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.
Since Dawndie has written about this, and now Filgree Shadow has told her story, I guess I'm brave enough to tell my own paranormal story. If anything, they make good reading!
My maternal grandfather died when I was 3.5 years old. My mother had helped my grandmother take care of him until he became too ill to stay at home, and she used to take me along. Just as an aside, this was not a good move, but my mother was of the opinion that little kids didn't "get it." She tends to think very small children simply don't have the ability to understand what's going on. But my first memories are of running through a room where he was in bed and I was utterly terrified of him, because cancer had moved to his brain and he was in a state of delirium. Today I have a galloping case of hypochondria, and the seed was no doubt planted at that early age.
But I was his youngest grandchild by about 8 years, and word has it that when he was well enough to live relatively normally, he doted upon me. Based upon photos from what my mother always pronounced in melodramatic tones to be: "That. last. Christmas," this was, in fact, true. I also remember his funeral and my brother working very hard to keep me quiet, because I was rather giddy. My grandfather was dead, and he wasn't going to be around to scare the crap out of me anymore. And my beloved grandma might eventually stop crying. She always felt a lot of anxiety about me seeing him so sick, and my reaction to it. Then I felt bad about making grandma feel worse. Is it any wonder than I'm angsty?
What I recall is that sometime after he died, I was sitting in the waiting room of a doctor's office with my mom. I wasn't sick -- I was getting some sort of immunization. The door of the waiting room opened and my grandpa walked in, dressed exactly as he was when he was well. He sat down across from us and was looking at a newspaper. I leaned forward and stared at him. I looked at my mom, who hadn't glanced up from her magazine. Because my mother has always been an inveterate people-gawker and normally seizes the opportunity to engage a captive audience in a conversation, this wasn't normal. And it was her dead father that she was ignoring! Dood, he's back, at least say hi! I kept staring at him then looking up her. He kept glancing up and saw me staring at him. He looked a little chagrined and wouldn't look directly at me. He acted like someone who was trying to not be seen. I leaned forward even closer, thinking he'd at least say hello. He laid down the newspaper and walked out. My mother kept flipping through the magazine like no one was there. I remember looking at her like she was insane. I can see this entire event in my mind so clearly, it's like it happened this morning.
I always attributed this event to the notion that I was, in fact, sick, and my feverish little brain was working overtime. I never told my family about it. Then about 5 years ago, my mother told me a story about sitting with me in the waiting room of the doctor's office, less than a month after my grandfather had died. She couldn't remember why we were there, but she remembered that I wasn't sick. She said I became extremely, extremely quiet, and then turned, looked at her very seriously and very distinctly said: "I think if you look around here, you'll find grandpa."
I never told her what I remembered, she wouldn't have accepted that as anything but my wild imagination.
I've often read that little children can see and hear things that adults can't, and that the social maturation process shuts off that corner of our mind. I tend to agree with that. Also, never take a toddler along to do hospice care. Not a good idea at all.
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.
The college football team that has the big-ass stadium in my town is currently in L.A., playing USC. I have some family members who flew out to L.A., and they're sitting in the stadium, watching it right now. I have the TV on in the other room and I'm only semi-paying attention. If I hear a lot of yelling, I stop and listen to what happened. I haven't been to a Nebraska home football game for, I don't know... over 15 years? I never sit and watch one on TV; it seems like a giant waste of time. When games are on TV, it's actually a very good time to go shopping, but there's a thunderstorm moving in and I really don't want to be in a store if a tornado warning happens. And we had one of those last night... it did rain like a bastard, but the ominous wall cloud skirted south of town.
But, back to football. It's not like I never watched football -- I used to watch it all the time. It's difficult to avoid growing up in this state. My brother started playing high school football when I was about 2 years old. I remember being miserably cold and bored at my brother's games. And even though I don't watch it very much at all these days, I can still turn into one of the boys for a play or two and get into discussions about the design of the play, spot the holding or facemask violation or watch a receiver closely enough to see if he's in or out of the field of play when he comes down with the ball. But then I get bored and leave. Too many people in this state base their identity around the football team's success or failure. There are many things in the world that you can use to make yourself miserable, but I don't think the relative success or failure of the Huskers is a valid excuse for depression.
Actually, what I did find depressing was when I flipped past the Nebraska coach's TV show the other night and he had on the most butt-ugly sports jacket I have seen on TV in years. From a distance, I thought it was some ultra-cheesy blue denim sports coat from the '70's. I kept watching the show just to see a close-up. It was a lighter (denim-colored) blue wool coat with a bit of a plaid design in it. Even worse! Shades of Rodney Dangerfield in "Caddyshack!" The previous coach turned the team to shit, but he was dapper enough. He was a spokesperson for a local men's clothier and they supplied him with clothing. I have no idea who is giving the current coach his clothing, but Pat Riley he is not.
Hmmm... I think the thunderstorm has passed and I can go to the gym -- it's another good thing to do during games. The game is usually on the TVs, so I can look up and check the score to see what's happening. Actually, I always want Nebraska to win, or to at least play well, because then I don't have to deal with everyone else's bad mood and complaining on Monday morning.
In closing, I really want to go spend money for sateen bedding. I have one set, and I want more. Why does it matter to me what the thread count is of pieces of fabric that I lay on when I'm mostly unconscious, or at least in an altered level of consciousness? I don't get it, but it so nice to wake up and fall asleep on sateen sheets, especially when I wear Mme. Moriarty, which smells so insanely good that it makes me want to have sex with myself.
I can't think of anything else to say after that last comment, so I think I'll just stop. Go Big Thread Count!
ETA: OK, I misspelled "thread" as "tread" because I was being inattentive, as all the weather bulletin beepers went off and I did want to jump up and run off to see what that is all about. A tornado was 50 miles or so north of us, around Omaha. It proceeded to rain like a bastard and even hailed a little bit, so I decided to not go to the gym. Once I ascertained that the tornado wasn't hitting hard in Omaha (it didn't do any damage), I somehow became entranced watching a cheesy infomercial for a 10-CD set of '70's music. The video clips of the '70's artists featured on the CDs were hypnotizingly odd. These CD sets have a lot of the pop music of the '70's, and the word "geek" kept going through my head. There was one guy, however, who was a one-hit wonder and he did look a lot like the guy who played Denny on "Gray's Anatomy" last season. I think the score of the game is USC 21, Nebraska 10. A respectable effort, considering we sucked two years ago and they were national champions. (See, I know more about football than I want to admit.)
For anyone who would like to do a little retail therapy, or simply likes to do some online window shopping, I present a few sites for your perusal. Most of the sites are not the favorites of the retail therapy section of the forum, although there's one or two that may have been prominently mentioned.
Good incense is in the nose of the beholder, and my nose has different moods. But for both Fred Soll incense (very resiny, strong, smoky, long-lasting) and Nipon Kodo incense (classic Japanese) and everything in between, and all in one order, I go to: http://www.bambuddhas.com In between Fred Soll and Nipon Kodo is Terre d'Oc incense, which difficult to find and not cheap, but very much worth the money. It can be found at: http://www.sensia.com There are endless goodies at both Bambuddhas and Sensia that will tempt you mightily, be warned...
Mentioned frequently in the powdered mineral makeup thread of the Bathing Beauty section of the forum is Alima powdered mineral makeup. It is the greatest stuff, beautiful colors, subtle coverage, and you can order samples. Support a small business that includes cool little philosophical sayings on the back of cards that you receive with your order: http://www.alimacosmetics.com
For anyone who wants to get that great western U.S. smell into their home, via wreaths or incense or tea or soap or jellies, go to: http://www.juniperridge.com I smell their products and this flatland girl is back in the western mountains.
She's a forum member and we did a swap, me sending her Khajurajo and she sending a necklace from her web site. The photos do not do the jewelry justice; it is beautiful and delicate and drapes beautifully: http://www.todiefordesigns.com
And her clothing is gorgeous.
Beautiful jewlery, a lot of animal and celtic designs. Just fabulous. I have the Irish Wolfhound pendant: http://www.black-horse-design.com
Just fun! The name should tell you so! http://www.stuff-o-rama.com
Really great designs for the goddess in you -- surely this site has at least one that is you: http://www.thaliatook.com
I'd like the Jeanne d'Arc t-shirt, because it's a name thing, the Green Tara design is gorgeous, I really like Nyx, and the Rhiannon design is beautiful, but unfortunately, if I wore it, I would keep thinking of a goat because it reminds me of Stevie Nicks singing that Fleetwood Mac song.
ETA:
My coffee guy! Even though he closed the coffee shop that was my refuge from the perv postman and the other oddities of downtown coffee houses, he still runs a custom coffee roasting business. The best coffee I've ever had, hands down -- he buys only the best beans and is a stickler for roasting. No burned beans from this guy! http://www.coffeecultureonline.com
Thornefolk Solutions -- A neat little female-owned business, bath goodies. Check out the fizzing skulls for Halloween/Day of the Dead favors, their bath salts are great and they're having a sale on Pixie Sticks (their samplers of bath salts) right now. It's a great deal! http://www.thornefolk.net
I was petting Ella Bean, Basset Queen, because she was feeling a little needy. Ella is more or less a rescue dog, and she wasn't treated very well in her previous home, judging from the lump on her rib where it was probably kicked and broken. When she gets needy, I sit and pet her and talk to her for a while and then she just gets giddy and runs around like a maniac. She tucks her butt down, causing it to come very close to hitting the floor as she runs. Then she grabs a dog toy or dog blanket and drags it around or tosses it in the air. It is hilarious.
Tonight I was petting her and she went into her happy dog frenzy. I wondered what dog toy was that red-maroon color and why she could so easily toss it in the air. It was a pair of my panties. She'd done a detour into the bathroom and with missile-like accuracy, dove into a pile of clothing that I was preparing to take down to the washing machine and grabbed my underpants. Then she played hide-and-seek with me, undies in her mouth.
I finally retrieved them. Bassets are notorious for having an underwear fixation. One woman on a Basset list that I belong to told a story of signing for a package, while her Basset appeared beside her, toting a bra for the postman to admire. (Lucky it wasn't the perv postman, he would have taken it as an omen.)
Anyway, I think this panty-stealing incident was in retaliation for my public airing of Ella Bean's fetishes. Considering I have now only revealed more of her fetishistic behavior, more punishment is certain to come my way.
Every now and then, Ella Bean the Basset Queen will tend to Mugzy's front and rear ends (pie-hole and corn-hole duties) and then decide it's time to mount him. It's usually a half-hearted little humping and she either gets bored and slides off or he sits up. When she somehow gets turned around or is too lazy to head to his rear end, she humps his head. He sits up rather quickly, as you would well imagine. The most entertaining humping incident occurred once when Mugzy had rolled over on his back and I was rubbing his belly. I walked off only to have the Bassetress promptly pounce on top of him, much to his alarm. Her belly was right over his rear legs and when he let out a shocked little "Gnnnarfff," he kicked his legs up in the air. This feet were exactly under her belly and he elevated her off the ground for a little bit. It reminded me of a circus acrobatic trick. The looks on their faces were priceless. He rolled on his side and she rolled to the floor (it wasn't like he had her up that far) and she proceeded to chew him out. He stood up and walked off.
This is primarily a dominance issue with Ella, who is utterly convinced she is alpha bitch over poor Mugzy. However, I know women who act this way -- seriously. My annoying coworker tends to be this way; she is normally loud and mouthy, an insane suck-up to authority figures, but will then abruptly do something really sexual in nature to certain men. Sometimes after she's gone on one of her power walk breaks and she's wearing a longer tent-like dress, she will go into a male coworker's office and, while leaving her dress demurely between her legs, will pull the sides up to mid-thigh. This woman DOES NOT have a nice figure. Whenever this happens, I go to a picture of a beaver that I have earmarked on Google, copy it and paste it into an email to him. The subject of the email is usually "LEAVE IT TO THE BEAV." He sits there as she regales him and hears the little "ding" in his inbox, and he knows that the beaver has landed.
Another good friend of mine is also a favorite of hers; he comes down to do business with the guy who gets the thigh show. Her mode with this man is to walk in, yell "Hi MAN!" at him, then stick her tits in his face, back arched, butt hiked in the air. She's also been known to kick off her shoe and ask hin to look at her foot. Seriously. This is not a pretty sight, and I sometimes fear he's going to pass out or vomit. He tries to tell her to back off by saying things like: "You do not have to get in my face and tell me that story at such a level of intensity," or (sarcastically) "Thank you for showing me your foot," but it does no good. He usually calls me up later and says: "Why must she fucking do that to me every fucking time I walk in the door???"
But I always think she looks like an uncute version of the Bassetress when she does this. Did anything like this ever happen on "Seinfeld?" My coworker needs help, and a lot of it, but our boss refuses to deal with her because he's simply not interested in a fight. An alpha male he is not. We sometime joke about him being the "anti-silverback" (silverbacks are often the alpha gorilla male) or "Mr. Loopner" (from Saturday Night Live -- Mr. Loopner was born without a spine).
And what to me is alpha bitch-dom? I tend to look at the canine world and the true alpha bitch females that I've known. They usually don't have to display it in any manner other than a look or a turn of the head. If someone is too dunderheaded to get it, they simply display their teeth. Complete morons or very willful pack members get a growl or a nip. I am frequently convinced that dogs are apparently able to function at a higher level of subtlety than some humans.
I wonder if Greta Garbo uttered her famous "I vant to be ah-lone"* comment because she was simply trying to sit in a coffeehouse and write in her journal without goofballs or well-meaning sorts interrupting her?
Today I was sitting in Meadowlark, writing, when this old dude who's down there all the time stopped to ask me if I wrote in a journal every day. Well yeah... So then he had to tell me about his career as a journalist and then as an ad agency rep. There went 10 minutes of writing time.
And I don't think I told y'all about the guy, a few weeks ago, who walked up to me and said "You look like a rock and roll girl..." Away he went on a story about the band Badfinger. According to him, it's a tragic, tragic story, apparently there's only one surviving member, two committed suicide, one "just died" and the surviving guy won't return this character's emails. This guy had aviator glasses that appeared to be relics from when Badfinger was in their heyday (early '70's, I think) and what I can only describe as a Prince Valiant haircut. He did make me think of Toni Tennile of the Captain and Tennile. I let him go for 5 minutes and then shut my journal and declared it was time to go back to work.
You might suggest that I go to a different coffee house, but really, I am the least molested at Meadowlark. I used to go to a place called (imaginatively) The Coffee House, and there's a crazy guy named Alvin who goes in there. He's one of those brilliantly talented, smart, yet insane people. He came up to me and declared that in a former life, I was a Viking Queen. There was also the pervert mailman. He was one of those mensa-level IQ people who said the hell with it and became a postal employee. This guy was, at the time, in his late 50's and one day he felt compelled to tell me that he was having an affair with a disabled woman on his route. I nearly vomited. But later he told me (and a very appalled friend who had happened to join me) that this woman dumped him for a real boyfriend, and I was so happy for her.
Then I went to a place called Coffee Culture. It eventually closed down. Bummer -- the best coffee in town. Terrance, the guy who ran it was a master coffee roaster, and a complete character in his own right. But it was great, because he was so odd that he scared off the really kooky people. He was a Vietnam vet, an old hippie and somehow knew how to freak out the freaks. But he didn't try to do it; it just happened. I remember the perv postman wouldn't go near the place. Terrance got a lot of business from women fleeing the perv's haunts. I did my best journaling there, because even when Terrance came over to talk to me, he'd have to stop whenever a customer came in.
But I regale people at work with my coffee house stories and they love them. One coworker has declared me a "weirdo magnet." And I try to be philosophical, for if I get someone jabbering at me, I try to view it as probable fodder for later journaling efforts. And besides, what would I do with a vanilla life?
*Why is it that when I write something in a Greta Garbo accent, it will remind most people of Governor Ah-nold Swartzenegger? Damn his Republican ass. And BTW, I still do miss that ol' poonhound, William Jefferson Clinton.
I put this in the thread about how you layer your BPAL, but I'm going to retell it here, 'cause we all know I love to layer BPAL and give results of the layering adventures provocative little names. This was a bit of an accidental layering -- I was emailing a friend trying to describe the smell of Cockaigne to her, so I did a fresh application on the inside of my left wrist. About an hour later, I decided to sniff Dorian, just because I do that to myself every now and then, and thought, oh what the hell, let's put a bit on. And without thinking (that happens a lot), I put it on the inside of my left wrist. Then I thought, oh yeeeewww, that isn't going to work, not one little bit.
Know what? It's really nice together. The Cockaigne is sweet, sweet, sweet, and the Dorian gives it a zip. But let's consider for just a moment what I could name this blend... Hehehe! And I really didn't mean to blend those two scents so I could come up with some perverse notion for a layered scent name, really! Honestly!
Not that the blend is a particularly ooh-la-la producer. Most people told me it was nice, very nice, pleasant, but not a show-stopper. But that's OK. because we needn't have every BPAL we wear produce a drooling, gobsmacked result, correct? There are times and places when even I wish to avoid that reaction. For example, when I'm walking in a coffee house and the dudes with the mullets are sitting by the front door. I've read on the forum that some women get the ooh-la-la response when they wear foody scents. Not me; the rousing scents to the opposite gender, at least on my body, are (in no particular order):
1. Smut, or Smut layered with O (aka Smut-O-Rama)
2. Snake Oil
3. Siren
4. O layered with single-note Tunisian Patchouli
5. Urd, but only every now and then
Women tend to appreciate and comment favorably upon:
1. O, all alone
2. Siren
3. Snake Oil
4. Urd
5. Khajurajo
6. Dorian
And if you were to ask me what smells the very best on me (to my nose), I'd pick:
1. O and Tunisian Patchouli
2. Underpants
3. Urd
4. Siren
5. Khajurajo
6. Snake Oil
7. Cockaigne
8. Smut
I have really high hopes for Mme. Moriarity. I really do. She's in the pending order that is due to arrive next. Fingers crossed.
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 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????"
Retail therapy, moi?
Well, I must stay true to my word, and when I say in my sales thread that I'll reinvest the proceeds from my sales in the Lab (and then some), I must follow through. I placed a tidy little order for a bottle of each of the following: The Brides of Dracula, Theodosius, the Legerdemain and Snake Oil. The Brides of Dracula was the only scent of the recent LEs that really tripped my trigger. I hadn't ordered the Legerdemain with my Carnaval order because the jasmine made me jittery. Then I tried Siren, fell in love with it and realized that jasmine need not be a reason to rule out a scent. So the Legerdemain it is. And of course I need a bottle of Snake Oil to sit in reserve and age like a fine wine while I use my current bottle.
And in the wine mode, I just finished regaling a friend about a Austrian (and I mean Austrian, not Australian) white wine, brand name Lois. Specifically,, it's Fred Lois Gruner Veltliner. It's very nice white wine, not too sweet -- dry, but not dry in an icky way. It's delicious. Really, really nice. As in, grab a bottle of it and sit in the sun and eat cheese and crackers over the long weekend. Preferably with someone you like, but if keeping yourself company is the best option, don't forget to treat yourself. Put on your favorite BPAL scent and let it waft around you.
What is it that the Lab's postcards say? Sensualist stimulation? By all means, go for it.
Is September already over? Is summer almost over? Waaaah! I don't know why I'm always so romantic about summer, but I am. I think I took summer romance songs entirely too seriously when I was in high school. And I love autumn, so why am I sad to see summer go? I don't get it. However, it's a good excuse for that case of wistfulness and poignancy that I like to carry around with me, although if you were around me at all, you'd probably never guess that those tendencies were part of my baggage.
Ah, baggage...we all have it, and it's recently started to amaze me how people who a lot younger than I am already have a lot of really serious baggage. Nothing against them, not at all... I think it's more a reflection of my relatively sheltered upbringing and generally cautious nature in my teens and 20's. Actually, I was also a bit of a pinhead, at least emotionally and interpersonally. I couldn't even begin to get myself into anything especially complicated, but I did just stupid rather well.
Sometimes I think my wistful, poignant moods are a result of my former, younger self doing battle with the current, older self. I can be very realistic and pragmatic, but I can still be hopelessly romantic and a real dreamer. But if I let myself think back to early June, the beginning of summer and the smell of Dorian, I realize that there were some achingly gorgeous moments this summer. Sometimes it's hard not to look back and try to wish yourself back into certain moments. But every time in my life that I've wanted to do that, I have later realized, there was always something else better waiting around the corner. That heartbreakingly perfect moment was just a warm-up, and it's always a lesson to get my head out of the clouds and take a look-see at what's going on around me.
So I'll pull my head out of June, put my chin up and head towards September!
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.
I am going to stay halfway on-point, considering that this is a blog on a fragrance fandom community. Not that our entries should always be about fragrances, but lately the BPAL experience is what piques my musings, or more accurately, my hallucinations.
I put on some Snake Oil yesterday because the Lab frimped it to me with my Harvest Moon order. (THANK YOU, Lab! ) I layered it over O, because a year ago, I didn't like Snake Oil when I tested it. Things change, and now I think it's pretty yummy. As did a coworker, who literally could not keep his train of thought going because the way I smelled was that distracting. I found someone who wanted swap their imp of Snake Oil, so I can give it to him and he can test run it on his wife. If it works, he will be taking runs at his wife, but we won't go there. She may or may not be happy with me. I think I'll also give him some O, just in case that was what was driving him nuts -- but I don't think so, because I've worn O a lot, alone and layered. The infinite power of Snake Oil, previously unknown to me, was powerfully demonstrated to me yesterday, and now I am a believer.
And if you get an imp of something that you really adore, be careful of the first time that you wear it. When I got my imp of Dorian, I loved it so much that I put it on right away. However, Dorian now has associations with the situation I went into right after I applied it for the first time. I get a very poignant feeling whenever I open the bottle and sniff it.
Smut is like a headbutt, O is a tease, Bengal is a dare, Underpants is a naughty giggle, Khajurajo is a shudder, Anathema is a leer, and Siren is a shimmy. But Dorian just makes me feel really unarmored and vulnerable. You can imagine, I don't wear it to work very often.
But holy hell, I may have to get a bottle of Snake Oil if it's going to get such rave reviews when I wear it. This has been my week -- getting eyes-rolling-up-in-the-head reviews about Siren and Snake Oil. Whodaeverthunkit? I have a bottle of The Mouse's Long and Sad Tale coming in the mail because I had GypsyRoseRed pick it up for me at Will Call. (BTW, GypsyRoseRed is a diva and a lovely person for volunteering to do Will Call runs!) I hope I like the Mouse, but I fear for its success on my person, simply because recently everything that isn't supposed to work on me has been great -- so something that should be perfect for me may not work. Confusing!
But if I love it, I'm going to be really, really careful to wear it out for the first time in a very neutral context. This much I know is true!
I remembered that I had an imp of Siren that I hadn't tested, so yesterday, when I had a migraine, I decided to try it once I started to feel better. I almost ran downstairs right away to get some vinegar to wash it off when I remembered that the description said something about jasmine being one of the ingredients. Jasmine is the bane of my perfume-wearing existence. I thought, oh great, the migraine will bloom again. Because truly, on my body jasmine smells like flower vase water that has been sitting around waaaaay too long. I've always wanted to love jasmine, since it seems so girly-girl and mysterious and it's so pretty on some people.
So I sniffed the swiped area and waited for the gag-a-maggot smell and the throb behind my eyes to reoccur. It smelled nice. My head didn't hurt. I waited a bit and sniffed it again. I could swear I smelled patchouli. I went to computer to look up Siren and yeah, there's jasmine in it and no patchouli. Weird. I was convinced that after an hour or so, I'd still be heading for the soap and then the vinegar to neutralize the stench. But I didn't -- it stayed the same and didn't morph. I was meeting a friend for coffee in the evening and I put on more. I'm wearing it today. It's nice! It's exotic-sexy-sultry and I can smell jasmine in it, but it smells good. What???? It must be the ginger offsetting the jasmine, that's all I can figure out. There's also vanilla and apricot in Siren, and I do get a fair amount of apricot, but I like it even better than the apricot in Depraved. What the hell? Just amazin.'
There's a song by Jamie Cullum called "Get Your Way" and some of the lyrics go like this:
I opened the door and you walked in,
(Sniff) The scent of wild jasmine.
The room, seemed to freeze in time,
My regular table will be just fine.
Radiant and elegant, you might be
But your concentration is so go-lightly
Both of your eyes reflecting the moon,
You really think you own the room.
I used to think, yeah, if I could wear jasmine, I could be that way, but it's not meant to be.
So now I can wear Siren and try to be like the woman in the song, although I'll probably fall off my heel or trip over the leg of a chair, or something dorky like Carrie in "Sex And The City" used to do. Actually, I liked her character better when she was like that, so maybe I should accept that my klutziness can be a bit charming at times. At least I will smell a bit like jasmine.
I 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!
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's non sequiturs begin with the fact that the Reverend Jim guy that I mentioned in my prior entry is, in fact, employed. I went into Meadowlark Coffee yesterday and he was sitting outside, wearing a shirt normally worn by U-Stop convenience store employees. I asked Debbie, the morning barrista, if he was actually a U-Stop employee and she said yes, she was rather certain that he was. I commented that I'd always thought that he was a client at the county mental health center. And Debbie said yes, she was rather sure he was.
I was watching "Austin City Limits" on PBS last Saturday, and I know it was a rerun, but I was deeply amused at the contrasts presented by the two featured performers. I like both of them, but who decided to put Lyle Lovett and Jamie Cullum on the same show? Lyle is tall, skinny, taciturn Texan who smiles only on one side of his face, is so rigid when he performs that one suspects he might break in half if he made a sudden move, and is entrancingly weird-looking. I figured out that part of what makes him so very odd-looking is that his eyebrows are almost nonexistent. He has all that hair on the top of his head (which styling products have really tamed in recent years) and absolutely no eyebrows. But don't get me wrong, I like his voice and a lot of his music, although I don't listen to him that often.
Did he burn his eyebrows off as a kid and they never grew back?
Jamie Cullum is a hyperanimated little sparkplug from England who runs and jumps all over as he is singing and playing the piano. He's so little that I kind of want to call him "Frodo," but he's also quite adorable. Maybe the Austin City Limits crowd for his show was the same group who showed up to see Lyle perform, and they just didn't get what Jamie was all about. They were as lifeless as the day is long, and I've never seen a group of such unrhymtic-looking people in my life. What was the matter with those white people? Get up and move! At least sway a bit! Granted, I love Jamie's music and his style, but I felt sorry for him, having to perform on TV before an alleged "live" audience.
Just. Plain. Cute.
I bought three bottles from the update -- two from Wanderlust and one from Carnaval Diabolique. Specifically, Cockaige and Lyonesse from Wanderlust and Midnight on the Midway. What is life without at least one or two pending BPAL orders? About as boring as a Lyle Lovett crowd at a Jamie Cullum concert!
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!"
It is too hot outside for me to entertain the notion of writing or even thinking rationally; however, in an odd, Jungian-like bit of synchronicity, I discovered a web page of "mullet haikus." Now I will have something mysterious and Zen-like to say to my mulleted buddy who greets me outside of Meadowlark Coffee when I make my morning coffee runs. So for all the mulleted samauris out there, and for everyone who encounters them, here are few choice mullet haiku offerings:
This super cool hair
and a bucket of chicken:
What more could I want?
I liked that foreign
legion movie so much, I
grew me one them hats
O! SQUIRREL brother,
Your tail, my hair We are one
Yet I must eat you
Lynyrd Skynyrd didn’t
win no spelling bees Who cares?
They rock the trailer
Metallica is
for first graders Nothing rocks
harder than Winger
Dogs urinate where
they so choose And so do I
Red and blue lights flash
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
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."
