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
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!
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.
A few other photos -- not as intriguing as the photos from Will Call!
The first one is of Mugzy, staring down a squirrel; it's in the shadows, but he's standing next to a weeping mulberry tree that he loves to use as a back-scratcher.
And here's Ella Bean, wending her way through an path between the major garden area and a small garden pond, which has a lilac bush and day lillies planted around it. A brisk southern wind was blowing those Basset ears around!
I like to plant Mexican sunflowers every year because they're great butterfly magnets. I hope this little guy has headed south, because snow showers are forecast for tomorrow night. Yech!
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????"
Before Ella Bean, the hound of the house was a deeply weird mixed-breed named Mischief, aka Mischief Luella, aka Missy Lu. She was part Aussie Shepherd, part Treeing Walker Coonhound, and she was very epileptic. She was on lots of medications to control the seizures, and being a tad druggy all the time only enhanced her natural oddness. I always said that she wanted to find sheep in trees or to herd raccoons. So confused.
She did retain some of the acute intelligence of her Aussie Shepherd heritage, but it was tempered by the food-driven and general goofy tendencies of her inner hound. Missy was a lot like Pluto in the Disney Cartoons. She could flip anything edible off her nose and catch it, she would happily offer to shake hands in return for food, and her favorite command was "assume the position," whereupon she would roll over on her back.
However, she was a patient old soul (the drugs probably helped -- notice the glassy eyes) and she used to happily pose for photos in all sorts of attire. Here she is, in attire fit for Mexican Independence Day.
Happy Beltane, everyone! My inner druid has always been a spirited creature, and nothing makes me happier than a pagan holiday. It just makes you feel alive, you know? Here's a link to a site that shows there's still a group of Scots who still like to do it up right:
http://www.beltane.org/
I am sure they're sleeping well in Edinburgh today! Or maybe they'll save the sleep for much later tonight...
So leave a May Day basket for someone special, or simply smell so good (thanks to your BPAL) that you're like a walking May Day basket to everyone that you encounter.
Hmmm... I have on Monster Bait: Underpants today, so would that make me a May Basket with a thong in it? What a great May Basket idea!!! I wish I'd thought of it sooner!
Divas, leave your sweetie a new sort of May Basket... a few springs of flowers and blossoms, tied up with a teensy bit of cloth...but oh my... it's your bonny wee knickers!
One of the reasons that I love this forum is because (other than the amusing, funny, intelligent, kind and lovely smell-obsessed members,) it is very well moderated. I used to go onto another forum and spent most of my time there as a lurker, in large part because it wasn't really moderated and the "host" was a bright, well-versed, but utterly mercurical and sometimes Just Plain Nuts person. She'd caused a drama in another forum that resulted in an exodus to her current forum, which was set up specifically so she could host it and provide her expertise, which she does indeed have, in between psychotic episodes.
But predictably, she's had another melt-down in the last week and is turning against forum members and the business who's hosting the forum. A good friend who also used to participate told me about the drama, and it was indeed a fiasco, complete with conspiracy theories and accusations of slander. I looked at it for a while and jokingly suggested to my friend that one of us make a post to the forum that has now become a war zone with a suggestion for a mantra. My thanks go to darkitysnark for the inspiration behind the mantra:
"Ohm yamma ramma drama llama drama!"
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.
Wow, I have a friend (a man) who fell off of someone else's deck (which was only a couple of inches high) and freakishly managed to detach his quadricep (the big muscle that runs down the front of the thigh) from where it attaches around the knee, taking a few tendons with it when it blew.
After I finished wincing and groaning around about the huge amount of hurt that has to be, I realized that I wear stilettos much higher than the deck from which he fell. But he's a guy and I'd wager his joints were pretty tight and wouldn't tolerate the twist.
I rationalize high girl heels by not walking very much in them -- no Carrie Bradshaw-like trotting down the street in them. It's hard on the shoes and it's hard on the feet. That's where I found "Sex And The City" to be the ultimate fantasy; no self-respecting Manolo lover would walk that far on asphalt, because it rips the hell out of them. And there was never, ever, one scene of Carrie soaking her aching tooties after a day of cavorting around in her spikers after Mr. Big or Aidan or whatever man du jour she had her sights set upon. If I'm wrong about that, please comment and let me know. There was a show when Big had angioplasty, but never one where Carrie had bunions removed.
I love girl shoes as much as anyone, and if I ever get a pair of Manolos (or Jimmy Choos), I will post a photo of me wearing them on this blog. (My guess is that I would obtain a used pair on eBay, but you never know when the fairy godmother will appear. Hey, a girl can hope.)
But in the meantime, BPAL is so much more affordable and versatile. You can walk on the asphalt in Chuck Taylor high-tops and still smell like a princess. That's a good trade-off.
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 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.
Billie Holiday simply rocks my world. I was listening to her a bit this morning. Her music simply hits you in the heart. Even when she's singing a happy song or a love song, there's always a little pathos in her voice and I love it. Billie isn't my only favorite jazz singer, I also adore Ella Fitzgerald, and if you asked me to pick my favorite version of "The Way You Look Tonight" it would be Ella's, and not Billie's or Tony Bennet's.
But I digress. Billie loved dogs, and she had a Boxer dog named Mister that she loved like crazy. Since I have a Boxer named Mugzy (or Mister Mug, as I like to call him), I know why she was so devoted to him. A lot of people enjoy Billie because it's cool to say you like her or because she was an such an iconic beauty in her time. Actually, she had a tiny little voice that wasn't that pretty, especially compared to Ella or Sarah Vaughn or other great female jazz singers of her time. However, her style was incomparable.
And Billie also made some great comments about life in the course of her time here on earth, so here are a few:
“Don't threaten me with love, baby. Let's just go walking in the rain."
"If you copy, it means you're working without any real feeling."
"You can be up to your boobies in white satin, with gardenias in your hair and no sugar cane for miles, but you can still be working on a plantation."
"You've got to have something to eat and a little love in your life before you can hold still for any damn body's sermon on how to behave."
I love that last quote. Amen, sister!
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.
I'm in relative slacker mode for a few days here at work. Woot! I've been a bit nose-to-the-grindstone for over a month now, and when I hit this point, I can breathe again. In accordance with my relative leisure, and the fact that I'm not going to wear a power suit if I don't have to do a presentation, I'm wearing a long-sleeved, longish black top with a skirt that has a black and brown Indian print, with a few gold sequins scattered about. Even with the sequins, the skirt is rather understated. And I'm wearing my black corset-lace boots. I'm wearing Mme. Moriarty, since my ensemble seemed a bit like a Misfortune Teller outfit.
Right before the New Year, and continuing into the month of January, I've been doing a brief Ganesha mantra at the start of my meditation each night. Silently. I'm not into chanting out loud, although I love to listen to chanting. If you aren't into Hindu deities, Ganesha is the elephant-headed man -- Ganesha was the subject of the amazingly beautiful BPTP Lotus Moon t-shirt. Ganesha is the remover of obstacles and the god of new beginnings. He also represents wisdom, learning and humility. I think he's a wonderful creature, whether you believe in him as an actual living, breathing diety or as a symbol that inspires you to use your own wisdom and learning to overcome obstacles (within and outside of yourself) and recognize avenues for auspicious new beginnings. And even then, to retain a sense of humility about the process. An elephant-sized order, but a good one.
I suppose my biggest task is to not overthink the entire matter. That probably invokes the humility factor, because I simply can't will things to be so, nor can I control inner guidance. You have to let it happen, you never know when it will arrive, you never know what it will be, but you have to be ready to listen to it. You just never know, and that is the hardest thing of all for me. In comparison, it's a piece of cake for me to walk into a briefing session armed with all sorts of information, because then I am able to say that I know the answer, or I know where to find the answer. To ask, to wait, and to not know about things that are much, much larger is truly humbling.
OM Sri Ganeshaya Namah. There are bigger things than this little place where I work.
Yeah, I read the Bronte sisters and Thomas Hardy, and I like to quote poetry every now and then, but I also listen to Ani DiFranco and I'm in an Ani mood these days. Not that Ani isn't poetic, in her own 20th/21st century way. And anyone who started their own recording label called Righteous Babe Records has to be alright.
Right now I'm listening to the "reckoning" disc of the "Reveling/Reckoning" double CD set. I was driving around last night singing along to "So What" and I looked over at the car in the lane next to me, and there was a teenaged girl, singing and doing upper body dancing as she drove. I thought, damn it, I miss the surly grunger days. In the town that I live in, there's way too many perky teenagers, but I was in suburbia and the closer I get to downtown, the closer I come to finding surly youth. However, a lot of them tend to sit around outside coffee houses and sing folk songs with people closer to my age, and I find it rather confusing.
Back to Ani. A few years ago in "Jazziz" magazine, in response to the question "What is your guilty pleasure?" Ani replied: "FUCK GUILT." That was my New Year's resolution that year. It worked. (I wasn't raised as a Catholic, so maybe it was easier for me.) Then a year later, I did a spin on that and made my New Year's resolution "FUCK 'WHAT-IF'S.'" I realized late last week just how well that one took, because I spent some time around someone who was spinning "what-if" scenarios, that to me, were no more than fantasies about something that was painfully impossible. I realized how I simply never go there, or if I do, I pull myself back. (Hell, I don't even fantasize about Bob Schneider, and that would be a sweet diversion!)
But as a result, I have a bit more of an Ani DiFranco attitude, which is to jam reality right back in my face. It makes for an interesting life, I'm not missing as much, except for when I'm so sulky that I'm not really paying attention. Better to be looking around than your head in the clouds or up your ass, right?
But even then, almost in spite of everything I've said above, I'm still a romantic. I've yet to figure that one out.
The most wonderful indarkmoon mentioned last week that Nikki Giovanni's poem "I Wrote A Good Omelet" was nice, and she was so, so, so correct. Here it is:
I Wrote A Good Omelet
I wrote a good omelet...and ate
a hot poem... after loving you
Buttoned my car...and drove my
coat home...in the rain...
after loving you
I goed on red...and stopped on
green...floating somewhere in between...
being here and being there...
after loving you
I rolled my bed...turned down
my hair...slightly
confused but...I don't care...
Laid out my teeth...and gargled my
gown...then I stood
...and laid me down...
To sleep...
after loving you
I am a sucker for a Scottish accent, so of course Craig Ferguson is way cute to me, but here's a link to a political blog that has two really really funny segments from his show. I thought for a minute that it was real, then realized they're screwing with the tape to make it sound that way, but methinks they didn't have to screw with the tape that much. I nearly pulled a muscle laughing at it.
If you venerate our current president, and not my favorite ol' poonhound and ex-president, William Jefferson Clinton, then don't watch this. (BTW, it's worth it just to hear "Bush" said with a Scottish accent. )
http://www.crooksandliars.com/index.php?s=Craig+Ferguson
I work for a state legislature. They only meet part of the year and they're almost finished, but the final week or two can involve working some long hours, because they meet into the night. A lot of it is a hurry-up-and-wait process for my office, since if there's something on the agenda, we have to sit around and wait for it to come up for debate. There may be a lot of blog entries from yours truly next week...
Anyway, this afternoon a coworker and I were looking at Monday's very long agenda. He commented on a bill title -- something to do with obscene materials. He said: "Hmmm...it's a smut bill." I automatically said: "I love teh Smut!"
He looked at me and said: "Really?" Not that he's a prude, not one little bit, it was just the rapidity of my remark and my great comfort in saying it that took him aback. I told him about Smut of the BPAL variety. He said: "Is this the same group that made the Beaver Moon t-shirt and that Naughty t-shirt?" I said yeah, more or less. (No point boring him with BPAL and BPTP distinctions.)
I still hope the lovely and talented Macha makes a Smut t-shirt design some day, 'cause we do love teh Smut.
I am a word etymology geek, and of course, any sort of "where did that world come from?" question sends me off in search of its origins. In this case:
Webster's New Millennium™ Dictionary of English-
Main Entry: blog
Part of Speech: n
Definition: an online diary; a personal chronological log of thoughts published on a Web page; also called [Weblog], [Web log]
Example: Typically updated daily, blogs often reflect the personality of the author.
Etymology: shortened form of Weblog
Usage: blog, blogged, blogging v, blogger n
______________________________
I admit, I was really down on blogging a couple of years ago, if only because the few blogs I'd run across were the most self-aggrandizing, nauseating pieces of crap I'd ever read. I realize now that the source I'd used to come across them led me to some very unsatisfying blogs. (A much different forum, I won't get into that right now, that's another entry in itself!)
Then I started reading political blogs, especially after watching a discussion on C-SPAN where a number of print media journalists were lamenting the demise of the newspaper as a source of true investigative journalism. The reason they most often cited for that demise was the proliferation of chain newspapers that functioned to reflect the views of the corporate ownership. One of the panelists was the woman who started the political humor-commentary blog Wonkette. Some of the more traditional print journalism panelists were dissing blogers because they lack the editorial control of journalistic ethics, and she retorted that when traditional journalism simply wouldn't look at the hard topics, investigate issues or print the controversial stories, blogs were stepping in to fill that void. And indeed, more and more serious journalists are running their own blogs these days, to the point that they're e-zines. I appreciate that a lot.
Since Wonkette is essentially a political humor blog, I started reading a few more general humor and commentary blogs, just because some of those people make me laugh like crazy. And my local newspaper makes me laugh, but only inadvertantly, and only because they are so hick and pathetic. Good blogs takes things to a higher denominator, and I feel like I'm actually a part of the world again.
So this brings me to writing in my own blog space, which I started mainly for the jollies of it. I saw it as writing practice, if nothing else -- I had no idea what I'd write about. But really, I tend to have a lot of stories. I see my life as an endless series of odd stories and observations, and I share the better ones. (Well, not all of them, but at least some of them.) Sometimes I get a little Zen or a little angsty, but that's human nature. And often, issues and problems take on a greater shape and clarity when one writes about them; the mere act of writing can help end the spinning-in-the-head that too often occurs if we just mull over things without setting them to print.
I think reading each other's stories gives perspective to our own stories. I have friends who know me well, who see me a lot, who have certain expectations of me, and who sometimes do not look at me with fresh eyes. (Not in that "fresh" way, for any of you perverts out there! Oh, oops, hold it...I'm the pervert! ) So many of you give me a fresh perspective, either from your own entries, or through comments on my blogs. Sometimes you are a realilty check that I just can't get from my friends. Hopefully now and then (when I'm not carrying on about underwear, high heels, BPAL or dreams of George Clooney), I give you a different perspective that might also serve as a reality check.
I think our reasons for blogging are as varied and nuanced as we are, and it only adds to the tapestry of our lives. All of you make my life so much more interesting, and for that I am most thankful.
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
Really, Jack Kerouac was once so amazing, and I would have shamelessly chased him around when he was young and beautiful and angsty and idealistic, before he became a totally gone alcoholic former hipster angrily spewing forth bloated hateful bile in his overly dominant mother's home in Florida, renouncing all of his hepcat Zen ways and pushing away everyone who had adored him.
(That was a poor attempt to write just a bit like him.)
So let's just look at him when he was so fine:
The domme of this blog spends way too much time trying to figure out why certain things happen. Way, way too much time, but she thinks she can somehow divine the workings of the universe. What bullshit! Sometimes it's very liberating to say "I don't know," and when one of the last living members of the Beat Generation and Zen wise man Gary Snyder tells you so, you might as well listen. Here's his quote:
"I must confess that I don't have the faintest idea what my purpose is or what's going on. I became comfortable with that mystery a long time ago -- that I would never know how any of these things fit together in any explicit way."
Yuppers, ya just have to roll with it sometimes. Actually, all of the time would be a good idea, but if I can do it just some of the time, I'm doing real well. And speaking of the Beats, was Jack Kerouac a babe or what?
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!
