I was late, as usual, for work (it's a slow time of the year and no one really cares), so I did my usual run to the coffee house. I was still in my weird semi-funk that started last night. So here's what happened.
I got out of my car, and a guy who works at a store next door, who I visit with a lot, is getting off his bike. He's gay, but he's very sweet about giving his female friends compliments, so he started whistling and yelling that my outfit deserved a hug. So he ran over and gave me a hug.
Then, sitting outside the coffeehouse, was one of the characters who frequents the place. This guy seems like a bit of a burn-out, although he bikes a lot and is pretty good shape, although he was sitting around talking to me about long-distance cycling as he smoked his cigarette. (People who do things like that crack me up, I think it's exquisitely amusing.) I don't know his entire story, except that he has been around and around and around. He likes to tell me that he's in love with me, which always confused me, because I was sure that this guy is gay, but I think the honest truth is that he loves everyone so much that he sleeps with men and women. He just can't help himself, you know. So much love, so little time... Last week he told me that his name means "wandering gypsy" in Czech (yeah, right) and now he calls me his "gypsy girl." So I've been called worse, and actually, I like that moniker.
I noticed the barrista who normally works there in the early mornings was standing outside talking to someone in the parking lot. I walked in to find one of the owners there, in a very weird mood. He blurted out me that he and the barrista wouldn't be working together any more, because they just got into a big fight in front of customers. I tried to sympathize, but he was about ready to cry and he couldn't talk.
I went back outside to talk to Mr. Wandering Gypsy, who is friends with both the barrista and the owner. The barrista then drove past in her car, stopped and yelled out the window: "Just so you know, I just got fired. Just so you know." I'm thinking, hmmm... I just thought you got moved to night shift, not fired. I think she'll still have a job if she wants it -- she was probably fired when she walked out, but the owner had started to change his mind and come up with other options.
The Wandering Gypsy and I visited a bit and I discovered he's not the brain-dead slacker that I thought he was, he's just a character and a horny slut, but otherwise an OK sort. I went to work and he went in to talk to the owner and try to figure out what the story was regarding the firing and/or reassignment of hours.
I got to the office to discover a phone message from a friend announcing that she'd spent $150 to purchase something from a dermatologist that's supposed to make your eyelashes grow. Then she called me to tell me the same thing one more time. Considering she called me about 5 times a day Monday through Wednesday to obsess about her job, this is at least a change. Do I ever call this woman and freak out about my problems? No.
Then I got a phone call from a woman who used to work across the hall from me, until she had a stroke. Her optic nerve was affected and she sees prisms if she doesn't wear special glasses. I feel very badly for her, but she was a treacherous and difficult person to deal with professionally. Most people in this building stayed the hell away from her. I used to be cordial enough with her, and apparently she has decided that I am a good friend. That is so sad -- she had so few friends that someone who was merely polite with her is a good friend. She was upset I hadn't responded to her email from last Friday and wanted to make sure she hadn't offended me. I feel sorry for her, being stuck at home all the time, and I'm sure she needs human contact. I'll talk to her every now and then, just because if I were in the same situation, I'd want as many outside world contacts as possible. That's one of those things where I'll invoke karma, and say it just must be part of my karma.
But. Le sigh. I get really tired of being a ray of fucking sunshine or a wailing wall. Nevermind that most of my troubles are things that I won't or can't share with anyone, much less acquaintances. And a lot of my troubles are so sterotypical that they embarass me. I would sound like a composite of the "Sex And The City" characters, but mainly Carrie. That alone could get me in a bad mood; can't I have more unique "issues?" I'm just joking here. None of us want to have issues or problems or ill health. I am Miss Crabbypants and this morning I've seen someone lose their job and talked to someone who can't see unless she wears special glasses to make the prism-vision go away.
It is all a matter of perspective, I say, and yet... I still want what I want and I want it now. Waaaah! But I better not say that, I'll probably get it, and then ask "What was I thinking????"
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.
Today I decided to put on some Monster Bait Underpants because I hadn't worn it in a while, and then I put a touch of Bengal over the top. This blend could be called "Panties on Fire." Hell yeah!
That "hell yeah" reminds me -- because the t-shirts you buy at Bob Schneider's concerts have that on the front -- Bob has a new recording coming out on August 8! Ah, something to live for! Bob can set my panties on fire, I tell ya. Plus I really do like his music.
I decided to get all dressed up this morning because I was having one of those days that, when all else fails, be a diva. On the way into work, I decided to stop at my favorite locally-owned coffee house (this town is big into non-franchise coffee houses) called Meadowlark. There's outdoor seating for the smokers and people who generally just want to hang around outdoors, and often there's a real blend of denizens at the outside tables. I've seen residents of a nearby halfway house for mental health center clients sitting at one table and a stockbroker sitting at the next table.
This morning it was a group of characters that I've never seen before at the outdoor table. They were unique. I walked past them and one of them, who had a mullet and was wearing a "Got Milk?" t-shirt, looked at me and said: "Wow, baby!" I walked into Meadowlark and the barrista behind the counter looked at me and said: "You're so fancy today!" I think I may have diva-ed myself to excess...
It's going to be a skort and a black tank top tomorrow!
For anyone who would be doing some back reading in my blog, first I have to say, "Why?" Then I have to say thank you for reading this far back in my blog. What are you looking for? Anyway, you won't find photos of me anymore. For reasons I won't get into, I decided to take them down. I think my descriptions are pretty vivid, let your imagination do the sight-seeing. It's more fun that way!
This is me. I've never posted my photo in the thread where everyone posts their photo. Most everyone on this forum is very young and very gorgeous. Sometimes I feel so ancient, but hell, I'm immature, so that makes up for my chronological issues. I cropped my friends out of the photos. While I'm choosing to put my picture up online, but I'm not infringing on my friend's privacy by including them in the shots. Let's see... I've been told I look like Frances McDormand, Wendie Malick and Jane Fonda. I dunno.
I think I look like I'm at a former Aerosmith groupie reunion in this picture. For the record, I never was an Aerosmith groupie, but if I had been, I would have been all about Joe Perry:
I looked subdued and confused here, and I did have a migrane. I was also sitting on the floor talking to a 2-year-old. However, it is a damn fine shot of the highlights I had put in my hair and I love my new hairdresser. Let's give Brandi a round of applause for her handiwork.
So that is me, patron saint of lost dogs and lover of all things that look and smell really really nice. If you ever see me around, do stop and say hey...
OK, this is a hang-up of mine, a silly pet peeve, and if any of you do this and your man-things or woman-things think it's hot and sexy, good for you and good for them. It's just something I'm not going to do, ever.
I have a hang-up about women who grow their toenails long and paint them in a French manicure. As in long, I mean that the nails may reach or surpass the toe-tip, depending upon the shape of their nails and their toes. It makes their feet look like little paws. And then the French manicure -- I think that looks just plain goofy. French manicures on the fingers are rather pretty and I can appreciate it. Especially because my fingernails never get long enough to do that. But on the feet, I don't think so.
I think my hang-up stems from the fact that prior to this recent trend, the only people with long toenails tended towards being unkempt. There were usually other hideously disgusting things going on with their toenails or feet that I won't even bother to mention.
I have a foot fetish, I will admit, and I like to see nice feet. But when I see toenails that look like they could leave a swipe across your skin like a cat's claw, I just cringe. Toes should be able to move all around the body without accidentally drawing blood, you know.
I want to thank Dawndie for her observation that at the end of "Ocean's 11," it sounds like Andy Garcia is yelling "ARGHBLARGS!"
The reason being, I have this really, really annoying co-worker. I won't bore you with endless descriptions of her behavior, except to say that she drives everyone nuts. Those of us who have offices close to her frequently send each other emails to vent about her behavior. I have taken to giving all the blowing-off-steam emails the title of "ARGH BLARG!" so my coworkers know instantly that the subject matter is "her." It truly is what I'd like to yell at her when she comes in and starts reading the paper to me. And OK, here's a micro-vent: this woman is the consummate idea-stealer and funny quip swiper. Yesterday I made a comment about something that she felt was rather clever, so she promptly trotted off to tell other people in the office about her idea, then came back, got on the phone, and started calling people to tell them about her wonderful idea. And she does this within earshot of me -- once it goes into her head, it becomes her idea. Let's just say, if it's important, I won't even say it within earshot of her.
And my evilness is really minimal in this category, because every now and then I could plant an either bizarre or completely incorrect story in her brain, and watch her carry it around to half the world. She would say it with all the certainty of the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. But I do believe in karma, or the golden rule, or guardian angels shaking their finger angrily at you, so I don't try it. Plus, lest you think I'm too pure, if I told her something stupid just to watch her carry it off, she'd probably tell everyone it was my idea once it was exposed as being stupid and/or false. So my karma would jump up and bite me in the ass rather quickly.
But I have evil coworkers. Last fall I impaled the underside of my forearm on a dried-up shrub. I didn't realize I'd driven a shard of the shrub into my arm until about a week later, when the doctor extracted it. Being rather amused, and knowing a few of my friends at the office just love a good gross-out, I brought the shard in so they could see it. Crude jokes about me going to no end to have a woody in me ensued. Word spread and people who hadn't even known about the boo-boo on my arm came in to see what became known as "the branch."
Not to be outdone, a few days later "she" started carrying on that the had somehow scratched her eye, that she was in agony, that she could barely keep it open, how it was watering so hard that she could'n't see, and infection was probably setting in. (It didn't look any worse than the non-injured eye -- her eyes are normally bloodshot.) I can't tell you the number of times she stuck her face in mine, pulling down her lower eyelid and yelling about her pain. Having utterly HAD IT with her competitive and attention-seeking bullshit, a couple of my coworkers tried to convince her that she should go purchase an eye patch. They told her it was critical that she keep her eye closed and protected. And SHE DID IT. The two people who talked her into it still high-five each other when they think about it. Of course, the next day, she showed up to work sans the eye patch, claiming a miraculous recovery, due to her superior immune system.
There must be a Twilight Alchemy Lab formulation that could work on this person. If there was, I'd do a group order with at least 4 or 5 other people. We'd all need our own bottle. Beth could make a cool $150 or so, thanks to the office battle-ax.
And hey, how about that Mum Moon formulation? I realized after I'd put in my update order last week that I should have ordered Mme. Moriarity. I read the Mum Moon description and decided, oh well, there's a good excuse to order the Lunacy upate and a bottle o' the misfortune teller. So, I'm back to having more than one outstanding order. My disjointed little universe once again has its requisite suspense and deferred gratification factors!
There's a thread in Randomness about what you'd like to pick as a member title when you get enough points. It occurs to me that some day I may have enough points and I can choose my own member title. So I began to consider options.
I cracked myself up with this one, and it would be simply odd to most people, who would probably assume I was a perverted little goth who was overly identified with a certain part of the male anatomy. (This may in fact be true.) But let me explain -- I work in this building:
It's nicknamed the "penis of the plains," although I prefer calling it the "prairie phallus." And I think a BPAL forum member name like "Phantom of the Phallus" would be good for a giggle as an inside joke. Besides, if a group of malcontents decided to get all prudish on Live Journal, it would take pressure off of Andrabelle and her Ron Jeremy joke icons. "Who is that valentina who calls herself the "phantom of the phallus?" What is she talking about? Eeeew, gross!"
P.S. Spellcheck keeps suggesting "Phyllis" as a correction for "phallus."
I have on a new layering adventure today; I bought a bottle of Bengal from chappiti on the forum (BTW, check out her avatar, I love it). While I really love Bengal, (or why would I have a bottle of it?), it tends to light up on my body for a bit. By that I mean, the cinnamon bark makes my skin flush rosy red for a brief time. So this morning I put down a nice layer of O (kind of like a paint primer) and then put Bengal over it. Yummy! Since I think Bengal smells like redhot candies over musk, and O smells, well, like O, I'm calling this blend Candy-O. That name is stolen from the title of an album by The Cars, which had this cover:
And now, for a brief aside: A friend called me and told me to turn on the Today show, because they were doing a shoe fashion show. Naturally, the Shoe Whore-Foot Fetishist turned it on right away. I just finished watching it. They were doing very close close-ups of each model's feet, and ARRGGHH! One of the models had on a pair of open-toe, slingback shoes and SHE HAD CRUSTY HEELS! OK, I know it was a big closeup, but I shudder to think how it looked on HDTV. I probably would have vomited. And who picked her to model shoes? Why didn't they put her in a pair of closed-back shoes? And if you had even 1 hour's notice that you had to sub for someone as a shoe model, would you at least do a little buffing and shining? Arrggh!!! At least I didn't see any French Manicures on the toenails, thank goodness. I would have screamed so loud that I would have frightened my coworkers.
Ahem, sorry to anyone who was eating as they read this. You probably had a hard time swallowing.
I won't get into a long-winded explanation of who Ken Wilber is and why I find his work fascinating, but much of his work would be considered transpersonal psychology -- the study of how people grow and evolve. I get a newsletter from his organization, and they link to various articles in the media that are of interest to people intrigued by transpersonal psychology, spiral dynamics and all that stuff.
This is one that I can't resist putting up on my blog, since anyone who's read my rants about my annoying coworker will know that the article made me laugh. But it will also be useful to anyone with an annoying boss, family member, coworker, whacky neighbor, whatever... If you've ever found yourself asking, "Don't they get it?" The answer may very well be, "No." Seriously, what can you do about it, other than laugh? Besides, it hurts less than beating your head on the wall.
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?.../18/MN73840.DTL
As someone who loves vintage pinup girl art and underwear, this homage to the peculiar illustrations of Art Frahm never fails to draw a titter:
http://www.lileks.com/institute/frahm/art1.html
"The Shakedown" is my favorite. The illustration alone is absurdly Freudian, and the description of it as being from Frahm's "Edward Hopper period" are spot on, although Hopper is probably rolling in his grave.
OK, I just channel-surfed past the Home Shopping Network or QVC, or one of those channels, and they were selling some skank-ho trashy platform sandals that had a peculiar "Carmen Miranda goes to Africa" vibe to them. And they were $150. You know 50ish fat ladies will be tottering around in them, their tubby little toes with toenails pained orange (and always long toenails, because they're too fat to trim them properly) spread wide from the tonnage inflicted upon them from being placed at such an odd angle. Christ, these shoes wouldn't be cute on you adorable young things with really cute feet and skinny little legs. You'd look like you were wearing cement blocks on your feet that were painted in a black-and-white tribal design.
Wouldn't it be great to have a goth home shopping network? Or just to have a few good goth merchants show up on QVC? Beth and Puddin' could do a BPAL and BPTP segment. I would pay good money to see it and of course would spend money like a drunken sailor.
I came up with a descriptive line today that I felt was one of my better ones -- I was talking to a friend about how I'd been in an insanely bad mood a couple of weeks ago. In hindsight, I realize that it was because I was coming down with a bad summer cold, but at the time, all I knew was that I was not a happy camper. I characterized my mood in this manner:
"I wanted to shove kerosene-soaked tampons up everyone's butt and walk around with a flame-thrower."
Maybe TMI, or maybe a visual you'll enjoy. It probably depends upon your mood.
Hells bells, there are a number of very thoughtful new entries over here on Blog Island. Not me. I could try to follow suit, but there is very little in the way of profound thought in my brain today. My excuse? It's Friday afternoon!
Here's something to do!
Get yo' pimp name here homey hunny!
http://www.playerappreciate.com/pimphandle.asp
Big Playah valentina Flava
Well, I haven't been very chatty on my blog lately. I've focused a lot of my chatting towards commenting on everyone else's blogs! You give me things to talk about without coming up with something of my own!
Hey, it's 06/06/06 and the President landed in my state a few hours ago. Hmmm... what does this say? It's ostensibly because he is going to deliver a speech on immigration tomorrow, but as a blue person in a red state, I find it significant. As in: "Oh my god, Satan has arrived!" So I exaggerate. The W. isn't clever enough to be the Old Nick. Now Dick (hmmm...Dick/Nick, Dick/Nick...)Cheney or Rumsfeld, maybe, but not W.
OK, now to drive this into the gutter, because I always go there, has anyone seen photos of Dick Cheney's package? Not that I would want to look, but the Wonkette political blog runs a few photos of it every now and then. Now we know why he isn't called Richard. However, I think he has an ostomy bag or something like that packed in front, especially in the first picture. I can't get a link to the photos, because Wonkette always redirects you to the front page of the blog. But if you want to see what I mean, google "Dick Cheney very big Wonkette." You will get hits on links to two photos of the Dickster that ran on Wonkette. You be the judge of what THAT is all about!!!
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.
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?
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.
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 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?
Here'a a photo of Puddin' Tom, the cat who came to live on my front porch. He's lounging on the bench, contemplating his next nap. As you can see, he's a little rough around the edges, but he's probably around 10 years old and he's earned his rugged good looks:
Thanks to YouTube, I can now find 1980's music videos to see if they were as good as I recalled. I always loved this one. In fact, it drove me crazy. And it still does! (Sorry for the primitive link, my operating system here at work doesn't let me use the link function.)
BTW, while this video aired at all hours of the day on MTV, I don't consider it entirely work-safe if your screen is exposed to interlopers.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QjYuPAC6-lo
Really, Jack Kerouac was once so amazing, and I would have shamelessly chased him around when he was young and beautiful and angsty and idealistic, before he became a totally gone alcoholic former hipster angrily spewing forth bloated hateful bile in his overly dominant mother's home in Florida, renouncing all of his hepcat Zen ways and pushing away everyone who had adored him.
(That was a poor attempt to write just a bit like him.)
So let's just look at him when he was so fine:
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
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...
There's a still-smallish pine tree in my back yard (probably 6 or 7 feet high) that has a cardinal nest in it. The nest is tucked in a bit, but is right at eye level. Mrs. Cardinal was faithfully sitting on the eggs, and would hold still if you approached quietly to look at her. Yesterday the eggs began hatching, and now there are four baby cardinals, making their tiny tweepy noises, little heads thrown back and beaks open wide. They are so cute. Both Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal are feeding and guarding.
About 5 or 6 years ago, a fledgling cardinal, really a pretty tiny little thing, was flapping around in the back yard. The parents were frantically accompanying it, trying to get it to fly again. It was almost 100 degrees, and the poor little thing was exhausted and stressed. All the wild bird experts say to leave the bird alone if this is going on, so I just watched it. But then I noticed a neighbor's cat rambling around and that was it -- I went out and picked up the little bird. I brought it inside, put it in an old finch cage and fed it watered-down canned dog food all evening. I got up in the morning and fed it. I came home at noon and fed it, and by this time, it was just opening its beak and crying for me to feed it when it would lay eyes on me. It would fall asleep in my hand after it ate. Too precious for words.
At that time, I had an Airedale Terrier named Karma. Karma was most interested in Birdy-Birdy (as I called him), and I let her sit in the room when I was feeding the little guy. She wasn't being mean, just curious -- she was used to my pet cockatiel and didn't consider birds to be food. When I came home at noon, Karma was sitting outside the closed door of the room where Birdy-Birdy was staying. It was a much nicer day, and the wildlife rescue folks had told me to put the little guy out and see if he'd fly again. So I did, and as it turns out, his parents had been hanging around waiting for him. I put him out and they were there right away. He fluttered away and I hoped like crazy that he made it to saftey.
But here's the strange thing -- later that summer, a male cardinal would frequently come sit on the fence and Karma would sit and look up at it as it gave her a sweet, chirpy tweep. She wasn't watching it aggressively, it was like she was just listening to it. She never acted that way with other wild birds -- she just ignored them. But this bird and Karma were talking to each other. I always wondered just what that was all about. I like to believe that it was Birdy-Birdy, back for a visit.
