Divas! The empress of this blogdom is going to fall under the spell of darkitysnark's third person Bob Dole-certified writing style tonight, since valentina wishes to disassociate herself with this sort of mood as much as possible.
valentina is terribly wistful, and almost sad. She may have to go sit around and cry to see if that helps. It was an emotional day at work, a long story that valentina doesn't care to recount, since it would turn into a detailed politics and government lecture and 'tina does know how deathly boring that becomes. Long story short, it was a day of goodbyes to people that valentina has known and worked with a lot of years, because they're leaving. Some of them 'tina knew longer and liked more than others, and a couple of them tugged very hard at the heartstrings.
It was an ending and it was bittersweet. Goodbyes are never easy, but valentina has to be thankful that she was able to forge such relationships. And there's also a beginning. The beginning is a little scary, maybe. Beginnings bring mystery and uncertainty, and like anything in life, there will be joy and sadness in what lies ahead.
valentina also realizes that she can be such an empath, but she normally assumes it's her imagination speaking. Several things in recent days have shown her that she should get out of her own way more often. 'tina has a bad habit of ignoring her inner voice, and her left brain and right brain spend a lot of time arguing with each other. Usually the left brain will overthink what the right brain is channeling out of her heart. Then the left brain realizes that the right brain was correct, and her right brain and her heart in unison say, hahaha, we knew it all along.
And even in the middle of all of this, there's a part of 'tina that is so fucking happy, she can't believe it. The empress of this blogdom wishes to inform you that tomorrow she has the day off of work and will resume her breezy first-person lingerie and shoe and BPAL chatter.
La Ofrenda means "the offering," of course. I love it when Beth describes the ofrenda in the Excolo scents... ah, the offerings to the goddess or the god. The world "offering" to me conjures up passing a collection plate in a uptight church and it immediately takes on a repressed, dreary connotation. "Ofrenda" conjures up the smell, taste, texture and colors of all things juicy and real and alive that you'd offer in celebration to the diety.
There's always talk on the forum and in the blogs about putting on some gorgeous BPAL before you go to bed, and falling asleep in the delicious haze of that aroma. Isn't that an ofrenda to your subconscious self? I rather like the notion. Does it produce deeper sleep, more meaningful dreams, a calmer mind upon awakening?
What about anointing ourselves with BPAL during the day...couldn't we view it as an ofrenda to our waking life? And to our bodies? And I'm not talking about a nonstop, shallow, "I'm-so-fucking-hot" attitude, that vapid bullshit self-infatuation. I'm talking about appreciating your body and your soul for a few moments each the morning before you walk out into the mayhem of the world.
And lingerie is, of course, an ofrenda. Absolutely. While it's commonly seen as an ofrenda to another mortal, is it really? Is is just as much, and perhaps first and foremost, an ofrenda to yourself? Someone else may simply be lucky enough to participate in the celebration. And if there isn't someone else to participate, don't despair -- for the quiet, ritualistic ways that we appreciate the goddess that resides within, is to walk on holy ground.
So divas, anoint yourself, because you're gorgeous. And I'm wearing my cocoa loco bra again today because it's so great under clingy tops. My undies are lacy boyshorts with a keyhole peek-a-boo in the back. And I still haven't gotten over wearing Tunisian patchouli and O, blended together.
Does anyone remember the bratpack movie "Pretty in Pink?" With Molly Ringwald, that guy who's now in the TV show with Charlie Sheen whose name I forget, and James Spader before he got rather bloated-looking. I know some of you get off on James Spader, and I think he's a good casting choice to play the son of William Shatner, because the both look like bloated ticks to me, in that alcoholic liver-damaged way. Oh yeah, and Andrew McCarthy was in "Pretty in Pink," but he appeared to be semi-comatose in that movie and was most unconvincing as Molly's trob-boy. Oh, and Harry Dean Stanton...what a completely surreal casting choice, Harry Dean as good ol pa. His presence alone gave that movie a seamy underside that remained unspoken. Does anyone remember Harry Dean in "Repo Man?" One of my all-time favorite movie lines... something to the effect of: "Just look at 'em...ordinary people...I fucking hate 'em..." And Harry Dean in "Paris, Texas?" Weird-ass movie. I need to watch it again.
Has anyone ever read essays by Cintra Wilson? The woman is an insanely brilliant writer and is utterly savage. I adore her. Most of her commentary is on entertainment industry abominations, although recently she's been branching out into political commentary. I just happen to have her book "A Massive Swelling" sitting on my desk and I must quote from an essay where she mentions Harry Dean Stanton:
"...I was taken to a small blues bar to see derelict actor Harry Dean Stanton sing in the New Year. When we entered the bar, Harry, already suffering "spins," was using the microphone stand as a means to remain standing. "Harry needs another cocktail!" someone from the stage would yell every few minutes, as Harry unintelligibly moaned like he was passing kidney stones to "Wooly Bully" in cryptic and fluctuating time signatures which the musicians tried to follow, with the maddening futility of someone trying to grasp a dollar bill twisting away in a strong breeze. At one point Harry lurched off the stage mid-song and began shuffling around the bar, fumbling cardboard hats onto the heads of fearful young women, his dirty thumbs slipping into their eyes. "Harry's going to hand out hats now, heh heh," chortled the bandleader, treating the alcohol-poisoned actor as if he were a charming Down syndrome child. Any man in that bar with a loving heart would have beaten Harry out cold with a pool cue and dragged him off to sleep in someone's car."
Now how brilliant is that? Cintra is a goddess and without a doubt my heroine. Get her books, and she's a guest contributor to the online site salon.com.
But the reason I mention Pretty in Pink is that I'm wearing pink lingerie today. A pink bra with pink lace over the top and another side-tie mesh bikini, only this one is pink with large burgundy polka dots. And I'm wearing my combo of O and Tunisian Patchouli. My male friend who is one of my workplace noses declared it to be dangerous.
I do believe that it is.
A few of us in my office found out that our former coworker isn't expected to make it to 2007. He refuses to take a defeatist attitude, and while some people might call it serious denial, I've never read a story about someone who beat the odds who didn't have that positive attitude. So I think he should just go for it, and the rest of us can steady ourselves for what might happen, but in the meantime, support him in every step of his process.
One of my coworkers took him to the doctor today, and was given instructions to give a couple of us in the office thank-you hugs (both females, of course). So my coworker gave me a hug, and he told me that he later on got a waft of Snake Oil that had apparently transferred from me to his shirt. Hee! He wasn't complaining, not in the least. In fact, he said he might wear that shirt all weekend. Goofus.
So I'm making chicken and sausage gumbo this weekend and I'm packing up some for my ailing buddy. He does like Cajun food, I know that much. I wish I could brew in some get well voodoo, so maybe I'll try to hold those intentions while cooking it. I went to an aryuvedic cooking workshop once, and the teacher talked about the importance of cooking with good intentions. It can't hurt. However, if I'm making a gumbo, it's really difficult not to have sexual fantasies while making a roux. You have to stand there and stir so long, what else is there to do? I am such a perv. I will control myself. Otherwise my poor friend will call me up and tell me that he wanted to listen to Aerosmith after eating that gumbo, and damn, is that Joe Perry something else or what?
I had a PayPal balance that I didn't expect to have, so I went in tonight and spent it on the Lab. I purchased 4 GC bottles; I have a decant circle set of holiday scents coming later on, and I may order a few of them. But the PayPal balance was going to burn a hole in my brain, and I couldn't wait. I keep falling in love with GC scents, and for that, I feel fortunate. (Now watch me go berzerk for the bottle of 13 that I have on order.) But tonight I ordered The Lion; I am a Leo, how did I go so long without The Lion? I know why -- I didn't like amber until I tried BPAL, and it took me a while to work up enough courage to test BPAL amber scents. I also ordered Dragon's Milk (never tried it, but if it doesn't work on me, I know a couple of nice people on the forum who could find a wee bottle of Dragon's Milk in a surprise package), Perversion and Follow Me Boy. FMB smells great on its own, but I love layering it with Siren.
I love the sight of all of the little bottles, all lined up in a row. Damn. I am so lucky to be healthy and have a sense of smell and be able to enjoy this stuff.
I think I must have lost dog karma. Or maybe some lost dogs have valentina karma. Anyway, I got up this morning and looked out the window, and there was a German Shepherd-type dog running loose across the street. No collar, looking very lost. I went out and called it, but it was scared and ran off. I called animal control and told them to go looking for it. I don't live that near to a main street, but if the dog went about 6 or 7 blocks, it would encounter a busy street.
This afternoon after I went to lunch with my friend, I decided to drive back down to my office, because I'd left something there that I wanted to take home. I was kind of in a state yesterday when I left, and would have forgotten my head if it wasn't attached to me. So I'm crossing the intersection of a really busy street, and there's a smallish, German Shepherd type dog, running around the intersection. I turned and watched as people drove around it or slowed down, but didn't help it. I flipped a "u" turn and went back, pulled over, got out and got the dog. A man was right behind me trying to do the same thing, and we took turns hold the pooch as we waited for animal control. This dog was a young fella, collar but no tags, just been neutered, a sweet handsome pooch.
So was that my lost dog karma in action? And is it me, or was it a little weird that I saw two lost German Shepherd-type dogs in one day? They just wandered into my path. It seemed really symbolic, and considering my mood of the last couple of days, it really makes me wonder what that was all about.
I have a book on animal totems, and dogs are commonly associated with the various goddesses, especially huntress goddesses such as Artemis/Diana, Sarama (Vedic mother of the Dogs of Yama) and the Hounds of Annwn, the Celtic goddess. Dogs are seen as symbols of dependability, loyalty and faithfulness and my book says whenever the spirit helper is near, you will feel strong emanations of love surrounding you.
Lost dog karma or a spirit messenger, I'm glad I was able to help at least one avoid death by a 50-MPH SUV. I do loves the poochies!!
I'm still really busy at work and I seem to take time to comment on blogs but never write in my own, because I seem to thing that I have to write a lot. Why is that? Well, it's not going to happen today... I just want to put up a couple of quotes that are on my page-a-day Zen calendar.
The first one puts the Christmas frenzy in perspective:
"Our lives are lived in intense and anxious struggle, in a swirl of speed and aggression, in competing, grasping, possessing, and achieving, forever burdening ourselves with extraneous activities and preoccupations." -- Sogyal Rinpoche
Actually, that also sounds exactly like my workplace is like when the legislature is in session, and oh oops, that begins January 3. ArGh BlArGh!!
The second one is a reminder that you find the sacred in the mundane, and I do love it when Jesus goes Zen on us:
"Lift the stone and you will find me; cleave the wood and I am there." -- Jesus
In my office, we draw names for the holiday Secret Santas. It's a small office, we know each other well, and we like to be creative in our endeavors. Several years ago, the two support staff in the office decided that we shouldn't have just one day of Secret Santa, we should have stockings and 5 days of Secret Santa gifting. This was met with great reluctance by the professional staff, as we're typically very busy in December. However, over the years it has evolved into a process that is much-loved by the professional staff, and the support staff would like to end it. (insert sadistic laugh here ) It seems that a number of people become fond of the notion that there could be a week of gift themes, some seriously clever hide-and-seek games that include notes and clues, wicked funny gag gifts, and general opportunities for creativity, giving someone shit or just good humor. And in all of it, we're really pretty nice to each other. We had a gift limit that used to be at $10, then went to $15, and has inched closer to $20 in recent years. We don't really eat out as a group or shell out money to buy gifts the rest of the year, so we take this in stride. The support staff has come to hate the expenditures (even though they are paid more than entry level professionals), the time and the effort involved to keep up. Too bad. We like our little reindeer games.
Last year I drew my troublesome, loud, insane co-worker's name. She fancies herself as a bit of a foodie, and when she sent out her "hints for Santa" email -- something else we all do, which is a bit of a creative writing and/or humor opportunity -- mentioned that she always wants things for the kitchen. I gave her small, polite items 3 out of the 5 days, with the intention being to throw people off of my trail. Usually the over-the-top gifts that include notes and gags are instantly blamed on me. (Why? ) But her last two gifts did go over the top, and of course, she DIDN'T GET THE JOKES.
The first one addressed her tendency to rant and rave at people rather harshly, especially people outside of this office. I gave her a citrus reamer and a tube of Boudreaux's Butt Paste. An accompanying note said something about now she had both the tool and the remedy when she wanted to ream someone's ass, but then felt guilty afterwards. She didn't get the humor. She was happy to have a reamer, but was mainly mystified as to what she would do with a tube of Butt Paste. (This is diaper rash ointment, BTW.) I did catch a number of other staff people huddled in other corners of the office, laughing about the gift and talking about how she truly didn't get it.
For the final day's gift, I was able to secure, at T.J. Maxx, a piece of cutlery at an astonishingly cheap price. The item was a 6 inch stiff boning knife by the A.B. Dick company. The note on her stocking said: "Pardon me, but are you having a Merry Christmas, or is that a 6 inch boner in your stocking?" On the package, another note said: "Santa heard you'd like a stiff Dick for Christmas." She was befuddled by the jokes but elated to get some cutlery. Everyone knew it was either me or my coworker Scott who had her name, since we're the only two who would risk her ire by leaving such notes. Scott high-fived me when he realized it really was me who had her name; he enjoyed the jokes the most, except maybe for the guy that my coworker always "flirts" with by hollering his name and sticking her tits in his face. He nearly peed his pants when he read the stiff dick note. She kept saying to him: "But no, look at this boner!" And he'd laugh harder. And then she'd say: "Have you ever heard of the A.B. Dick company? I hadn't." And he'd laugh even more. He had to leave.
So this year I have Scott's name. He's getting little things from me for the first part of the week -- fun little things that he'll like, but I'm saving most of my money for an item that I'm bidding on in eBay. I hope I can get it for a good price. If I lose this auction, there's plenty of others out there. Scott is a Gen-X'er, but his musical tastes tend to be Boomerish, and he loves Led Zepplin. Most of all, Jimmy Page. And I introduce you to the Jimmy Page action figure:
http://wizarduniverse.stores.yahoo.net/feb063823.html (Sorry, the hyperlink doesn't work on this computer)
He will absolutely die. He will freaking love it. This is what I love about eBay, doing a search for Jimmy Page items resulted in this little gem. I am so excited.
This morning I set the alarm for 7:45 (way, way early for me on a Sunday) and went out to my back yard and bailed out all the old water in my two small garden ponds. They're pre-shaped plastic liners and a once-a-year emptying and refilling is a nice idea. So I was bailing out all the stinky old water and sludge and slime and it made me thing of the LJ wank. Generally, I consider that sort of behavior to be stinky and slimy.
While we relish our freedom of speech, the institutions that help give us freedom of speech (unless the current administration gets its way), like legislative bodies and courts, have very structured rules of debate. The procedures are there for a reason -- if it's a free-for-all, discussions can drop to the lowest common denominator and nothing constructive occurs. I consider the anonymous wank to be a free-for-all and the resulting discussion is generally worthless. While there may be nuggets of a legitimate discussion here and there, the presentation does not lend itself to anything but discord.
And that's all I'm going to say about this topic, because I think the more we just ignore the behavior and refuse to give the wankers the attention that they want, the sooner they will pick up their toys and move to another playground or simply go home and pout.
But damn it, I do adore that asshattery word. And I did know who Ron Jeremy was, pervy old bag that I am!
Oh yeah, for those of you who are old enough, do you remember an INXS song where he's reciting words, like appreciate, dedicate, ect? They should have had satiate in that song!
Oh hell. I wasn't going to order Harvest Moon, the scent, until I read the update thread and someone commented that it was her birth moon, so she just had to get it. Well, it's my birth moon also, and while I'm not sure it will smell that great on me, it has all sorts of things in it that I hold near and dear, because I do love those late summer smells. Anything with Russian sage in it is worth owning, in my opinion. So I ordered a bottle. If it doesn't work on my body, it might make a wonderful scent locket or room scent.
And the t-shirt, I simply must order the t-shirt! Macha's design is astonishing. A bit of a Celtic/Gothic/Georgia O'Keefe quality, and who but Macha could weave all of it together so perfectly? I'm just really, really fond of the design, and hey, it's for my birth moon, so I simply must.
So the scoreboard says:
Update: 2
Resolve: 0
OK, the other matter at hand: I have enough reward points to cash in and change my member title to whatever I want. I love all the self-titled names, they are all so damn clever. I'm having problems coming up with anything like "rapscallion in fuchsia tights" or "1/32 too few" or "part-time ninja" or "fae fatale." Sookster just changed her title to "p-town's naughty sea monkey."
In a prior entry, I'd commented that I could call myself "Phantom of the Prairie Phallus," a reference to the building where I work. But it's not that funny, unless you know the architecture of my state's capitol building. I thought about calling myself "The Jean Genie" (as in the Bowie song), since it's a reference to my real name. Then I thought I could call myself "The Jean Genie in Joe Perry's bottle" because we know my feelings about Joe Perry. Or I could say I was "The Jean Genie in Bob Schneider's bottle," but very few people would know who I was talking about. (Bob may get famous yet!)
Then I remembered that in my review of Sacred Whore of Babylon, I was bemoaning that exotic flowers like jasmine and orchids are hardly indigenous to where I live, so I'm not exactly familiar with their exact scent. And I further postulated that exotic florals smell icky on me due to my geographical location somehow influencing my body chemistry (I don't really believe this), but if Beth ever made a scent called Sacred Whore of the Prairie, it would probably smell good on me. Now, "Sacred Whore of the Prairie" might be a good forum name, and it amuses me. (Some might heartily agree that I'm a whore, the sacred business is no doubt highly debatable; but the part about the prairie is indisputable.)
Any ideas, reactions, comments?
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.
Since there's an 1980's retro scene going on right now, I flash back to the cartoon strip "Bloom County." And "The Far Side" was a big deal back then. And "Calvin and Hobbes." I had a discussion with a friend about the how the '80's was a golden age of contemporary cartoons.
As winter approaches, I inevitably get an email that is a compilation of all the "Calvin and Hobbes" cartoons where Calvin made snowpeople doing all manner of twisted things. And didn't almost everyone have a stuffed toy in the likeness of Opus the penguin? I still have both of my Opus stuffies, one is a Christmas Opus. But, I have a rarity, something terribly special and wonderful -- I have a stuffed Bill the Cat toy. Something about his scrawny neck always leads to an association with Nancy Reagan's scrawny neck. Last year for Christmas, I got "The Last Basselope" by Berk Breathed, the "Bloom County" creator. You'll recall the Basselope was the Basset Hound with antlers. I really do need to take a photo of Ella Bean in antlers and use it on a Christmas card.
And in the '80's and part of the '90's, you could liven up most stalled-out discussions with the question: "What is your favorite "Far Side?" You know what's coming next... in the '80's, there was this trend for all the yuppie moms in the first wave of minivans to have triangular "Baby On Board" signs. Some of you reading this were probably the babies on board. (Gah! I feel OLD!) Anyway, my favorite Far Side was of a lady mosquito (beehive hair, lipstick) driving a van with a "Maggot On Board" sign in the window.
I used to be a distance runner in the '80's. Running all over the place, I used to run by all those minivans and just get really depressed. Not because I wanted kids, but because I would see that lifestyle, picture myself in it, and feel instantly stultified. My running was a bit symbolic of my "running free" attitude in the '80's, when I used to toss throw pillows at the TV when Reagan came on the news and discovered the joy of mute buttons on remote controls. A few boyfriends were a bit confused the first time the "hit the mute and throw the pillows" drill occurred. Well, they're called throw pillows for a reason. I never dated Republicans.
Sometimes I think that maybe if I'd met the right person at the right time, I could have been a yuppie '80's baby boom mom. If the right sort of guy could have gotten my attention and married me really young... nah, no way! I didn't date Republicans! I'm not sure I dated a Republican, ever. Most of them take one look at me and see trouble. No hold it, I did date one, and that was in the early '90's. He was cute, but way too Rush Limbaugh-ized in the head, and I only went out with him once.
I have one wonderful, crystallized memory of the '80's, and I'm sure this says something about me, but I'm not sure what -- I was out for a long run, it was January or February, it was cold but not quite bitter (maybe 15 or 20 degrees), I was in my Gore-Tex running suit so I was warm enough, it was dark outside, maybe 6:30 or 7 pm, it was snowing a little bit and the wind was eddying the dusty snow around in the street. I was running towards a particularly busy intersection, and I hit all of the green lights so I didn't have to stop. The darkness, the snow, the streetlights and the headlights made everything in the world look silver and black. Running was no effort whatsoever. It was just perfect, away from Reagan on TV, the Republicans didn't matter, the minivan yuppie moms were all home being efficient, and I was running free.
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.
If you do anything this 4th of July season, make sangria! I made some first thing this morning and put it in the refrigerator, and by this evening, I had a lovely, lovely brew. I was deeply proud of my efforts. I'm steeping some sangria blanco as I write this, and time will tell if it's as good as the red. If you make red sangria, try to get a nice, fruity Spanish wine. It makes all the difference. Here's the recipe that I used -- it's a modification of "Sunset Sangria" by Rachael Ray, and you can find it on the Foodnetwork web site.
3 tbs. sugar
6 tbs. dark spiced rum with citrus flavor
1 orange, sliced
1 lemon, sliced
2 ripe peaches, peeled and cut into wedges
3 ripe plums, cut into wedges
2 cinnamon sticks
1 bottle Rioja or a good fruity Spanish red wine
Club soda, for topping off glasses of sangria
Combine everything but club soda in a large pitcher. Chill several hours. I ran the wine liquid through a strainer to catch the excess fruit pulp prior to serving. Serve over ice, topped off with club soda for some fizz.
This is not the equivalent of bottled Cruz Garcia Real Sangria -- Cruz Garcia needs vodka or rum added to it in order to make it seem like an alcoholic beverage. This is just a smidge stronger. Thus, adding a bit of club soda will not turn your sangria into the alcoholic equivalent of Welch's grape juice.
I am very tempted to make some Sangrita Margaritas, which entails combining a margarita with sangria. Tasty, tasty. Sangria blanco review to follow tomorrow night.
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!
Because I was writing about Lucinda Williams yesterday, I was reminded of her concert from almost a year ago. A guy there with his girlfriend was an obviously huge Lucinda fan. He was so freaking drunk, and he was a loud, snacked-out fellow. Very, very jovial, except he kept bellowing "MINNEAPOLIS" at the top of his lungs in between songs. It was apparently his favorite Lucinda song, and it was his quaint way of making a request to her. Thing is, that song is one of the most wrist-slashingly depressing songs that she's written in some time. Lucinda ignored his entreaties.
But this guy was so damn drunk that he couldn't really enjoy the concert; I think he and his girlfriend left well before it was over because he just couldn't stand up anymore. That was a shame for him, because Lu was in a good mood that night and kept playing and playing and playing. I was happy the guy left, because I didn't have to listen to his screaming and he had somehow decided it was good sport to take an occasional whap at my ass and comment on its firmness. His girlfriend was so toasted that she didn't care. My DH thought it was funny that some tubby drunk guy was alternating yelling "MINNEAPOLIS" at Lucinda and whapping my ass. Towards the end of the show I went down right in front to watch Lucinda and the band up close because everyone down there was very focused on her music.
Anyway, you have to wonder about these funny, fat class-clown sort of fellows. I think their dark side is darker than anything most of us could dream up.
In a complete non sequitur, there's a new "CSI" (Las Vegas version) on tonight. There's some teaser/buzz going around that Grissom and Sarah are going to get into bed before the season is over. Anyone else heard that? A couple of seasons ago, that would have irritated me, but at this point in the show, I think they should just do the horizontal bop and get it over with. Although I also have a theory that they may both end up in bed, but each with a different person. Why do I get so caught up in that stupid TV show? Oh, I remember why... William Peterson is hot.
I have not been the chattiest blogger in the world, lately. Bad blogger, bad, bad, bad blogger! Try to type "bad blogger" a number of times that not turn "bad" into "blad." I did it twice. ("Blad Blogger" sounds like the emo nephew of Dracula.) It's been over 100 degrees here the last two days. Blame any weirdness below on the heat.
Well, I've been quiet because I've been kind of angsty lately and I really don't like to subject people to my angst. I'm semi-finished with my angst, and I've basically decided, what's better -- to be someone who has a few things that I'd like to have, but don't, but in order to get them you have to be positively glacial, or to be sort of person who animals, little kids and old people tend to like. I guess it's best to just accept my gifts in the form of a trusting animal, smiles from little kids and conversations with old folks. And everyone else in between. I not a cold bitch, so I don't get the cold bitch acoutroments. End of story.
I'm going to try to brew up a good batch or two or three of sangria tomorrow. I associate sangria with the 4th of July. Now, WTF? A Spanish wine for an American holiday? It's just a summertime thing.
And what is it when you go to the pool and you see the man with his bald head, bobbing just above the water, and then he emerges from the pool, it is revealed that his body is one of the hairiest things you've seen? As in, more hair on the guy's back than on most men's chests, not to mention all the hair on the legs and the chest and arms? I know it's testosterone doing its thing, but it always amazes me. Not that I have a thing against a nice hairy chest or hairy arms or legs, for I like secondary sexual characteristics, but when the back is almost solid hair, I do draw the line. I'd be getting out the waxing strips and using them on the fellow. But it would be like trying to wax a Grizzly! It would be like pulling carpet! Jeez, and guys like that would clog up your drains all the time, and no one would be able to figure it out, because they have a cue-ball head. Where is that hair coming from?
You can see what I was looking at and pondering at the pool today!
I 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.
As someone who loves vintage pinup girl art and underwear, this homage to the peculiar illustrations of Art Frahm never fails to draw a titter:
http://www.lileks.com/institute/frahm/art1.html
"The Shakedown" is my favorite. The illustration alone is absurdly Freudian, and the description of it as being from Frahm's "Edward Hopper period" are spot on, although Hopper is probably rolling in his grave.
OK, I just channel-surfed past the Home Shopping Network or QVC, or one of those channels, and they were selling some skank-ho trashy platform sandals that had a peculiar "Carmen Miranda goes to Africa" vibe to them. And they were $150. You know 50ish fat ladies will be tottering around in them, their tubby little toes with toenails pained orange (and always long toenails, because they're too fat to trim them properly) spread wide from the tonnage inflicted upon them from being placed at such an odd angle. Christ, these shoes wouldn't be cute on you adorable young things with really cute feet and skinny little legs. You'd look like you were wearing cement blocks on your feet that were painted in a black-and-white tribal design.
Wouldn't it be great to have a goth home shopping network? Or just to have a few good goth merchants show up on QVC? Beth and Puddin' could do a BPAL and BPTP segment. I would pay good money to see it and of course would spend money like a drunken sailor.
Oh no! Fergus, the soccer hooligan, pushed LaVerna too far. Evidently she's watched too many Charles Bronson vigilante justice movies in her life, for she has utterly no remorse. Judging from his grinning death mask, Fergus was happy that he would be joining Beetlejuice's posse of the undead, and right now he's no doubt trying to get Wyonna Ryder to marry him.
Now everyone turn up Warren Zevon's "Werewolves of London" full-blast, and sing along!
Calling someone's mouth their "pie hole" has always amused me considerably. As in: "Shut your pie hole." It's even better when said with a Andy Griffith/Mayberry accent, as in: "Shuhut yer pah hawl, Barney. Ima thankin' 'bout sumthin.'"
I work with someone who is apparently a monument to oral fixations. If she isn't talking at a very high volume, she's eating at a high volume. This person likes to hear herself smack, schlurp and snort as she eats. She is a professional person, but she is a grotesque eater. She also makes little murmuring and yummy sounds as she eats. And she feeds her pie hole all the time. Often she has food smeared on her face when she's eating because she virtually sticks her face in it and slops like a hog. Astonishing. Disgusting table manners are truly one of my pet peeves. If she had french manicured toenails, I would probably lose my mind.
And have a look at this, I pull this site up and play it every now and then. It's good for a titter.
http://www.albinoblacksheep.com/flash/piehole.php
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 made moussaka for dinner tonight and it was yummy. I can't eat lamb unless it's ground up and heavily spiced (I don't like the way it smells), so normally if lamb is served at my house, it's because I'm cooking Greek or Indian. For a white woman in Nebraska, I tend to do better at ethnic than whitebread meat-n-taters-midwestern.
I am re-testing La Petit Mort and I have determined that myrrh is my nemesis. It goes powdery on me every time, damnit! I am also going to try something that has ylang-ylang in a different combination. I've always assumed that I didn't like it, but I'm beginning to think in another blend, it might work. This last order of mine -- 13 and an imp pack -- wasn't one of my greater success stories. I'm glad that I ordered imps and not bottles! But BPAL, when it works, really works. I went to Omaha yesterday to buy some Arcana soap at Magical Omaha, and I picked up some of their scents for a friend. The owner gave me a bunch of Arcana samples, and they don't work on my picky body chemistry. None of them. But like I said, when a BPAL works on me, it's beyond glorious, and I'll take that any day.
I think that men are somewhat predictable creatures, especially the ones in my general age range, probably because I've simply been dealing with them for so long. But younger guys, I don't get them. There's the young guy at work (25 or 26) who very earnestly flirts with me, although we all know he's just a little poonhound. The senator he works for isn't much better, so my friend Ron and I call the young staffer "little dog" and his boss "big dog." Little dog has been emailing me lately, just being friendly and chatty, but his notes read like he's using a thesaurus for every other word. He's trying really hard, it is kind of sweet and I'll give him credit -- he's a bright guy, and I think he likes having a conversation about something more than drinking beer and watching football. I'm good practice for him, because some day he's going to meet a smart woman in his age range who can have conversations about things he talks about when he visits with me. I think he's afraid to show younger women his more intellectual and artistic side, and that's sad.
Then there's a guy who works at the health club I go to; he's the weekend front desk person. I think he's a grad student, so he's early 20-ish. His parents are professors, he's really smart, kind of chunky-but-cute, very friendly. Or, I should say, he was very friendly -- he spent a ton of time talking to me a few weeks ago and was trying to get me to take tai chi at the club. He already does tai chi, but wanted to try a different instructor, since he'd never taken from the guy who teaches at the club. I'd taken a session with this instructor, and while the guy knows his stuff and is very nice, he is almost incomprehensible as a teacher. Anyway, the front desk guy and I got into a big discussion about eastern disciplines and I gave him the name of my yoga teacher and told him to call her if he ever wanted to drop in on one of her classes. I told him I just didn't have time to add a tai chi class to my schedule. All was fine until about two weeks ago -- now he won't look at me, just types in my member number when I give it to him, halfway rolls his eyes at me when I walk through, and acts like it's a relief to see me leave. I want to say, "Pardon me sweetie, but WTF?" All I've ever done was be polite to him and chat with him a little bit. Christ, I'm old enough to be his mother, maybe he figured that out, but there's no need to act so strangely.
But you know, maybe he's nuts, or maybe he now has a girlfriend, so he's rather immaturely blowing off everyone that he used to get attention. It's really sad -- sometimes I think my intentions can be misinterpreted simply because I try to treat people as actual human beings. I work around the legislature and I'm fairly immune to being treated as a cog in the machine, as a means to an end, but there are times when a thank-you would have been nice, and then there are the times when a thank-you or a simple acknowledgement meant everything in the world. So I try to be genuinely cordial and polite to people; that's all. Everyone deserves that much, and it is a goal of every day of my life, although I forget about it entirely too often.
I was telling a friend the other day, I read things that I wrote when I was much younger and think they are alarmingly rational, considering what an interpersonal pinhead I used to be. It would be OK to be physically younger and cuter again, but hell, it's true -- I'd never go back to being younger because never again do I want to be that much of an emotional retard. Nor would I want to return to dealing with younger guys who were even bigger 'tards than me. Not that as people age, they necessarily mature emotionally, but a few do, and damn, they come as a relief.
All of you who are young and self-aware, you're pretty amazing. There's quite a few of you on the forum, showing you are smart about more things than how to smell really, really good.
Do you like bubble baths? I luuuurve bubble baths. And I am a damn picky bitch about my bubble bath. I used to like the Kiss My Face Peaceful Patchouli bubble bath, but they changed the formula and the bubbles leave much to be desired. I went to Victoria's Secret last week (big shock there...) and got some of their bubble bath, and it's not bad. I got the Strawberries and Champagne scent, which is rather unlike me, but that scent combo has prurient associations (in my head only, not based on any actual experience) and I couldn't resist.
I actually enjoy the V'Tae bath salts in the Sacred Fire scent. That is a really, really sexy scent that is also very comforting. Their verbiage on the package always gets me -- "Anoint. Intoxicate. Enchant. Goddess. Ritual. Magic." Ah, it evokes a web-spinner to me. I just wish they made it in a bubble bath.
And I am a bit of a web-spinner. I don't mind spiders one little bit. I don't pick them up and play with them, but I tend to give them their space and I never want to hurt them. I once got rather upset with a secretary in my office who recounted screaming and running around her kitchen at the sight of a spider before beating it to death with a broom so hard that her kids couldn't even find the carcass when she was finished. The story kind of gave me a pain through the heart. I know we all have our phobias, but holy crap, show some restraint.
Now how the hell did I get here from where I started, on bubble baths? Well let me tell you, if there's a spider in my tub and I want to take a bath, I get a magazine and respectfully move it to a secluded corner of the bathroom. They aren't stupid -- they'll stay away from hot water and bubbles.
Off to my ritual and magic in bubbleland...
I stumbled onto the computer to find a PM from the esteemed minilux, notifying me of the Monster Bait: Underpants LE arrival. When I finished rolling around on the floor with glee, I picked myself up and immediately ordered two bottles. I also ordered a bottle of Beltane, because Scotland and gardens and spring just gets my sap flowing. And laying on a bed wearing lovely panties with flower petals strewn all around you is a lovely thought, no?
My ofrenda today is set to honor Beth, high priestess of panty lovers, and to the lovely mods, who invoked the priestess to develop her panty potion. For without question, only friendly monsters should enter our gorgeous panties!
I this place.
