Do you ever have one of those spells in your life, where you'd just like to put the universe on notice that he/she/it can stop tossing grenades in your path? That maybe you're just tired of dodging explosions in the road, and a bit o' smooth sailing might be a lovely change? Just long enough to have a little time to get some things figured out? I think some people are given a life of more combustables than others. And my life, for the last year, has been a series of big-ass explosions and smaller rumblings, more akin to a volcano getting ready to blow. I'm getting weary of it.
Maybe if I could be a little more clueless, everything wouldn't seem so acute to me, but who wants to be clueless? Sometimes I think those of us who are rather gothic in our outlook are simply the people who just can't stop paying attention long enough to get clueless. Not that I can't be clueless about many things, but they usually aren't important enough to tranqulize me to what's going on.
But I suppose to be awake to the difficulty of life is also to be awake to the gorgeousness of life, so why be a whiny-pants about it?
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:
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.
Hell, I have all sorts of time at work now... I can go back to reading poetry and posting favorite poems, so for all of you that detest poetry, just sign off now. And it's spring, so let's be romantic as hell, at least for a moment or two. Then I'll get real, but still in a romantic way. So for all you lovers out there, here's two ways to look at it.
A mushy poem that I love, by E.E. Cummings:
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
And a not-so-mushy poem by Wallace Stevens:
The night knows nothing of the chants of night.
It is what it is as I am what I am:
And in perceiving this I best perceive myself
And you. Only we two may interchange
Each in the other what each has to give.
Only we two are one, not you and night,
Nor night and I, but you and I, alone,
So much alone, so deeply by ourselves,
So far beyond the casual solitudes,
That night is only the background of our selves,
Supremely true each to its separate self,
In the pale light that each upon the other throws.
And you know, maybe they aren't so different, after all...
For anyone who would be doing some back reading in my blog, first I have to say, "Why?" Then I have to say thank you for reading this far back in my blog. What are you looking for? Anyway, you won't find photos of me anymore. For reasons I won't get into, I decided to take them down. I think my descriptions are pretty vivid, let your imagination do the sight-seeing. It's more fun that way!
This is me. I've never posted my photo in the thread where everyone posts their photo. Most everyone on this forum is very young and very gorgeous. Sometimes I feel so ancient, but hell, I'm immature, so that makes up for my chronological issues. I cropped my friends out of the photos. While I'm choosing to put my picture up online, but I'm not infringing on my friend's privacy by including them in the shots. Let's see... I've been told I look like Frances McDormand, Wendie Malick and Jane Fonda. I dunno.
I think I look like I'm at a former Aerosmith groupie reunion in this picture. For the record, I never was an Aerosmith groupie, but if I had been, I would have been all about Joe Perry:
I looked subdued and confused here, and I did have a migrane. I was also sitting on the floor talking to a 2-year-old. However, it is a damn fine shot of the highlights I had put in my hair and I love my new hairdresser. Let's give Brandi a round of applause for her handiwork.
So that is me, patron saint of lost dogs and lover of all things that look and smell really really nice. If you ever see me around, do stop and say hey...
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!!
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.
Well, there's nothing like a good night's sleep to revive a person and my dream state must have cleansed my psyche of last night's abnormally wistful and weepyish fit.
I have the day off work, I'm going to meet a friend at a brewpub at noon for beer and burgers, and then I'm going to run off and enjoy the sunshine.
I would gather that BPAL cultists have really vivid dreams. Even if you didn't before, I'd wager that you did after you started using BPAL, because I think it has that effect. I think Beth is a shaman.
But dreams are great. Wild-ass shit can just whorl up out of the depths of the subconsciousness and you can have a real show for a while. (Does my adoration of the movie "Waking Life" make more sense now?)
I can tell the difference between "junk dreams," when my brain is simply blowing off the residuals of my day, and "big dreams," where I'm trying to tell myself something very important. I have gotten more efficient in my big dream process, for I had two of them last week, and they were brisk events. They got right to the point and I woke up from the power of the message.
I know a bunch of y'all are the same way, aren't you?
Dreams are fucking amazing. Ever had one that was a harbinger of something that was going to happen? That sense of deja vu, once it happens in your waking life, is pretty wild. However, I've gotten to the point that when it really happens, I think to myself: "Oh hell, I knew that!"
Did anyone else love "The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" as much as I did? You can pretend you've wiped your brain's slate clean -- but your heart still remembers. There's an enormous number of nerves in the heart center, I believe the concentration in that area is second only to the brain. I don't think their functions are entirely physiological machine-control, just like the brain isn't all about being a mechanical control center. There's something going on in the heart center that just doesn't articulate into words right away, but the emotional message is very clear.
I still am in a bit of a mood, aren't I? Well hell, that's OK. Tell me your weirdest dreams and make me laugh. Or tell me your saddest dreams, or most profounds dreams. I love 'em.
And for today and every day, smell divine and feel beautiful... someone always notices.
When you're out shopping for the lingerie with your man-thing or woman-thing or another girlfriend or a gay guy-friend, here's something to get a good laugh, or at the very least, a stunned look:
So you pick up the item -- the bustier, the panties, the bra, the frou-frou nightie, whatever floats your boat, and you hold it up in front of you and say: "Gee, I wonder how this will look?" The person you're with is going to mumble some sort of response. Then you take the garment and rather insouciantly toss it somewhere. I know the staff at most places might get a little fussy if you toss it on the floor, so toss it on a lower display rack or a countertop. Then you lean over, look down at it and say: "Oh, it's going to look divine laying on the floor!"
I know, I know, a lot of the underthingies that I buy are very functional and I want them to fit well to hold the girls in line and avoid VPL on the bottom, but it's a fun thing to do with an unsuspecting companion.
Speaking of underthings, I was at Victoria's Secret the other day and saw, on the sale rack, a bustier with a pin-up girl design on it. It was a size small, and there's no way that I'm a small. I have the shoulders and ribcage of a Soviet bloc swimmer. Well, maybe not quite that wide, but wide enough. I'm broad from the front, but narrow from the side. I know a woman who's built like me, but she's a bit thicker from the side. Not fat, she just has more volume than me. And her boobs aren't as big as mine, but she looks like she has two missiles jutting from her chest. They remind me of a horizontal version of the Grand Teton mountain range. She causes car wrecks.
I was at a party last night, end of the legislature. OK kids, I'm on the dark side of my 40's, but I'm well-preserved. I can pass for about 10 years younger than my chronological age. So one of my coworkers bought me a shot of tequila, because that's what I wanted. I decided a bit later to get some water, and went back to the bar. A really young guy who works down the hall from me came up and started giving me crap for getting water. I told him that I'd had a shot and I needed water. He thought it was so fucking cool that I'd had a shot, that he got a shot for himself and a shot for me. Somehow he made reference to younger men-older women. I told him to call me Mrs. Robinson. I asked him if he'd seen "The Graduate" and he told me that he hadn't, but he'd probably rent it on his way home.
So you know what my take is on this guy? He's probably gay. I mean, there are boatloads of gorgeous young women in their 20's in this building. As a guy in my office says, they're just smokin' hot. What is this guy doing, saying that crap to me when there's eye candy all around? And it's not like he's a total zero -- in fact, he's outgoing and kind of cute, but he's always pinged my gay-dar and now I'm even more convinced.
But he bought me a shot of tequila, so who am I to bitch??
As someone who loves vintage pinup girl art and underwear, this homage to the peculiar illustrations of Art Frahm never fails to draw a titter:
http://www.lileks.com/institute/frahm/art1.html
"The Shakedown" is my favorite. The illustration alone is absurdly Freudian, and the description of it as being from Frahm's "Edward Hopper period" are spot on, although Hopper is probably rolling in his grave.
OK, I just channel-surfed past the Home Shopping Network or QVC, or one of those channels, and they were selling some skank-ho trashy platform sandals that had a peculiar "Carmen Miranda goes to Africa" vibe to them. And they were $150. You know 50ish fat ladies will be tottering around in them, their tubby little toes with toenails pained orange (and always long toenails, because they're too fat to trim them properly) spread wide from the tonnage inflicted upon them from being placed at such an odd angle. Christ, these shoes wouldn't be cute on you adorable young things with really cute feet and skinny little legs. You'd look like you were wearing cement blocks on your feet that were painted in a black-and-white tribal design.
Wouldn't it be great to have a goth home shopping network? Or just to have a few good goth merchants show up on QVC? Beth and Puddin' could do a BPAL and BPTP segment. I would pay good money to see it and of course would spend money like a drunken sailor.
I must start today's post with a moment of love. Thanks to shriekingviolet (I corrected this from the original, where I called her "Ultraviolet." Sorry! If you're going to thank someone, it helps to call them by the correct name. Jeez.) and all the mods who helped get the forum running again and in its new, improved and expanded form, including this little blog corner. You guys are fantastic.
I went shoe shopping today. Actually, sandal shopping. I wanted a new pair of black sandals, femme-looking, and I was having a hard time locating such a thing. I like the wedges, but a lot of the wedges with black uppers aren't very delicate looking. Picky, picky, picky...
I'd actually purchased a pair of wedges a couple of days ago and hadn't worn them yet. I put them on last night and decided for the price I'd paid, they weren't exactly what I wanted. So I went back and found my usual salesman, who knows an addled shoe 'ho when he sees one, returned my first purchase and started on a new quest. I found what I wanted. I'd include a link to them, except they just don't look as hot in photos the way they do on the foot. They're Kenneth Cole Reaction shoes, the model is called "Float Ur Boat," or something like that. All black, kitten heels, a teensy wedge with canvasy edging, thong-style, and the thong has rhinestones and sequins (all black) on them. Got my toenails painted a nice burgundy, and I am ready to rock and roll. Foot fetishists, watch out.
If anyone likes jazz, go buy Cassandra Wilson's new CD called "Thunderbird."
The first time that I sampled "O," I was convinced that it smelled like b.o. on me. The scent had to grow on me, and it helped that other people would kind of have their eyes roll up in their heads and go "ummmmm" when they smelled me. A couple of people that I know did such a long "ummmmm" that I thought they were chanting "Ohm" like a yogi or yogini. And now, it's become my comfort scent. I love it alone, I love to mix it. But I'm really excited to get my order with Osun in it... it has honey and herbs, and that sounds OK with me. That CnS should be coming in a few days, since in my classic fashion, I ordered 1 LE bottle and then decided to go on a GC rampage. And then last week I went on another LE rampage.
Do you know why I stay in the blogs so much? It's to keep my no-self-control, goodie-purchasing ass out of Retail Therapy. I am rather easily enabled.
I have a dear friend at work, a great guy, our brains work in very different ways. He's terribly thorough and literally worries things to death. I am a classic Intuitive on the Myers-Briggs inventory and I will jack around seemingly doing nothing and then regurgitate a lot of work. My friend said to me yesterday: "You tend to read, think and write a lot faster than I do." A couple of weeks ago he walked into my office at the end of the day and said: "It's not that what I was doing today was so difficult, it's just that I had a hard time doing it." You have to love such goofy honesty about one's own self!
It's a quiet day around the blogs, I bet you were all out panty shopping, right?
I was so busy this morning that I couldn't write in my blog. Horrors!
But let's talk about the ebb and flow of energy, or kundalini, or chi, or prana, or the life force. Holy crap, Batman, this time of year is astonishing to me. The vernal equinox is the equivalent of putting me on speed. Literally. I can't sleep, I don't want to eat, I vibrate. I'm not complaining. It makes me feel so fucking alive, I can't tell you how much I love it.
I'm just happy that I don't repress this.
It's gotten more pronounced since I've been meditating every night, which is something that's gone on for 7 years or so, but it really kicked into drive last year. Somehow, I've become more attuned to the cycles of nature, and there's nothing to complain about there. I may not be very enlightened, but I can feel the cycles of gaia, and that's fine with me.
So, you say, how does the above reconcile with the lingerie-obsessed, BPAL-addicted jabbering in prior posts? Maybe I'm whack, but like I told someone last week, this is what it's all about -- we need to enjoy our senses as much as we're able to. We're in this human incarnation and we have the ability to truly understand and appreciate our embodiment. Isn't that fabulous? Why do we try to shut ourselves down, why do we deny our senses, deny our emotions? Why do we avoid connecting with each other?
So I'll stop rhapsodizing and end with a couple of quotes from one of my favorite movies (minilux, are you out there??), "Waking Life:"
Hey. Could we do that again? I know we haven't met, but I don't want to be an ant. You know? I mean, it's like we go through life with our antennas bouncing off one another, continously on ant autopilot, with nothing really human required of us. Stop. Go. Walk here. Drive there. All action basically for survival. All communication simply to keep this ant colony buzzing along in an efficient, polite manner. "Here's your change." "Paper or plastic?' "Credit or debit?" "You want ketchup with that?" I don't want a straw. I want real human moments. I want to see you. I want you to see me. I don't want to give that up. I don't want to be ant, you know?
and....
The ongoing WOW is happening right NOW.
I'm sleeeeeepy today. I worked late last night, didn't eat enough the entire day (that happens when I get hyped) and then a girlfriend from work wanted to get a quick martini after the legislature finally adjourned at 8:30 pm.
A Cosmopolitan on an empty stomach is rather potent. It pisses me off that I have to love the sterotypical "Sex and the City" drink, but I do, in spite of myself. I love Sea Breezes too, and maybe I should start ordering them. I just love booze and cranberry juice and I still prefer Cosmos to Sea Breezes because I could take or leave the grapefruit juice.
My friend had a dirty martini with olives and a little bit of blue cheese, or something like that, sprinkled on the olives. She said it was yum, it looked kind of good, but ugh, I know I would have hated it with a deep and abiding passion. I am a fruity sort, in so many ways.
My girlfriend is fun, a diva, and we had a nice chat. We've both been so busy with work that we haven't talked that much recently. Once the legislative session ends, we have to get back to that periodic check-in over martinis.
OK, my perfume is still in the Tunisian Patchouli and O rut, loving it, my bra is a pretty shiny pale blue fabric with almost goldish undertones, with a gold-bronze lace accent. The bits are covered by a thong, in this great retro tattoo print fabric. Mainly blue and white, but with some red tattoo heart designs.
I anxiously await a CnS on my first Monster Bait order (underbed) and a GC order. I've been tracking the CnS thread this week, and my time is growing near. I always feel like a virgin bride awaiting her beloved when I know an order is coming...
I'm in a rut, but it's a lovely rut, and a rut that I am happy to wallow in. I'm still wearing Tunisian Patchouli with O slathered over the top. It is a nice dirt rut with a bucket of honey and nuggets of amber poured into it. It works for this time of year. My body chem is very seasonal and this is the Tunisian patchouli time of year; it gets too overwhelming when the weather cools off, and even now, I like I much better when it's layered and softened with the O.
I have a tattoo of a triskele on my sacrum; I got it because I love Celtic spirals and it reminds me of the New Grange stone carvings. I've had it for several years now and I only recently discovered that in "The Story of O," the protagonist (or maybe I should say the pro-agonyist) wears a ring with a triskele design. As a result, in some quarters, the triskele is a symbol for BDSM.
So I wear O, I have a triskele tattoo, someone give me my leathers and a whip! A friend of mine used to get a catalog from a place called "Dream Dresser," and he always passed it on to me. Oh my. It made me want to become a domme on the spot. He stopped getting the catalog and we looked up the company on the web, and sadly, I think they're defunct.
All that said, I never do the domme act. I think I have more fun making people believe that I would make them get down on their knees and bark like a dog, than I ever would have if they actually did so.
Oh yes! I have on an eggplant-colored bra. One of the VSC bandolier minimal-padding numbers. I really like the way that the straps look, they're wider-set and very flattering. And I love the color. My panties are black mesh bikinis. I do have undies to match the bra, but they tend to produce VPL (visible panty line) and I have on a pair of those long shorts/short trousers with dark hose. I didn't want to ruin the line.
So I've been told that men love VPL as long as it's not incredibly evident. Just a shade of it that find rather sexy, just because they get to think about your panties. But is that true? What have you heard? Do report back...consider it a research mission.
Back to my fragrant rut...
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.
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.
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.
Lingerie divas, this blog is here to enable you. I happily encourage growing the economy by purchasing BPAL and lingerie. The two are like hand and glove, for gorgeous lingerie is made even more beautiful when you are wearing a white-hot BPAL oil.
I had a $10 credit to Victoria's Secret and wandered out there over my lunch hour yesterday like a crack-addled 'ho in search of her next fix. Naturally, I came away with a new bra, but just one thong undie. I had succumbed to the IPEX bra extravaganza out there last spring and summer and now have three pairs of those babies. I do think the demi version of the IPEX is the nicest, and that is, in fact, the model of my sassy tangerine bra. But yesterday I purchased their new Secret Embrace model in a lovely dark cocoa brown. The Secret Embrace underwires are barely detectable and there's no bulky snaps or even tags. It's intended for those clingy little spring and summer tops, BPTP baby doll t-shirts and the like. And it's got a bit o' subtle padding in the bottom of the cup, to give the girls a bit of an extra boost.
And while I wear a 36 C or D cup at VSC, that just makes me laugh. My girls are middlers at best. I have broad shoulders and a fairly wide ribcage, so there's a bit of a grand canyon between the girls; cleavage requires feats of engineering that are too painful for me consider, so I rely on the perkiness factor where the girls are concerned.
And I had my mammogram about 3 weeks ago. Divas, please do valentina a favor and do your breast self-exams, and if you're of the age where a mammo is indicated, get one. If affordability is an issue, many states have passed laws that help pay for mammograms if you don't have health insurance. Check it out. Our girls are wondrous things and we need to keep an eye on them. Also consider taking flax seed oil as a supplement; first of all, it's great for your skin and hair and second of all, there's some evidence that essential fatty acids can help diminish the risk of cancers, including breast cancer. If you won't do it because I say so, do it for Sheryl Crow. I mean, I don't really like her music, but to break up with Lance (not that I think he'd be an especially laid-back boyfriend) and then be diagnosed with breast cancer is pretty fucking rough patch, IMHO.
OK, when did this become a public service announcement? Oh my hell, you've probably stopped reading!! Let's talk about the flesh colored mesh thong with that little "Pink" dog VSC mascot depicted in red rhinestones on the upper left-hand side. I think that Pink campaign is a bit pruient and about as subtle as a 2x4 upside the head, but I have dogs so what do I do when confronted with a fleshy meshy thong with a doggie on it? I buy it, because I am a lingerie-addled 'ho.
And this 'ho keeps wear her O and Tunisian Patchouli combo. It smells really good together. I know I will tire of it, my body chem will do another seasonal/hormonal morph, or more likely, my order of the Monster Bait and Osun will arrive and I'll have a new infatuation, but for now, the O and Tunisian Patchouli cocktail is swoon-worthy.
What color, dahlings, is your underwear today? I'm wearing a tangerine-colored bra. Very sassy. And I have on a tangerine and yellow mesh bikini that ties on the sides.
And underneath the underwear, I'm wearing a combination of Tunisian Patchouli (from DSH) with O over the top. Damn, that is a fine combination. I think O is great alone, but I love it as a mixer.
Now this might be an interesting thing to track... I normally put my BPAL on prior to wearing underwear. Does the BPAL that I pick for that day affect the type of underwear that I pick? Ah, I have found a purpose for this blog... I'm going to track the influence of BPAL application upon my choice of lingerie.
My serious, Kinsey Report-like analysis has begun...
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.
I do adore my BPAL, but I love lipstick a lot. If you smell great and you have really red lips and smoky eyeliner and a nice push-up bra and some lacy undergoodies, life is delish'.
I'm sitting here at my desk and I have an empty tin of Uncle Joe's Mint Balls. I found this product at TJ Maxx and it made me laugh so hard that I had to purchase it. They're what... from England? They're really just a hard candy with mint flavoring. We had a lot of fun with the contents here at work while they lasted. As in: "What'cha eating?" "Oh, I'm sucking on one of Uncle Joe's mint balls."
Uncle Joe doesn't look like Uncle Joe in "Petticoat Junction," of course, he looks like a proper London gentleman in a a white top hat, ascot and suitcoat. Would someone with minty balls look any other way? I think not.
Today I'm wearing Kali with O over the top.
From etymology online, the origin of the word "goon:"
goon
1921, "stupid person," from gony "simpleton" (c.1580), of unknown origin, but applied by sailors to the albatross and similar big, clumsy birds (1839); sense of "hired thug" first recorded 1938 (in ref. to union "beef squads" used to cow strikers in the Pacific northwest), probably from Alice the Goon, slow-witted and muscular (but gentle-natured) character in "Thimble Theater" comic strip (starring Popeye) by E.C. Segar (1894-1938). She also was the inspiration for British comedian Spike Milligan's "The Goon Show." What are now "juvenile delinquents" were in the 1940s sometimes called goonlets.
For those who are not familiar with vintage cartoons, Alice the Goon was so primoridally bizarre that she still freaks me out a little. I was always fascinated and deeply weirded out by her presence in Popeye cartoons. I have an Alice the Goon stuffed toy that I found on eBay a few years ago. I also love The Jeep, that weird little magical dog-monkey thing in Popeye. Was Segar on acid when he drew those cartoons?
Here is lovely Alice herself -- she was a bit of an androgynous old thing:
I think a BPAL scent based on Alice the Goon would be wonderful, although I imagine it to smell a bit like Enraged Orangantan Musk.
Maunder:
1. [v] speak (about unimportant matters) rapidly and incessantly
2. [v] talk indistinctly; usually in a low voice
3. [v] wander aimlessly
I so do need to thump myself in the head and give myself an attitude adjustment. Except that's probably not the gentlest way to look at it... Let's see... I need to remind myself not to whack out in my predictable old ways.
But I'm so good at whacking out, since it's my Own Private Madness and at worst I seem a bit distracted. Inside, I am a teeming malestrom of whackedness and then I get more pissed off at myself because I know I'm doing it to myself. I went out for a walk to try to clear my head and actually did something to make it worse. Oh, it's a long story.
And for hell's sake, I have no basis to bitch. None whatsoever. My pissiness is based upon the fact that I want what I want when I want it, even when it makes no sense and my brain knows better.
Part of my attitude problem is, I'm sure, due to lack of sleep. I went to bed about 11:30, woke up at about 1 a.m. feeling like shit and I didn't get back to sleep until about 3:30. Then a thunderstorm rolled in at 5:30 am and woke me up.
And lack of sleep often produces a heightened princess "wah!" effect in my psyche. I need to chill out tonight and meditate for about an hour to get my turmoil under control. And I need to do it early, because if I try it too late at night, I will keep nodding off because I'm tired. That may happen anyway.
I'm not going to get into what's upsetting me, but trust me, most of you would categorize it as an amusing, madcap, abudance of riches "problem" of the sort that would be whined about by Carrie Bradshaw in "Sex and the City." Yuppers. The reason that I watched "Sex" was to watch that bitch openly whine about such things and have girlfriends patiently listen and not yell at her at the top of their lungs "SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU SPOILED ASSHOLE BITCH! JESUS CHRIST! PEOPLE WOULD DIE FOR THESE 'PROBLEMS!'" And I also find Chris Noth (Mr. Big) to be hot.
I'll stop maundering now. Anyone who read all the way to this point, you are a saint or you want to be like Carrie's long-suffering girlfriends in "Sex." Or for whatever reason, thank you.
I find it almost impossible to believe that I have not mentioned shoes in any of my blog entries. Shoes of the high-heeled, ankle-strapped, bordering on Bettie Page fetish heels, retro-style shoes, platform thongs for the summer, boots of all varieties. The shoe fetishists always are agog. I have a pair of stiletto heels, pumps with the newer rounded toe, the fabric has small multi-color polka dots. When I wore them last week, they were compared to 1) confetti on New Year's Eve, and 2) cupcakes with sprinkles on the top, and 3) Easter Eggs. Are those shoes a Roschach test of sorts?
I once had someone tell me that the shrinks believe men become foot/shoe fetishists because they sat at their mother's feet adoringly as wee boys, and somehow the association with feet and the love of a woman merge in their brains. Well. Their mommas probably didn't wear shoes like mine.
One of my girlfriends calls me the shoe whore, and made up a Dr. Seuss book title of sorts for me, called: "Who Shore The Shoe Whore Of Her Shoes?"
However, for every yin there is a yang, and I also own two pairs of Dansko clogs, a really ugly but comfy pair of Keens, about 4 pairs of Birkenstocks (one pair is close to 20 yrs old) and one pair of Merrells. I have to keep my feel happy during their down time from the stilettos. And I'm wearing my Adidas athletic shoes as I write.
I won't even get into the effect that good lingerie and great high heels have when worn in concert. Just look at Bettie Page for the ultimate example of the incendiary nature of such combinations!
My friend Ron sent this to me today:
Marguerite Duras said, "You have to be very fond of men. Very, very fond. You have to be very fond of them to love them. Otherwise they're simply unbearable."
