, you could see where the gas can was on fire in their driveway, and someone kicked it (probably to get it away from her car, not a bad idea), it rolled down an incline toward our fence, and then it scorched the fence.
This is the daughter of people who have a patio chimnea in the the back and like to burn tree branches in it, but if the branches are too green to burn well, they dump charcoal lighter on it and get flames jumping 3 or 4 feet out of the chimnea. I am sure they will also take no responsibility for anything, because she's obviously copping to nothing. The firemen did take pains to point out to her how the fire could have really damaged her house a lot, because if it had continued, it would have gone up into a tree and hopped over to the roof her her house first.
And crap, just last week I had commented that she's very good at playing the wholesome cheerleader, fine Christian girl routine, but she's obviously a bit more of a handful than her older sister. But the parents don't seem to get it, because they're too busy acting like they're socially superior to their neighbors, while they guzzle beer and burn scrap lumber in their chimnea.
So why is it that when people act either superior or have to wear their wholesomeness on their sleeves, it's usually to cover up something else?
From etymology online, the origin of the word "goon:"
goon
1921, "stupid person," from gony "simpleton" (c.1580), of unknown origin, but applied by sailors to the albatross and similar big, clumsy birds (1839); sense of "hired thug" first recorded 1938 (in ref. to union "beef squads" used to cow strikers in the Pacific northwest), probably from Alice the Goon, slow-witted and muscular (but gentle-natured) character in "Thimble Theater" comic strip (starring Popeye) by E.C. Segar (1894-1938). She also was the inspiration for British comedian Spike Milligan's "The Goon Show." What are now "juvenile delinquents" were in the 1940s sometimes called goonlets.
For those who are not familiar with vintage cartoons, Alice the Goon was so primoridally bizarre that she still freaks me out a little. I was always fascinated and deeply weirded out by her presence in Popeye cartoons. I have an Alice the Goon stuffed toy that I found on eBay a few years ago. I also love The Jeep, that weird little magical dog-monkey thing in Popeye. Was Segar on acid when he drew those cartoons?
Here is lovely Alice herself -- she was a bit of an androgynous old thing:
I think a BPAL scent based on Alice the Goon would be wonderful, although I imagine it to smell a bit like Enraged Orangantan Musk.
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.
I have this tendency to layer my BPAL scents, and then name the blend, as in Smut-O-Rama. I also mixed Lovitar and Smut one night. I'm still surprised that I didn't explode -- that's mixing two incendiary substances! And it's a bit of a BDSM mix that wouldn't be for public consumption, and would naturally need to worn with leather underwear. It was dubbed Joe Perry Bait. (And of course, thanks again to the Diva of Icons, minilux, for providing me with the customized beauties!)
I really do try out these blends because I get curious, or more often than not, I want to juice things up a bit. Every time I get something a bit low-key, I decide to toss in some heat. (I'm a Leo.) So tonight, I decided to see what would happen if I put down a nice layer of Coyote and then dabbed a bit o' Smut on top. It's nice. I went out to get some iced tea and read at a coffee house, and the girls working there were leaning over the counter inhaling me, because they liked it that much. Of course, they now have the Lab's web site address and are officially enabled.
But that blend... do I call it Coyote Smut or Smut E. Coyote?
It occurs to me that I have not provided a definitive update on the cat who took up residence on my front porch nearly two weeks ago. I was calling the kitty Puddy or Puds or Puddin', and a week ago I took the little geek into the vet to get the giant hairballs cut out of his fur and to get a general health assessment.
So here's the news: the kitty is a neutered male, the vet guesses he's about 10 years old. He'd probably lived on his own for a while, considering the extent of the matted hair on his back, but he obviously was someone's pet for most of his life. He had no microchip, and no lost cat report fits his description. His ears were simply very dirty, he had no mites or parasites except of evidence of some fleas, so he was treated for the nasty fleasters. His bloodwork came out clean and vet gave him vaccinations. The vet also said he was in amazingly good shape, considering his age and his recent "on the road" lifestyle. The shambling gait that he has is probably due to general age and perhaps some sort of old injury. But some of it, I believe, was due to the fact that the poor guy was skin and bones and half-starved.
So for now, he's living contentedly on the front porch with his little kennel for shelter and his food and water. He isn't going anywhere, believe me! He's filling out, I'm brushing him daily to get more of the dead hair out of his coat, and his wobbly gait is improving. He loves to crawl onto your your lap, purr and knead his paws. Ella Bean, Basset Queen, was taken out on the porch to meet him, restrained by her harness and her leash, and Puddin' Tom just watched her and gave a warning growl every now and then. She didn't push it. Mugzy the Boxer was curious, but not aggressive. If they keep meeting up, a truce may be established over time
And as you can see, I'm calling him Puddin' Tom. I think it sounds like a cross between a children's book title and a good ol' southern boy. He apparently feels like he's found his retirement home!
The title of this blog entry is the name of a Bob Schneider song. It has a few nonsensical lines in it, and according to Bob, those lines were word phrases that came to him in dreams or just bubbled up out of his brain. I've always listened to that song when things are going on in my life that I simply can't explain. Ain't that the way life is supposed to be? I 'spose so.
So as I write this, I'm sitting with Mugzy (the Boxer), Ella Bean (Basset Queen and current avatar) and Puddin' Tom all watching me. Yes, Puddin' Tom! I've been bringing him inside and with the advent of cold weather, he's staying indoors more and more. They all get along. Ella Bean really wants to lick him and mother him, and he's just not ready for that, but his way of repelling her advances is to just hold his paw up in the air, as if he's going to bat her. She knows enough to stay away. Mugzy just ignores him, although Puddin' usually gives the Mug-Bug a friendly "hello" meow when they encounter each other. I'm very proud of all of them.
I saw a couple of people in the last day who make me really, really happy. I was incredibly mellow and calm this afternoon. Then I came back to work after lunch and discovered that my former coworker (the one I mentioned a couple of entries ago) is very, very, very sick. He should be in a hospice, but being either very stubborn or in total denial, he won't admit he's dying.
A guy in my office, who's one of the sick guy's best friends, told me that when he was at the hosptial on Friday, the sick guy was talking about how I'd come down to his office a few times, once to give him coffee beans, and once to give him a vintage TV show photo (of Richard Boone in "Have Gun Will Travel"). He said it meant so much to him, and I had absolutely no idea how it had brightened his day. Hell, and I thought it was my bra! Well, that too. That, to me, is proof that you never know when you're doing something that is a big deal to someone else, either good or bad.
Don't get me wrong; I have another friend who's been a black hole lately. She and I used to have a friendship based upon a certain mutual regard, but in recent years it's become a very needy, one-sided thing for her, where I'm supposed to be Ms. Sunshine-Logical-Never Has A Problem. She and I have both been there for each other in difficult times in the past, but honestly, now it's all about her. I'm nice to her, but I hold my space rather intensely these days. Even when she's nice to me, it's as if there are strings attached, and my crap detectors really start to ping. I wish I could be like Puddin' Tom and just hold up a paw at her Ella Bean-like approaches and get her to walk off, but I think people are more clueless than animals would ever dream of being.
It was a day of ups and downs. I don't know how to feel, except lucky that I got to see people who really rock my world and I was able to enjoy them. Ain't that the way life is supposed to be?
It strikes me that this entry had a bit of a Carrie Bradshaw quality to it -- you know, starting out with a question and taking off from there. It annoys and amuses me that "Sex And The City" has affected my writing style, although I never recall Carrie writing about death and sex, although she should have. Intense sensory experiences are often when we feel our most alive and embodied, and that includes really good desserts, sex and shoe sales. And how could I forget? Sniffing the best perfume oils in the world, and we know where to find them!
Whee!
I came home from grocery shopping, something I don't especially enjoy doing, but particularly on a day when the grocery store has decided to do some goofy "Wizard of Oz" promo/extravaganza. Whatever festivities they'd been carrying on had long ended, but the unfortunate staff were still in costume and they were playing songs from the movie. The munchkin music gets wearisome rather rapidly, and I don't know why they just couldn't have played Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon." For those of us who would have understood the subreference, it would have been so damn funny.
So I got home feeling a little frazzled, and there was my BPAL order! It was only CnS'd on Thursday... for once, the USPS rocked and rolled and got it here in a hurry. Woot!
And my order was Monster Bait: Underpants (two bottles) and a bottle of Beltane. Beltane is nice on me, and it reminds me a lot of grassier-smelling Night's Pavillion. I wonder if there's frankincense in Beltane -- to evoke the fires on the heath. I'm speculating about that because I know it's in Night's Pavilion, and that may be the similarity.
But the Panty Monster... OMFG! It started out a bit like Beaver Moon, all vanilla, but then it morphed into a sweet, saffrony, sandalwoody thing. I love Khajurajo, and certain sandalwood blends are simply pure love on me. I associate saffron and sandalwood with India and a Kama Sutra vibe... add to it the western elements of vanilla and rum, and holy crap. It's a winner. I actually think that this scent could be dangerous.
(Minor reverie: Like most people, I associate rum with Cuba, and I heard Andy Garcia interviewed on NPR this morning. Mmmmmm... he's awfully, awfully fine.)
Thank you Beth, for mixing the panty ofrenda potion in such a marvelous way!!!
The most wonderful indarkmoon mentioned last week that Nikki Giovanni's poem "I Wrote A Good Omelet" was nice, and she was so, so, so correct. Here it is:
I Wrote A Good Omelet
I wrote a good omelet...and ate
a hot poem... after loving you
Buttoned my car...and drove my
coat home...in the rain...
after loving you
I goed on red...and stopped on
green...floating somewhere in between...
being here and being there...
after loving you
I rolled my bed...turned down
my hair...slightly
confused but...I don't care...
Laid out my teeth...and gargled my
gown...then I stood
...and laid me down...
To sleep...
after loving you
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...
Since my previous entry was a prolonged rant, I'm doing another entry to lighten up the mood, and it's on one of my more favorite subjects.
I turned on TV last night and there on the screen was some absurd CBS 4th of July special, featuring Boston Pops doing a live outdoor concert. But when I turned it on, Aerosmith was playing along with the Boston Pops. What? I guess the Aerosmith boys came from the Boston area. But it was surreal, to say the least. First of all, these days, Steven Tyler has a tighter face than his daughter Liv. It does not look especially flattering on him -- a bit too much work, I think. But I could have lived with that, had he sounded halfway normal. Oh my hell, his voice made the menacing cat scream-growl noise uttered by Puddin' Tom sound like the song of a lark. Tyler at his best never had a resonant or clarion-clear rock star voice, but this was off-key and vocal chord polyp-inducing squalling. I nearly hit the mute right away. Actually, I did so when he started to hack his way through "Dream On." It was just too sad.
But Joe Perry was, well, Joe Perry. He and Steven did look like they got into a Clairol frost 'n tip hair highlight system together, but I like the way it looks on Joe. (Do I dislike they way anything looks on Joe? Probably not.) Joe has two big platinum blonde streaks running on either side of his part, and it looks rather dramatic, as if he needs any more drama and presence.
Poor Steven Tyler was working very hard to keep the energy and drama focused on him, and all Joe had to do was stand there, play the guitar and toss his head around. If you got it, you got it.
ETA: OK, I just read that Steven Tyler was "fresh from surgery on his vocal chords," so that's why he sounded so bad. But that's like getting a liver transplant and going out and drinking shots a month after you've been released from the hospital! Rest your voice, Steven.
I have not been the chattiest blogger in the world, lately. Bad blogger, bad, bad, bad blogger! Try to type "bad blogger" a number of times that not turn "bad" into "blad." I did it twice. ("Blad Blogger" sounds like the emo nephew of Dracula.) It's been over 100 degrees here the last two days. Blame any weirdness below on the heat.
Well, I've been quiet because I've been kind of angsty lately and I really don't like to subject people to my angst. I'm semi-finished with my angst, and I've basically decided, what's better -- to be someone who has a few things that I'd like to have, but don't, but in order to get them you have to be positively glacial, or to be sort of person who animals, little kids and old people tend to like. I guess it's best to just accept my gifts in the form of a trusting animal, smiles from little kids and conversations with old folks. And everyone else in between. I not a cold bitch, so I don't get the cold bitch acoutroments. End of story.
I'm going to try to brew up a good batch or two or three of sangria tomorrow. I associate sangria with the 4th of July. Now, WTF? A Spanish wine for an American holiday? It's just a summertime thing.
And what is it when you go to the pool and you see the man with his bald head, bobbing just above the water, and then he emerges from the pool, it is revealed that his body is one of the hairiest things you've seen? As in, more hair on the guy's back than on most men's chests, not to mention all the hair on the legs and the chest and arms? I know it's testosterone doing its thing, but it always amazes me. Not that I have a thing against a nice hairy chest or hairy arms or legs, for I like secondary sexual characteristics, but when the back is almost solid hair, I do draw the line. I'd be getting out the waxing strips and using them on the fellow. But it would be like trying to wax a Grizzly! It would be like pulling carpet! Jeez, and guys like that would clog up your drains all the time, and no one would be able to figure it out, because they have a cue-ball head. Where is that hair coming from?
You can see what I was looking at and pondering at the pool today!
I was at the health club, riding the cardio cross-trainer (I've nicknamed it the sadiomaster), but I'm having a fine time because I'm reading "Insatiable" by Gael Green, the escapades of an unabashed sensualist food critic who had lots and lots of fun in the 1970's, eating and screwing her way around New York City. And while I was reading and riding (the sadiomaster, remember!) I was listening to Billie Holiday.
I finished a chapter and looked up at a TV, and there was Andy Garcia on screen. What a fine man he is. Could I take much more? Of course, because then the scene switched to George Clooney. ("Ocean's 11" was on TV.) In a brief aside, I think Andy and George make Brad Pitt look plain, but I'm a sucker for dark-haired men.
Could I take much more? Yeah, the guy at the club that I mentally refer to as "Scenery" (I don't know his name) was walking around the track, cooling down from his weight training. He has dark hair too, plus he's classically handsome and he doesn't realize it. I think that men who aren't especially handsome, but act like they are, are really appealing, as are handsome men who don't understand just how good looking they are.
But after that flurry of man-watching, I was content to return to reading Gael and listening to Billie. It certainly did make the sadiomaster session much more worthwhile.
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...
Yes, today I am in a tank top and a skort. The tank top is one with a retro Wonder Woman design on it, but it's distressed-faded looking, so the image of the Amazon doesn't jump right out at you. Most of my coworkers are used to my Wonder Woman fixation, although there are plenty of people who don't know me, who look upon my shirt with great curiosity. Or maybe it's just stupid men who will use anything as an excuse to look at a woman's chest, even one equipped with my middlers.
When I went into Meadowlark coffee this morning, the only people sitting outside were three relatively normal young women. No mullets. Maybe Wednesdays are Mullet Mornings at Meadowlark? You show up with a mullet and get your lattes at half-price? I'll have to ask them if that's the case.
I must now discuss a particularly annoying word pronunciation idiosyncrasy. I tend to wince at most odd pronunciations/mispronunciations, but some just drive me batty. One is when the word Buddha is pronounced "Beyoo-dah." I always think of "zippity-do-dah!" Then I get into associations with Zippy the Pinhead and the Buddha. I can just see a cartoon frame of Zippy saying: "Zippity-do-dah, I'm the Be-yoo-dah!"
And then there's the word emu, denoting the large, flightless ostrich-like bird. It can be pronounced either e-mou or e-meu, but whenever I hear e-meu, it annoys me. This is no doubt due to my provincial preference for the e-mou version, because at times, my accent comes dangerously close to bordering upon the Scandinavian/German influenced "Fargo" accent, as in: "Ya, fer sure, that was an e-meu runnin' across the road, Margie. Where'd ya think he was goin'?"
I'm sure that somehow I could weave together an idea about a Coen Brothers movie that would include emus, Zippy the Pinhead, Buddha, mullets and Wonder Woman. But it's lunchtime and I don't want to. However, I'll close with the thought that I'm pretty sure if he were around today, the Buddha would just call himself "The Dude."
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 am a sucker for a Scottish accent, so of course Craig Ferguson is way cute to me, but here's a link to a political blog that has two really really funny segments from his show. I thought for a minute that it was real, then realized they're screwing with the tape to make it sound that way, but methinks they didn't have to screw with the tape that much. I nearly pulled a muscle laughing at it.
If you venerate our current president, and not my favorite ol' poonhound and ex-president, William Jefferson Clinton, then don't watch this. (BTW, it's worth it just to hear "Bush" said with a Scottish accent. )
http://www.crooksandliars.com/index.php?s=Craig+Ferguson
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...
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.
Maunder:
1. [v] speak (about unimportant matters) rapidly and incessantly
2. [v] talk indistinctly; usually in a low voice
3. [v] wander aimlessly
I so do need to thump myself in the head and give myself an attitude adjustment. Except that's probably not the gentlest way to look at it... Let's see... I need to remind myself not to whack out in my predictable old ways.
But I'm so good at whacking out, since it's my Own Private Madness and at worst I seem a bit distracted. Inside, I am a teeming malestrom of whackedness and then I get more pissed off at myself because I know I'm doing it to myself. I went out for a walk to try to clear my head and actually did something to make it worse. Oh, it's a long story.
And for hell's sake, I have no basis to bitch. None whatsoever. My pissiness is based upon the fact that I want what I want when I want it, even when it makes no sense and my brain knows better.
Part of my attitude problem is, I'm sure, due to lack of sleep. I went to bed about 11:30, woke up at about 1 a.m. feeling like shit and I didn't get back to sleep until about 3:30. Then a thunderstorm rolled in at 5:30 am and woke me up.
And lack of sleep often produces a heightened princess "wah!" effect in my psyche. I need to chill out tonight and meditate for about an hour to get my turmoil under control. And I need to do it early, because if I try it too late at night, I will keep nodding off because I'm tired. That may happen anyway.
I'm not going to get into what's upsetting me, but trust me, most of you would categorize it as an amusing, madcap, abudance of riches "problem" of the sort that would be whined about by Carrie Bradshaw in "Sex and the City." Yuppers. The reason that I watched "Sex" was to watch that bitch openly whine about such things and have girlfriends patiently listen and not yell at her at the top of their lungs "SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU SPOILED ASSHOLE BITCH! JESUS CHRIST! PEOPLE WOULD DIE FOR THESE 'PROBLEMS!'" And I also find Chris Noth (Mr. Big) to be hot.
I'll stop maundering now. Anyone who read all the way to this point, you are a saint or you want to be like Carrie's long-suffering girlfriends in "Sex." Or for whatever reason, thank you.
I find it almost impossible to believe that I have not mentioned shoes in any of my blog entries. Shoes of the high-heeled, ankle-strapped, bordering on Bettie Page fetish heels, retro-style shoes, platform thongs for the summer, boots of all varieties. The shoe fetishists always are agog. I have a pair of stiletto heels, pumps with the newer rounded toe, the fabric has small multi-color polka dots. When I wore them last week, they were compared to 1) confetti on New Year's Eve, and 2) cupcakes with sprinkles on the top, and 3) Easter Eggs. Are those shoes a Roschach test of sorts?
I once had someone tell me that the shrinks believe men become foot/shoe fetishists because they sat at their mother's feet adoringly as wee boys, and somehow the association with feet and the love of a woman merge in their brains. Well. Their mommas probably didn't wear shoes like mine.
One of my girlfriends calls me the shoe whore, and made up a Dr. Seuss book title of sorts for me, called: "Who Shore The Shoe Whore Of Her Shoes?"
However, for every yin there is a yang, and I also own two pairs of Dansko clogs, a really ugly but comfy pair of Keens, about 4 pairs of Birkenstocks (one pair is close to 20 yrs old) and one pair of Merrells. I have to keep my feel happy during their down time from the stilettos. And I'm wearing my Adidas athletic shoes as I write.
I won't even get into the effect that good lingerie and great high heels have when worn in concert. Just look at Bettie Page for the ultimate example of the incendiary nature of such combinations!
My signature line is a favorite Dorothy Parker quote, one of the finest declarations regarding lingerie that I've ever read. Dorothy was a writer, and of course an amazing wit with an acid tongue. Suicidal and alcoholic too, but also funny and smart and ahead of her time. Here's more Dorothy Parker quotes:
There's a hell of a distance between wisecracking and wit. Wit has truth in it; wisecracking is simply calisthenics with words.
He and I had an office so tiny that an inch smaller and it would have been adultery.
I require only three things of a man. He must be handsome, ruthless and stupid.
His voice was intimate as the rustle of sheets.
Take care of luxuries and the necessities will take care of themselves.
It serves me right for keeping all my eggs in one bastard.
All I need is room enough to lay a hat and a few friends.
You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think.
I'd rather have a bottle in front of me, than a frontal lobotomy.
She runs the gamut of emotions from A to B.
I like to have a martini,
Two at the very most.
After three I'm under the table,
after four I'm under my host.
(In answer to what she'd like for breakfast) Just something light and easy to fix. How about a dear little whiskey sour?
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!
An '80's and '90's flashback all in one song: Tori Amos doing a cover of "Father Figure." Do you remember the video for that song? The gorgeous, Bettie Page-like S & M model/"love interest" for George Michael? It was kind of hot. When Tori sings it, the "to be warm and naked, by your side" lyric takes on a little more heat. George kind of hissed his way through that song, where Tori almost whispers her way through it.
There's a Lyle Lovett song that has a line in it that goes: "She wasn't good, but she had good intentions." Maybe you have to hear him singing it, but it always makes me laugh. Sometimes I wonder if it amuses me because that's a very succinct description of me.
"Succinct" is a good word to say out loud, repeatedly. Just try it.
I'm listening to satellite radio, and now Chris Issacs is singing that "I Don't Want To Fall In Love" song, and do you remember the video for that one? Christ. Helena Christenson, the model, rolling around mainly naked on a beach with black sand? Chris got to nuzzle her neck as she looked so not into him. And what a messed-up, wildly codependent, semi-whiny and totally white-hot song that one is! Woo.
Just before that, they played one of my favorite Ani DiFranco songs with the lyric: "before you end up parked and sobbing, forehead on the steering wheel." Hmmm... wonder why I like that moody little lyric? I'm not sure I've ever really done that, but I've certainly felt like it. Who hasn't?
Well, I don't know if this entry was good, but it had good intentions...
