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 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.
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.
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
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.
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
Does anyone remember the old TV show "Taxi?" See it in reruns? The character played by Christopher Lloyd, Reverend Jim Ignatowski, was the classic '60's burn-out, but he occasionally showed flashes of a former self, prior to all the drugs. There was a show where he was sitting in his apartment eating breakfast and a wrecking ball crashed through the wall -- the building was being demolished, and Jim had somehow failed to see the eviction notices. I think he said something like: "Boy, there's a draft in here!"
There was another show where Elaine, the aspiring actress, needed someone to escort her to a cocktail party being thrown by a very wealthy theatre patron. Jim was the only one available to act as an escort, so Elaine got Jim all cleaned up and took him along. She told him to be quiet, and he was doing an OK job. But during the course of the evening, the pianist who was supposed to entertain the guests failed to show up, and the hostess was bemoaning her plight. Jim said he played the piano, and the hostess promptly took him up on his offer. So Jim sat down and began clunking out "Chopsticks." Elaine was slowly dying. Then Jim suddenly started to play gorgeous classical music; he stopped only briefly and said: "Hmmm... I must have done this before!"
At Meadowlark Coffee, there's a fair number of Jim-like characters hanging outside, because it's across the street from the hospital that houses the county mental health facility. The outpatients sometimes sit outside at Meadowlark waiting for the bus. There's one guy who's obviously medicated to the gills, but he's still somewhat coherent, just a bit dazed.
Last Friday I was sitting inside Meadowlark, reading, when someone began playing all sorts of songs on the piano. The repertoire ranged from jazz standards to show tunes to Beatles songs. I couldn't figure out who was playing the music, and I couldn't see the piano, so I stood up to take a look. And it was the Jim-like guy, playing them all from memory! A woman who was probably his caseworker from the mental health center was sitting with him, and every now and then, they'd start singing together.
Amazing. It was really very funny in a Reverend Jim sort of way, and it was also sad, because you wonder what this person was like before the schizophrenia, or whatever is organically wrong, got to him. He never did say "Hmmm... I must have done this before," but he did at one point stop, look at the keyboards and say: "Not bad!"
First of all, some TMI about my dogs. If you're a smidge fussy or easily grossed out, skip to the next paragraph. If you like sophomoric dog-related humor, read on. Ella Bean, my Basset, is a little mommy hound. She'd probably had a litter or two of puppies before she ended up at a shelter and came to live at my house. She's spayed now, but still has very mothering instincts, so she acts them out on Mugzy, the Boxer. She likes to lick his eyes and face and then licks his butt. It's insane, and of course, I just watch it. Boxers are somewhat well-known for their flatulent tendencies, and just a moment ago, Ella was tending to Mugzy's cornhole when he audibly pooted one. She yelped and jumped back. Mugzy can remind me of Cartman on "South Park" in that episode where he was afflicted with flaming farts. Was that when the aliens had the probe up his butt?
I haven't watched South Park in a long time, but I fondly remember the show where the boys went over to Afganistan, and the U.S. military thought that a goat was really Stevie Nicks. They believed that she'd come over to do a USO show. They were chasing after the goat yelling: "Oh, Miss Nicks! Oh Miss Nicks!" I have insisted for years that cocaine turned Stevie into a goat. There is yell-singing (Michael Bolton) and mumble singing (Tom Waits or Rickie Lee Jones, and I love them, BTW) and then there is bleating, and that is Stevie Nicks. For all you Stevie fans, sorry, she once had a beautiful, clear, bell-like voice, but that was a long-ass time ago. I'm shocked that sheep herding dogs don't come rushing after her when she starts singing. I better stop before the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Stevie Nicks comes after me.
I will update anyone who might still be reading this far, that my coworker is still addled by the smell of Snake Oil. He is convinced there are pure pheromones in it. I also had a woman nearly crawl out of a ticket-taker window at a parking garage, because when I rolled down my car window to pay for parking, she got a whiff of the Snake Oil. She was bug-eyed and yelling "WHAT IS THAT? I LOVE IT!" Good grief. Well, at least they aren't crying, the way that I get all misty-eyed when I sniff Dorian. Beth didn't call her business Black Phoenix Alchemy Laboratory for just any old reason. She brews up some powerful stuff.
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:
I have my satellite radio in my car and it is such a novel experience for me, because I'm used to playing CDs all the time and generally controlling what I listen to. I have all my presets so I can move around if a station that I'm on is playing something that I don't like. But today, at noon, it was like a train wreck. I wanted so badly to change channels but something was keeping me there. Before the signal came over the radio, the digital read-out was telling me "Stevie Nicks." Then I was "treated" to Stevie playing the piano and talking in this dreamy-stoned-stream-of-consciousness way about Rhiannon, what a beautiful name, and how she loved her story, oh Rhiannon, the name, the story...and then the music rose a bit and she began to sing "Rhiannon rings like a bell in the night..." but all I could hear was "baaaaah-baaaah-baaaah." The woman bleats like a goat. I swear the reason she wears those long floaty dresses and big-ass platforms (even when they weren't in style) is to cover up her cloven hooves. (Hmmm... french manicured hooves?)
So then I did switch channels, because vomiting and driving just don't go hand-in-hand. If I have a bitch about Sirius, it's that whoever is doing their music blends gets into a rut and they play the same stinking people ad nauseum on any number of channels. For instance, for the last two weeks, Dave Matthews and Coldplay were getting flat worn-out. Now they're on a kick where if they can find an excuse to play Bob Dylan or Springsteen, they will. It is wearisome. I switch to jazz or electronica when that happens.
I also get a kick out of the Met Opera channel, especially when they're playing the ending of an opera, and the announcer is talking about what's happening on stage during the curtain call, describing the costumes, what the audience is doing, and all that festive stuff. It reminds me of listening to golf when they're broadcasting from the actual green that the players are on, and they're whispering "and now, for a birdie on the 16th hole..." I don't think they do that anymore when golf is on TV, do they? The announcers are in a remote truck somewhere? It's not like I watch a lot of golf. Maybe they do it even if they are in a remote truck, because it's just fun to whisper melodramatically.
If they did a wrap-up of a Stevie Nicks concert over the radio, the announcers would be saying: "And now, the audience that actually purchased tickets to see Ms. Nicks are standing and applauding, and their companions who came along as part of their martial obligation or who simply lost a bet are removing their ear plugs. Ah, Ms. Nicks bows again, and oh, now a lovely, lovely curtsy with her long flowing gown, oh my, her mammoth platform shoe just ripped a piece of her dress! Oh well, no one will notice on that tattered hemline anyway. Oh, and how lovely, how dramatic! Now the goat-herding Australian Shepherds and Border Collies are escorting Ms. Nicks from the stage..."
Oh, that was just too mean. I did see Fleetwood Mac in concert once because the guy I was dating got free tickets, and I was never so bored in my life as when Stevie was on stage doing her Welsh-witch ballerina swirling around bullshit. I think we left before the concert was over, because it did make me want to go drink beer and listen to the blues at The Zoo Bar. If anyone is a fan of Ms. Nicks, sorry, but that faux witchy woman behavior always drove me crazy. If she'd just gone with the California hippie chick all hopped up on coke image, I would have a lot more respect for her.
It's been a long month at work, since the start of the Legislative session. I've had a headache on-and-off since last Friday. It's indoor allergies and stress and not eating right and all that jazz. Thus, I've not been posting much around here, but I could not resist telling this story, courtesy of a coworker.
My coworker, W., has a daughter who's in 6th grade. Apparently the teacher was doing a "having fun with alliteration" project, and the kids had to make up a fun alliterative sentence and illustrate it. W.'s daughter was doing something like "Cool California cats cook chewy chocolate chip cookies." An impressive alliterative string, and rather Kerouac-esque, if you ask me. I asked W. if the cats were wearing little berets and playing bongos as the cookies cooked.
But I digress. W. told me that her daughter told her about a a friend's sentence, which was about "Big bald Bob." W. said she looked at her daughter and said: "What was that?" W. looked at my face, and started laughing, because I had taken it the same way that she had (for she's a perv too). We thought it was about "Big-balled Bob." I said I was picturing a 6th-grader's drawing of some guy with a wheelbarrow in front of him so his scrotal sac could ride on it.
Gah, I'd hate to be the teacher in that class, trying to keep a straight face when that one was read out loud.
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 was out trying to buy a pair of black tights yesterday and couldn't find them where I was shopping (sold out, I guess), so I bought a pair of black fishnet tights. Practical, huh? No, she never did believe in having the big wedding with the while lace gown, but by god, let's get fishnet stockings because they're there.
I think I might wear them tomorrow. I have this retro-style black skirt that begs for a pair of fishnets. Everything else will be black and white and muted, and the fishnets will be the wee little touch. Well, probably more than a wee little touch, maybe a serious jab in the ribs, but who cares... I'm a fiscal analyst, for hell's sake, no one expects it. It messes them up.
You know, people ask me to go to lunch with them (as did the lobbyist a couple of weeks ago), and I really don't like to go to lunch with other people. It's one of my least-favorite things to do on my lunch hour. I would so prefer to go to my nice little bohemian coffeehouse hang-out and get an hour of quiet time before I re-enter the fray. My inner introvert needs to be cared and nurtured, especially when my workplace is a zoo. I know going to lunch is "networking," but gah, most of the time it's just bullshitting while you feed your face. It wears me out.
I suppose if I didn't wear fishnet stockings, people might not be so inclined to try to figure out what the hell I was all about, but I can't let go of all of my personality for the sake of being left alone. I told someone not that long ago that I'd probably dress like a churchmouse this year during the session, and I guess I lied. Actually, I was being a bit sardonic when I said that, but I think they believed me.
And why is it, when the legislative session starts, several of my close acquaintances get needy? As in, really needy? I won't bore you with the stories, but it happens EVERY damn year -- the session starts and they start calling me or emailing me a lot or even stopping in my office to see if I have time to listen to godknowswhat. And it always starts with "I know you're busy, but..." The "but" should be followed with "I WANT ATTENTION! AND I WANT IT NOW!!!" It's not -- it's followed with whatever semi-crisis or love affair they want to tell me about in utmost detail. Gracious. My friend and coworker Scott suggested I hang up a sign that says: "I AM NOT the wailing wall."
I am not a callous bitch. If it were a bona fide emergency or major life event, I'm there for people. But their annual job review that always goes well, or the new girlfriend, or generally noodling around about your philosophy of life are not emergencies.
In a total non sequitur, I had a dream Sunday morning that I'd given birth to a baby but I'd forgotten about it and gone off to a marching band rehearsal. Then I remembered: George Clooney was the dad! I'd go over to the dream interpretation thread on the forum and ask them what they hell they thought that meant, but I think I'd be booed off!
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!
What color, dahlings, is your underwear today? I'm wearing a tangerine-colored bra. Very sassy. And I have on a tangerine and yellow mesh bikini that ties on the sides.
And underneath the underwear, I'm wearing a combination of Tunisian Patchouli (from DSH) with O over the top. Damn, that is a fine combination. I think O is great alone, but I love it as a mixer.
Now this might be an interesting thing to track... I normally put my BPAL on prior to wearing underwear. Does the BPAL that I pick for that day affect the type of underwear that I pick? Ah, I have found a purpose for this blog... I'm going to track the influence of BPAL application upon my choice of lingerie.
My serious, Kinsey Report-like analysis has begun...
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.
Yeah, well, hey... I haven't written here in a while. I had to really buckle down to work at my job and something had to go, so meandering around on the internet was one of them. In addition, my winter solstice mood has been coming on, and that's not really a bad thing. When the days get shorter, I start getting quieter and more contemplative. I think it's reasonable behavior for a North American mammal. I see so much really bad behavior this time of the year that reminds me a lot of how animals in captivity act if you jam them into too small a space and don't give them enough food. Seriously -- you can go to a mall and see that sort behavior being acted out all over. I haven't seen anyone chewing on another shopper's ear, literally, but I've seen figurative versions of it in the tiny little forays that I've made out into the retail realm.
So no, I haven't been spending my time at the mall. I just completed some shopping online on Saturday. The internet is quite the blessing for the semi-hibernating North American shopping mammal. Except don't try eBay; you get into online captive behavior there.
Have any of you experienced what could be called clairsentience? It's the perception of energy fields through physical sensations. Scientific-rational types consider it hooey, because it's not a regularly occurring measurable phenomenon, but since our nervous systems send out energetic impulses are measured all the time with machines, I can't really understand why they think the human body isn't able to detect external impulses on its own. Any everyone has this ability, it just depends on how open or closed off to it we happen to be.
I'm just asking because it happens to me, and I think there's a lot of cool stories out there that most people won't talk about, lest they be considered "weird." And what I think is weird that that we can't acknowledge or talk about it without being seen as spooky. I was reading the New York Times yesterday, and being the incurable romantic that I am, I was looking at the weekly Sunday feature about a couple who had just gotten married. The woman in the couple featured yesterday said that during their second or third date, she felt a strong pang in her chest and she knew that something very special was happening between the two of them. How cool! There are so many people who would say she just had indigestion or an anxiety attack, and I get so tired of that "it's only..." blow-off to any mystical or emotional reading of a physical clue.
I do know that there are people who get those responses and then cut and run from whatever made them feel that way, because they find it scary and it makes them feel insecure. There is nothing spooky about it to me, it's a part of being human and having fully-functioning senses. There's a lot of mystery to it, but that's what makes it so remarkable. And because you never know when it's going to happen, you can't sit around and watch for it, which makes it even better.
So if you have stories, tell them... I'm listening!
A few years ago, I decided that it would be fun to make odd papier mache heads for Halloween. My original notion was to make jack-o-latern heads in the style of the old German papier-mache pumpkin heads, but my mind soon went off into stranger things. I made a few almost life-sized heads of individuals, all with their own names and stories. As a friend at work told me: "I'm not sure what I find the most disturbing -- the fact that you made these utterly odd things, or the fact that you developed names and a biographies for each of them."
There's a stuffed dummy in farmer clothing sitting on the front porch at Halloween. Most of the time it has a generic head on it, but when my creations wish to have a body, they get to "head it up." Here they are, along with their stories.
Fred Frankensteer has his name because he's a cross between Fred Flintstone, Frankenstein, and a steer. An actual person was the basis for Frankensteer's creation. Frankensteer is the result of a research project carried out by an insane UNL ag institute scientist. He now lives on a farm and is frequently anxious about his life, but is too dumb to really know what to do about it. For that reason, he fits in well and votes Republican.
LaVerna is the daughter of LaVonne and Vern. She's a waitress at the local greasy spoon and is also Frankensteer's girlfriend. While she has a ring in his nose, she doesn't have his ring on her finger, thus accounting for her rather truculent demeanor. She once set a field of Frankensteer's hay on fire with her cig, but he didn't yell at her, mainly because he was too afraid she'd kick his ass.
El Cockatillo is a famed Mexican wrestler who aquired his name because his mask resembles a Cockatiel. He is also known to shriek madly for no good reason. He was driving through Nebraska on his way to visit family in the U.S., when his transmission blew out next to one of Frankensteer's farm fields. He has remained on the farm ever since, but can't figure out exactly why.
Fergus is a soccer hooligan from Scotland who was sent to Frankensteer's farm courtesy of a U.K. version of the "scared straight" program. It has been unsuccessful. Fergus takes great glee in picking on Frankensteer and then getting the snot beaten out of him by LaVerna and El Cockatillo. He proudly sports his latest shiner, courtesy of LaVerna crushing a beer can on his face.
And from everyone at my house to you, Happy Halloween!
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!
And now a missive from the other side of my personality: I decided today, because I was wearing my fuchsia and purple zebra print panties, that the other people in my office should get newer and better underwear. Why, you ask? Because they're all into some form of mass hysteria as their presentations draw near, and I find their tension to be relatively counterproductive, since if you walk in the room nervous and insecure, you only hurt yourself. But if they had better underwear, they would value it and love it and not want to get their panties (or knickers) in such a big, giant knot.
OK, bad joke. I was somewhat resigned to having a bad experience when I walked in the room, and low expectations are sometimes a blessing. I came into work on Sunday to prepare for the presentation. I can appreciate their anxiety, but I don't appreciate them being in my face all day about how scared they are. My bosses really got into their heads in a big way.
But life is good when you can come home, drink a glass of wine, eat some pasta with smoked salmon flaked over the top (with olive oil, garlic and good parmesan), freshly-made French bread (a great new bakery close to my house!) and then drink a cup of really great coffee afterwards. And to make it better yet, you have fuchsia and purple zebra print panties covering your bum. What else is there?
Well, plenty. I want many, many things that I can't have or I won't get, but if I truly get my knickers in a big, huge knot, it should be over something really fun. Gotta remember that one!!!
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
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.
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!!!
