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."
If you had to pick your favorite "romantic" movie, what would you pick?
Romantic is indeed in the eye and mind and heart of the beholder. If you look up "romantic" in Webster's, you'd find definitions that include: "consisting of or resembling romance," "having no basis in fact," "imaginary," "marked by the imaginative or emotional appeal of what is heroic, adventurous, remote, mysterious or idealized," "marked by expression or love or affection," and "conductive to or suitable for lovemaking."
Indeed, what some call romantic, I might call sentimental and almost maudlin, and thus, unromantic as hell. And I'm sure others might watch my favorite "romantic" movie and wonder what was so romantic about people who were all confused, drinking a bit too much and acting snarky most of the time. But I do love "The Philadelphia Story." First of all, it's too damn funny and witty. It has Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn and Jimmy Stewart zinging lines back and forth at each other. The snappy repartee is delicious. But what I really find romantic about that movie is that for some people, when you meet your match, when you meet someone who can both dish it out and take it, you just can't let it drop. Ever. Finally you just give it up and give in to what's going on. But the fight is fun and it makes giving in even more delicious. That's a very romantic notion of mine, and "The Philadelphia Story" has it in spades. Sigh...
So tell me your favorite romantic movie, and tell me why...
My friend Ron sent this to me today:
Marguerite Duras said, "You have to be very fond of men. Very, very fond. You have to be very fond of them to love them. Otherwise they're simply unbearable."
Being as busy as I am at work is a good thing, to a certain extent, but here I am, in at work on Sunday. And what am I doing? Writing in my BPAL blog? ARGH BLARG! Actually, I'm basically finished with what I arrived to do, but I'm considering cleaning off my desk just a bit and then leaving.
And what am I doing here on Sunday? I am the lead-off batter in the entire staff presentation process on Tuesday. This happens every year that there's a new and/or difficult committee to work with -- I get to go in first and be raked over the coals. I get to have everyone who doesn't really understand how the process works ask me 50 trillion questions and generally bitch about how they can't find out what's going on. Never mind that they want me to know more than most of the people who run the agencies I'll be talking about. It's the general naive nature of newly-elected legislative officials who think they're going to change the world. There's term limits in my state and almost half the legislature turned over last year, so experienced folks are few and far between. And my boss picks me to twist slowly in the wind, every year.
I know it's because I'm somewhat less (externally) sensitive than other people in the office, I don't pout, whine and mince around about thing, I tend to not be as pedantic in my presentations as some of the other staff, and I'm no Angelina Jolie, but I'm probably more into presentation of my entire self than some of the other staff. I also think my boss really gets off on putting me through the mill, so he can tell everyone else how horribly my presentation went. So I'm in trying to prepare as best as possible, but I know I'll get asked a lot of non sequitur questions that I can't answer. I detest this part of my job.
Last week one of the fatcat lobbyists came in and asked me to go to lunch with him, I still can't figure out what he wanted, he claimed it was just social in nature. He is fun to talk to and I get a giggle out of his observations. I was getting somewhat disconcerted that he'd take pains to walk behind me and then he confessed that he liked to smell my perfume. And what was I wearing? Snake Oil, of course! You don't go to lunch with a lobbyist and not wear Snake Oil. It may become my signature scent for the session, although the one day that I wore Mme. Moriarty, she got an extreme reaction from someone. Since they're in the same "family," I'm not sure most people can tell them apart. I love them equally.
I went a little batshit on the update and ordered way more than I intended. What did I get? Bakeneko, Svadhinaopatika, Vasakasajja, Chintamani-Dhupa and Smut. I know Smut will work, but I already have a bottle-and-a-half of Smut 2006, but how could I not order another bottle? And the others... well, we'll see. They sound lovely. I love Lupercalia, but then my forum name is valentina, after all.
I'm going to shovel off my desk. I hope all of you are well, and staying warm if you're somewhere where it's cold.
Anyone who is even vaguely inclined to listen to jazz, go listen to "Modern Cool" by Patricia Barber. I think that CD might be the soundtrack to one side of my personality. Patricia is an openly gay women in a genre that typically rewards pretty, femme singers and piano players, which means she kicks ass so hard that she can't be ignored. One has to admire such a force of talent.
The soundtrack to the other side of my personality would be anything by Bob Schneider, who is sadly not well-enough known outside of Austin, Texas. Although I am not in Austin, and I do know about him. Bob is the coolest thing on earth, and damn purdy. As in, I consider Bob to be my prototype hottie.
Do you ever get yourself into situations that you think will be fun, but make you really, really sad? At best, wistful? I've done that to myself. Again. If I'm good at anything, it's that. At least I'm also good at taking responsibility for my own actions and my own moods, so I won't make the rest of the world miserable.
This morning I was sitting at my favorite coffeehouse and damn, I saw so many cool things going on around me. People just being kind of awesome, and jerky, and just hanging out. Why do we think we need to go to church, when the temple of the world is all around us? Oops, that was really Zen of me and I'll stop all that mumbo-jumbo.
I did have a friend send me a Buddha figurine; it just arrived in the mail. Her father went to India and she asked him to get one for her so she could send it to me. That was sweet of her.
I'm so hankering for the CnS on my next order, which is a biggie and includes, among other things, a bottle of Kali and a bottle of O. I'm probably giving the Kali to my friend who sent me the Buddha, since she loves Kali beyond reason. So much so, she asked her dad to bring back a Kali statue for her. That's devotion.
Do you ever feel like you have so many choices that it almost feels like you have no choices? That's called confusion. I think I'll go take a bath and listen to Patricia Barber and chill it down a bit.
Peace and love to all...
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.
There's a end-of-season sale extravaganza going on at the shopping mall not too far from where I live, so I had to stop by long enough to see if there were any really great shoes or boots on sale in my favorite shoe department. The answer was, of course not. The serious shoe and boot sales start in February. I am still delighted about those $150 Diesel boots that I got for under $20 a couple of years ago; I always attempt to equal the experience, but have yet to do so.
Anyway, I found a parking place and thought that the fastest way into the mall would be through the David's Bridal store. I've never been in a David's Bridal before, and I wasn't aware that this place didn't have an opening into the rest of the mall. As a result, I wandered through the store and its various viewing and fitting venues before leaving in horror through the door that I used to enter. I am absolutely convinced that drag queens should be hired by bridal shops to help prepare young females for the absolutely intricate selection and fitting process that seems to surround either wedding or prom attire. Drag queen can work it, and some of the females that I saw today needed a lot of encouragement to work it. Why not get tips from the masters?
I'm only half-kidding, but I know a lot of the ladies that I saw today would bristle at the notion of a gay cross-dresser helping them cross the street if both of their legs were broken, much less getting clothing and style tips from them.
Not to run down anyone's prom or wedding experiences, because if you wanted to work it up big-time, more power to you. I tend to be the kind of person who will get all done up because I'm having fun putting together quite the little get-up, or because part of my job is working it and creating my "you can look, but don't even think of coming near me" aura.
And maybe that's what disturbed me about today -- most of the females I saw trying on gowns or formals weren't wearing styles right for their bodies and they looked miserable and unhappy. It should be fun, they should be snappin' and happy, and instead they just looked sick. A nice drag queen doing a happy squee when a hesitant young lady emerged from the dressing room would do so much good!
And in the end, is everything being so ornate and perfect and more gorgeous than imagined on that one day going to make the rest of your life together better? Of course not. I can be so pragmatic sometimes, but for whatever reason, my dreams never did involve ornate weddings, much to the relief of my father.
Here I am, checking in with odd comments and reports of the usual odd goings-on in my life.
Why would anyone drink orange juice when they could eat an orange? I love oranges so much. Apples are really great this time of year, but apples make me hungry. Does anyone else experience this? But oranges are so yum. And orange juice is a fine beverage, it's just that I'd rather eat an orange.
A woman that I know passed away yesterday. I was acquainted with her via my ex-husband and through my job; she wasn't a close friend but someone I always enjoyed when we ran into each other. She was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer on her 54th birthday, which was 3 months ago. Doods, that is express check-out. Like a Zen master once said, our problem is that we always think we have time. This woman knew a lot of people, she had a certain zest for the world, and especially this little corner of the world. A lot of people will miss her. The last conversation that I had with her somehow morphed into a discussion of how cute Che Guevara was, and her comment was: "Yeah, he even looked good even when he was all shot to shit." Her legacy for me is to live like there's no tomorrow, never be ashamed to be quirky, and to be proud to love all the things that aren't supposed to be cool to love, but you love them anyway.
I need to photograph my garden tomorrow; it's supposed to be warm and sunny, and the weatherdudes say that by next weekend, it's gonna be cold! Eeek! I tend to have a fall garden; my garden is really looking interesting when other people have ripped out most of their flowers. Of course, I let things get really wild-looking and I love it that way. I like to say I have a cottage garden or a more "naturalistic" way of gardening. I'm reading "Devil In The White City" about the Chicago World's Fair in the 1890's, and the man who planned the midway (Olmstead) went to England and decided he liked the more naturalistic, wilder, overgrown English countryside far more than the perfectly planned and ordered British gardens. I felt terribly affirmed when I read that.
So maybe next week, I'll post some wild prairie garden photos. The purple dome aster that has gone bezerk, the Mexican sunflowers that have run amok, the hyssop and cleomes that keep blooming, the salvia and the zinnias, the native grasses. I am lucky enough to actually love the plains plants that thrive in this environment.
So until later, be happy, be quirky, laugh a lot and of course, smell like an angel or a very sexy devil!
I am especially fond of running across people in relatively odd get-ups. Outfits that are vaguely off rarely mean much to me; instead, I'm talking things that don't even fit in the fashion faux pas category because you don't know where to begin. Things that are almost mind-bendingly odd, because they are being worn by a person who is obviously not mentally ill. There is a very distinct difference between mixed-up clothing thrown on by some poor soul who has a lot of personal difficulties and by an otherwise functioning individual whose innate style compass has become seriously skewed.
It's one of those weird autumn days when you just don't know what to wear; it's sunny, but only about 62 degrees and it's windy. Days like today are always a good opportunity to find some weird clothing combos going on, and I saw one when I was walking back into the building after lunch. This woman was evidently out on a late-lunch stroll for a bit of exercise. She had on a long, almost ankle-length skirt that had a design on it that was a cross between a batik print and a tropical print. The background was black and the design was a bright blue. I like black and bright blue together, and it was a nice skirt. But on the top, she had on a casual, sporty, waist-length, zip-up, water-repellent material windbreaker. Some sort of Nike design/lettering on it; the colors were white with baby blue. She had short hair and she was wearing a blue and white visor. On her feet she had blue and white flip-flops. The pretty skirt drew me in and then the picture became oddly distorted.
But my favorite weird combination is one I saw about 4 or 5 years ago; it was again about this time of year, but it was a cool and rainy day. I was walking downtown on my lunch hour and looked across the street as I waited at a light. There was a woman in a sort of Laura Ashley-style skirt, long, fluttery, a cream-colored background with a tiny rosy flower print. Suntan-colored hosiery. (Arghblargh! Maybe that's what Andy Garcia caught sight of at the end of "Ocean's Eleven?") Cream-colored, 1980's style pumps that were looking a smidge rugged. But on top of all of this, she wore a black NASCAR pit crew jacket. And the jacket was boldly emblazoned with the team sponsor logos, most prominently, Tide detergent soap. I think there was at least one beer logo, and maybe Slim Jims jerky snacks. I know all of this in detail, because the woman had her head down as she walked into the wind and misty rain, so she didn't see me when I stared at her as I walked by, and then when I turned around and walked backwards to check out the back of the jacket. I mean, wow. It's my favorite of all time. If she'd had on black leather pants and biker boots, the jacket would have been fine. If she'd had on a huge Irish sweater, I would have forgiven the '80's pumps. (Suntan colored hosiery is something that I never forgive. White legs are a far, far better thing, and actually make sense with a Laura Ashley theme.) The combination was, and still remains, unprecedented.
So, the guy at Meadowlark who always tells me he loves me, the one who said his name means "Wandering Gypsy" in Czech and calls me "gypsy girl?" He just put out an album. I am serious; it's a small local recording company. They're selling his CD at Meadowlark and he saw me this morning and cajoled me into buying one. Here is something from his liner notes: "A special thanks to all the girls I have known, starting with my Mother, for giving me such great material for my songs. And to all the guys, remember that you need more than a good line and a lure to get the girl of your dreams. I love you all." And amazingly, his CD isn't bad at all. So if you've read this far and you're the first reader to respond, I'll send you his CD. Not my copy, I'll buy another one! There may be a lot of you thinking, oh my hell, I am so NOT responding until someone else reads halfway through the blog and decides to respond about bad clothing combinations! So really, if you don't want his CD, just say so, because I do want to hear about bad clothing combos that you have seen in your life and time. I love you all.
There's a guy I know here at work who tends to use what I consider rather quaint and old-fashioned terms to express outrage, like "What in the Sam Hill?" and "Son of a buck!" I never hear anyone else use those terms, unless I would happened to head down to a senior center. Apparently "Sam Hill" somehow got started as a way to avoid saying "hell," but whenever I hear that term, I always picture the cartoon character Yosemite Sam.
I also used to know a guy from work who would say: "Well cheese and crackers!" when he was trying to not swear, which was on very rare occasions. I have never heard anyone else use that term in my life. I always found it really hilarious, because it was so odd and because this guy would normally use f**k like most people say "uh."
Then there was the guy who was seemingly the basis for Ignatius J. Reilly in the book "A Confederacy of Dunces." Seriously, he was a big, fat, extremely high-IQ person who lived in his own little la-la land most of the time. He made his living as a software tech support specialist. He used to go sit outside the building that he worked in and chain-smoke and hold court of the topic of the day. The bench that he sat on was made of some sort of industrial-strength recycled plastic and he warped the bench because he was probably 6'4" and around 400 pounds. His name was Jerry, but somehow I came to call him The Prophet Raoul, a term that amused him greatly. Two of his favorite terms were: "Well Christ on a bicycle!" and "I don't give a flying f**k at a rolling donut." The last comment always produced visions of this gargantuan man throwing himself at a huge rolling donut, trying to leap through the hole the way dogs jump through hoops.
Anyway, The Prophet Raoul shuffled off this mortal coil (another one of his favorite sayings, courtesy of Will Shakespeare) a few years ago. Anyone who has read "A Confederacy of Dunces" would probably agree that Ignatius was not a role model for health and long life. The Prophet was a huge football fan and he died laying around in bed while watching the Super Bowl on the day of the Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction. It is my hope that he said to himself: "I've just seen a tit during Super Bowl halftime, I can die a happy man," and did just that.
The other day I received catalogs/advertising mailings from Victoria's Secret, High Country Gardens and Advance Auto Parts. They were not addressed to "Resident," they were addressed to me. I rather liked the diversity. It made me picture a woman in her VSC "Pink" brand shorts and a bra top, waxing and detailing her car next to her xeriscaped garden. (Did you think I was going into a discussion of bikini waxing and "bush trimming" and such? For shame! Although the way I normally carry on, I can hardly blame you.) But you know, that really could be me, except I'd wear a sports bra and not some fussy VSC number that would be easily mussed by car wax. I would also be more inclined to be seen in oversized cargo shorts. Yesterday I went to the men's department and got a pair of cargo shorts made out of camo material. They were on sale. As indarkmoon would say, man oh manpants, what a deal! And in the car detailing category, Zymol car wax is really good; it's my favorite. You pay more but it's worth it. It makes the vehicles shine like nobody's business. Detailing cars is rather fun; I'm not obsessive like some men can be about such things, but there is something rather soothing about fussing around with your car on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon. I even drink a beer when I'm doing it, although I eschew listening to baseball or football games; I usually have my car CD player going with my music of choice on.
And xeriscaped gardens are low water-use gardens, and I'm all about that. Yeah, the colors may not be as brilliant and the blooms not as showy, but I'm all about preserving the ground and surface water supply. I love resilient plants and flowers, I do not understand why people on the prairie insist on planting annuals that are meant to grown in subtropical areas. Purple coneflowers and sedums and hardy sage and native grasses and herbs rock my world. I like to plant Mexican sunflowers, and by this time of year, the Monarch butterflies are worth it. Having Monarchs fluttering through my garden in late August is so worth not having extreme color in June and July.
So, last thing tonight... does that Lab turnaround time on orders simply rock your world? I was thinking it would be a while before my next order arrived, and looking at the CnS status, it may be sooner than I imagined! I love the Lab. So much so, that I have three outstanding orders. I always tell people that if I sell something on my sales thread, I return it to the Lab. Actually, I usually order twice as much. Three outstanding orders is proof of that fact, which is a thinly-disguised excuse for my compulsive behavior. 'Cause when I'm wearing the lingerie and watering the garden as I take a break from waxing the car, I always smell good.
I got my CnS on Friday for my order of 13 and a set of imps. And then the Lunacy/Anniversary update arrived later on that night, and what to do, what to do? Actually, I'm not in as much of a quandary as some people, all of you lucky/unlucky ones who are able to wear a lot of different fragrances. (I say lucky because you get to wear a lot of different things, but it's unlucky for your bank account.) I'm still more jazzed about the new GC scents that showed up in the Halloweenie update, Mania, Horreur Sympathatique and Love Lies Bleeding -- they're in the imp pack. And I've also never tried Misk U, La Petite Mort or Nosferatu, so they're rounding out the six pack o' imps. I just know a GC bottle order is going to emerge from that set of imps.
For the sake of my bank account, and maybe my sanity, I feel rather fortunate that the GC scents seem to be my favorites and LEs don't tempt me that much. Except for the Lupercalia update last year, the LE releases usually don't work that well on me. I'll be interested to see if the release for Valentine's Day LE scents will be as wonderful for me as last year's. (I suppose it makes sense for someone with a forum name of valentina, huh?) And usually by the time that update arrives, I am ready to indulge myself -- it's the dead of winter, holidays are over, I'm in the midst of the legislative session. Ah, fingers crossed.
The election is tomorrow, and it's about time. I'm sure anyone here in the U.S. is probably sick of all the political ads, yard signs and mailings. Tomorrow I meet friends for coffee at noon in a downtown establishment, and it is always nuts downtown over the lunch hour on election day. Usually there's different candidates for some significant political office standing on the corners of the main downtown intersection, their supporters waving signs, whooping it up,and all that nonsense. Actually, it's pretty funny to watch. I remember several years ago, I was walking down the street, and a candidate for U.S. Senate was on the corner. His wife was with him, and I wasn't really paying attention to them until I got relatively close, and I looked up and caught her giving me the most wistful, plaintive look. She looked like she wanted nothing more than to just join me and walk down the street, away from the noise and glad-handing. The life of a political spouse -- you get to be with your mate once in a while, but generally, they're always "on." People dream of being famous, but really, I think it's more of a nightmare than a dream.
And say, you of the female persuasion, do you shave your armpits? A couple of years ago, for whatever reason, I decided to let my pit hair grow unchecked, starting in November. I think I relented and shaved it in late February. By then, I'd tired of it and the novelty had worn off. I had never, ever done that in my life, and I just wanted to see how long it would get. I felt so Euro. And it didn't turn into man-like pit pelts, anyway. But it just seemed a little nasty and sexy to let it grow, since in general I'm a rather groomed creature.
So do any males shave their pits? I have a gay friend who once drove to Denver (about an 8-hour trip), checked into a motel, shaved down his entire body and dyed his brown hair plutonium blonde. Now, WTF? I never did figure out if the shaving/dying project was the reason for the drive, or he decided to do it while he was on his little road trip. I asked him if he enjoyed being a girl, and he said it was entirely too much work.
I bought a Sirius radio car kit and installed it on Saturday, proof that it's so easy that a monkey could do it. I actually felt rather accomplished and it's fun to have even more options of stuff to listen to than what I already have going on in my car. I have the presets all established: two jazz channels, one acoustic singer-songwriter music, one trance/electronica, alternative rock from the 90's, a channel with only Canadian musicians, CNN news, Talk Left (of course, no Faux "fair and balanced for me), and the Met Opera. That is what is fun about satellite radio. And if I don't like anything on the 100+ channels, I shut it off and listen to Bob Schneider, for they don't have an "All Bob" channel yet. Howard Stern, no, I don't listen to him. Nor the comedy channels. On a long roadtrip (maybe to Denver to dye my hair and wax my entire body ), I'd listen to comedy for a change of pace, but generally, music is where it's at.
It's Monday. I don't want to work, but I suppose I should get coffee and consider it.
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?
Oh hell. I wasn't going to order Harvest Moon, the scent, until I read the update thread and someone commented that it was her birth moon, so she just had to get it. Well, it's my birth moon also, and while I'm not sure it will smell that great on me, it has all sorts of things in it that I hold near and dear, because I do love those late summer smells. Anything with Russian sage in it is worth owning, in my opinion. So I ordered a bottle. If it doesn't work on my body, it might make a wonderful scent locket or room scent.
And the t-shirt, I simply must order the t-shirt! Macha's design is astonishing. A bit of a Celtic/Gothic/Georgia O'Keefe quality, and who but Macha could weave all of it together so perfectly? I'm just really, really fond of the design, and hey, it's for my birth moon, so I simply must.
So the scoreboard says:
Update: 2
Resolve: 0
OK, the other matter at hand: I have enough reward points to cash in and change my member title to whatever I want. I love all the self-titled names, they are all so damn clever. I'm having problems coming up with anything like "rapscallion in fuchsia tights" or "1/32 too few" or "part-time ninja" or "fae fatale." Sookster just changed her title to "p-town's naughty sea monkey."
In a prior entry, I'd commented that I could call myself "Phantom of the Prairie Phallus," a reference to the building where I work. But it's not that funny, unless you know the architecture of my state's capitol building. I thought about calling myself "The Jean Genie" (as in the Bowie song), since it's a reference to my real name. Then I thought I could call myself "The Jean Genie in Joe Perry's bottle" because we know my feelings about Joe Perry. Or I could say I was "The Jean Genie in Bob Schneider's bottle," but very few people would know who I was talking about. (Bob may get famous yet!)
Then I remembered that in my review of Sacred Whore of Babylon, I was bemoaning that exotic flowers like jasmine and orchids are hardly indigenous to where I live, so I'm not exactly familiar with their exact scent. And I further postulated that exotic florals smell icky on me due to my geographical location somehow influencing my body chemistry (I don't really believe this), but if Beth ever made a scent called Sacred Whore of the Prairie, it would probably smell good on me. Now, "Sacred Whore of the Prairie" might be a good forum name, and it amuses me. (Some might heartily agree that I'm a whore, the sacred business is no doubt highly debatable; but the part about the prairie is indisputable.)
Any ideas, reactions, comments?
I am not making this one up, kids.
When I was at the hair salon on Wednesday, I was looking down at the floor while my stylist had me tip my head forward and down just a bit. The stylist at the next chair over was wearing jeans, a tank top and thong sandals with little kitten heels. The fact that I even noticed what kind of sandals that she was wearing is a bit of a miracle, for I was very busy looking at her toenails. She had the French pedicure toenails, only where the little strip of white polish would be at the end of each toenail (which were rather long), she had a strip of dark blue polish. I sat there, looking at them, trying to decide if I liked them better than the traditional French pedicure, of if I found them more horrifying. It was a bit of a flip-off at the traditional style, which I can appreciate, but it also appeared as if each toenail was growing a nice, even strip of blue nail fungus. I still haven't decided.
Her pedicure is rather like this man who shows up at the outdoor pool at the health club. He's probably in his mid-late 50's, and looks a bit like a puffy, going into corpulent Rutger Hauer. He shows up to swim laps, and he's really a very strong swimmer. But he wears a Speedo. It is most unappealing, but I've noticed that everyone's eyes drift over to this man. It is like a train wreck. It's impossible not to look.
Well, there's nothing like a good night's sleep to revive a person and my dream state must have cleansed my psyche of last night's abnormally wistful and weepyish fit.
I have the day off work, I'm going to meet a friend at a brewpub at noon for beer and burgers, and then I'm going to run off and enjoy the sunshine.
I would gather that BPAL cultists have really vivid dreams. Even if you didn't before, I'd wager that you did after you started using BPAL, because I think it has that effect. I think Beth is a shaman.
But dreams are great. Wild-ass shit can just whorl up out of the depths of the subconsciousness and you can have a real show for a while. (Does my adoration of the movie "Waking Life" make more sense now?)
I can tell the difference between "junk dreams," when my brain is simply blowing off the residuals of my day, and "big dreams," where I'm trying to tell myself something very important. I have gotten more efficient in my big dream process, for I had two of them last week, and they were brisk events. They got right to the point and I woke up from the power of the message.
I know a bunch of y'all are the same way, aren't you?
Dreams are fucking amazing. Ever had one that was a harbinger of something that was going to happen? That sense of deja vu, once it happens in your waking life, is pretty wild. However, I've gotten to the point that when it really happens, I think to myself: "Oh hell, I knew that!"
Did anyone else love "The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" as much as I did? You can pretend you've wiped your brain's slate clean -- but your heart still remembers. There's an enormous number of nerves in the heart center, I believe the concentration in that area is second only to the brain. I don't think their functions are entirely physiological machine-control, just like the brain isn't all about being a mechanical control center. There's something going on in the heart center that just doesn't articulate into words right away, but the emotional message is very clear.
I still am in a bit of a mood, aren't I? Well hell, that's OK. Tell me your weirdest dreams and make me laugh. Or tell me your saddest dreams, or most profounds dreams. I love 'em.
And for today and every day, smell divine and feel beautiful... someone always notices.
I need to get my booty in gear and do something that has a time deadline on it, but I wanted to say thank you again for all the words of encouragement about my presenation. And I'd like to report that my presentation went just fine yesterday. No non sequiturs, just lots of good questions and good discussion. I was happy. It took a long time because there were several people learning how the process works, but that was fine. I don't mind that.
What I did mind was how management of my office tried to deliberately frighten staff into believing that this was going to be the second ring of hell, and unlike anything we've previously experienced. They are so out of touch with what their staff are able to do, and they always assume we're the most incompetent boobs on the planet. I believe what's going on here is what the psychologists call "projection."
My boss, in fact, informed me yesterday morning that he was tired and frazzled and wouldn't be able to help me much at all during the presentation. The reason? A pipe had frozen at his house the day before. It was unfrozen and all was well, but his wife was upset that they'd had to drill a hole in the new basement drywall and her anxiety had ruined his life. Now really, WTF? And just because his wife is high maintenance does not mean that he should return the favor with his staff! If I had walked in and swooned over my basement drywall, and said I couldn't possibly do my presentation, he would have told me to put on my big girl panties and get busy. So when my presentation was going well, he kept jumping in trying to participate and get attention. I do forget, it is All About Him.
And the cold hard fact that I forget over every interim, is one that I have to relearn every year: If you're a female in the environment where I work, and you're not a needy wreck who requires propping up, and you're reasonably decent to look at, you will be run down at every possible opportunity. Insecure men love strong men, insecure men hate competent women. This fact is true all over the place, and it's just a matter of degree. I know there are many places that are much worse, if only because my bosses are too lazy to really make trouble for me -- they just try to run me down in subtle ways. They manage by fear, and that's a game that cowards play.
I listened to T-Rex on the way to work. I'm wearing Snake Oil and my burgundy patent leather boots. The assholes don't get me down, because underneath it all, I'm entirely too weird for this place and they'll never figure me out.
For everyone who has at some time felt what I'm describing today, and that would be most of you, here's one of my favorite quotes, from E.E. Cummings:
To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best day and night to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight and never stop fighting.
I have always been amused by the saying: "their karma just jumped up and bit them in the ass." It's so much more colorful than sayings like "what goes around comes around," or "they got their just desserts." That's probably because I had an Airedale named Karma, and I always could picture the literal Karma laying around in angelic sleep, then suddenly jumping up and chomping butt.
Popular culture in the U.S. has turned "karma" into such a cliche, as in "peace, love and good karma, man," but karma is a two-way street.
And if you haven't figured it out, while I don't really take pleasure in other's misfortunes, sometimes it really interesting to see a fast turn-around of karma. Sometimes it's very, very slow, and other times it's as if events reach a critical mass, and karma wakes up in a big hurry. I think those of us who get little karmic nips all the time are luckier than those who have karma sitting there and watching, just like a terrier waiting for hours for the vermin to move out from under the building. Because then it's just a "ker-pow" of a punch.
There's a couple of people who I know fairly well who are walking around with chunks missing from their butts because karma just got them. I'm sorry life is anything but a dream right now, but I hope it's a wakeup call. You just can't treat people that way forever.
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.
There's a Bob Schneider song that goes: "The world exploded into love all around me..." and my version of it today is: "The world exploded into woots all around me..."
Hell, I got a CnS on my big order last night! There's just something about knowing that your deferred gratification is about to be consummated. And this is a big order (for me, relatively) of Kali, O, Osun and Ogun. I love O so much and I was afraid I was going to use up the bottle that I now have prior to getting another. I'm probably going to have to order a big bottle the next time that I break down and order a LE.
I need to get ready for work. I'll ramble more later.
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!
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 had someone recommend reading the poet Nikki Giovanni, so I went to her web site to see what her work was all about. This was the first poem that I clicked on. I liked it so much that I wanted to share with anyone who might choose to read this blog. I'm going back read a lot more of her work.
So here it is... I hope you enjoy it.
Poem (for EMA)
though i do wonder
why you intrigue me
i recognize that an exceptional moth
is always drawn
to an exceptional flame
you're not at all what you appear
to be
though not so very different
i've not learned
the acceptable way of saying
you fascinate me
I've not even learned
how to say i like you
without frightening people
away
sometimes I see things
that aren't really there
like warmth and kindess
when people are mean
but sometimes i see things
like fear and want to soothe it
or fatigue and want to share it
or love and want to recieve it
is that weird
you think everyone is weird
though you're not really hypocritical
you just practice not being
what you want to be
and fail to understand
how others would dare
to be otherwise
that's weird to me
flames don't flicker
forever
and moths are born to be burned
it's an unusual way
to start a friendship
but nothing lasts forever
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??
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.
