darkitysnark

The assumption usually made about those of a Darker Bent, is that they tend to surround themselves with dark, brooding colors in heavy, funereal (sometimes boudoiresque) fabrics. Those traditionalists really need to just go elsewhere and have some tea and (angsty, morose) biscuits because Darkity is about to Blow Your Mind. Behold: Master Bedroom, apres Snarkification After one coat. One more (maybe two) to go. Master Bedroom, before, back toward the bathroom. Darkity added for scale. The color is called "chocolate sparkle" though the Snarks are unsure from where the "sparkle" comes. OK, OK. So that wasn't really all that crazy. In fact, it is rather traditionally dark and cozy. But! The ceiling? Those putrid green niches? Those are all going to be sky blue, y'all. The ultimate Master Plan involves a few different shades of green and leaf stencils to create a treehouse/canopy effect. On to the brightness: Oops! I exceeded photo limits... to be continued in Part Two, then!

I have what I like to call "tunnel hearing" which makes it nigh impossible for me to hear someone talking to me in a loud, crowded bar. Throw in a live band and I'm absolutely useless socially. On the Myers-Briggs scale of things, The Mister and I are an exact match except that he's Introverted, and I'm Extroverted. I think we complement eachother well. I do better in large groups (being the Life of the Party/Stand-up Comedianne) and he handles more intimate gatherings really well. Together we sort of tag team social situations. But I understand how you feel, even as a somewhat hard-headed extrovert. It's very difficult to find compatible footing with a new person even in the most controlled circumstances.

Snarky's got a camera full of color, but hasn't had the time (or the energy) to download them for y'all. Hopefully she'll be able to snatch a moment's respite to faithfully record and report the process of The Snarks stamping their sign of ownership all over the walls of this house tonight. Maybe. In the meantime, Snarky just wants to take a moment to share her newfound, revitalized love for violets. She bought a few to transplant into a strawberry pot from the local multi-culti pan-Asian megalomart. They've been acclamating by the kitchen sink (along with a fancy jade plant and six organic basil seedlings purchased from a redheaded entrepreneurial tweenager with charming salesmanship) and provided a very uplifting, very grounding whiff of goodness every time Snarky and The Mister bellied up to the sink to rinse out paintbrushes and pans. She can't remember the last time a little handful of flowers has brought her so much peace and joy and contentment and hope. She can almost feel the chemistry of her brain rearranging to hardwire the smell of violets and fresh latex paint directly into her idea of this house that is slowly evolving into their home. This makes her happy beyond the thrill of new homeownership. Most of her scent memories come from pre-adult times. She has always hoped to experience equally intense moments now that she can appreciate them more fully. (She has a fairly depressing theory about the relative impact of finite periods of "important" time in inverse proportion to the longevity of the subject experiencing those periods of "memorable" time. Anything that disproves this theory is welcomed warmly and with much fanfare.) So yes. Tonight, possibly pictures of retina searing colors. If not that, than definitely the long and somewhat interesting tale of the fancy schmancy piece of exercise equipment The Snarks purchased over the weekend. Edited to add: OK, so the tie back to BPAL is kind of tenuous at best. I meant to say that I am now going to re-evaluate my "to try" list to include just about everything with violet in it. Then I got sidetracked... and hell, tangents happen, y'know?

Wonderful poem! Being all angsty and gothy, though, I can't help but read this as an accusation too. "You messed me up the the head! I'm all backwards! After loving you!" OK, that might be more sleep deprivation than anything.

The Snarks are homeowners! Snarky = ecstatic, The Mister = Already Thinking... To commemorate this life-changing event, Snarky is tweaking her blog a bit to include documentation of the ongoing process of turning This Old House into their Home. Snarky is still planning to keep with the third person format. She will most likely still throw in random fits of writerly aspiration. But the focus has shifted enough to warrant a re-chistening of this blog. The Snarks are really, truly happy to have gotten through this first major hurdle toward housedom. Unfortunately, their new status started out with a Snakes on a Plane shakedown in the form of a break-in to their new house. Apparently some bored, only mildly motivated hoodlums noticed the "SOLD" sign in front of the house and the fact that the previous owners had recently vacated. They took advantage of the occupancy lull and crowbarred their way into the empty house. After unsuccessfully attempting to wrench the sink disposal out of the kitchen, it appears they left empty handed. They even left the crowbar behind. The Snarks are feeling a bit shaken by this. They've had car break ins in the past, but their home? Never. After talking with the neighbors, they feel a bit better. They're a (usually) watchful, mindful bunch. Besides the obvious changes to the game plan (having the sellers purchase a new side door, installing anti-theft systems) they are now thinking that a Whole Hog style move in (rather than a piece-meal, dribs and drabs approach) would make them feel more secure about their few possessions. What a way to get started! Nevertheless, The Snarks are determined to make crudites out of cruddy human nature and plan to gather fluff and twigs so that they can fuss and fidget until their nest feels Just Right. The tenative plan for this weekend is to possibly purchase a nearly-new commercial grade elliptical machine for their gym/entertainment area in the basement. Though this fine piece of machinery is an amazing find on the Craigslist Portland site, it still is pricey enough to cause Snarky to reconsider her gym membership. If they can also find a decent set of free weights for cheap, she will hang up her wee courtesy towel for good and Sweat to the Oldies (or the Emos, or whatever else The Mister has going) at Home. Snarky is also thinking about taking on the somewhat daunting task of refinishing the hardwood floor in the upstairs master bedroom suite. This might be as little as scruffing up the finish with steel wool and adding two coats of poly... or as much as renting a belt sander, floor buffer, and edger and spending two days stripping, scruffing, and recoating. Either way, she thinks it will greatly improve the feel of the room and it will also be much less than the bamboo overhaul The Mister has been craving. And with that bit of good/bad/good, this sleepy new homeowner is going to collapse into bed.

The Snarks thank y'all for your enthusiasm! They are going through lightning quick shifts between excited, exasperated, exhausted, and enthusiastic all at once. Today's project? Paint six rooms (granted, some of them are just tester walls). For all her gothy proclivities, Darkity has consented to some very saturated, very brilliant shades. Film at 11.

Congratulations on a shrink-wrap-free performance! We all knew you would rise to the occasion. Once upon a time I was one of the waddling ballerinas (though never one of the 5% body fat crowd, thank goodness) and remember how awkward it was to sit in one of those two piece tutus (top part was corset-like, bottom half was the rotary saw of tule). I would've traded in my leotards for a belly dancer's getup anyday. And I'm excited about your roses too! I love it when the things I try to grow don't keel over (we're currently at about a 60% success rate).

I am loving the twists and turns of phrase in this poem. Thank you for sharing it, Valentina! It's even more interesting if you make this a dialogue.... And now I want to look up the omelet poem too! It's been years since I actively sought out a poet. My short stint in creative writing camp made me very self conscious of and for all poets somehow. (Mostly for the readings... which I find awkward, embarrassing, and uncomfortable most of the time.)

Snarky's analytical brain knows that there is still ONE MORE DAY until the house is officially theirs. But her animal Veruca Salt side of her brain is stomping its little patent-leather Mary Janes-shod feet all over the sensible hardwood floors, scuffing up the works. Snarky just had a minor retail freak out over at Penance's tart site just now and is not looking forward to the reaction of The Mister. She doubts that he was as troubled as she was by the "Old House Smell" that was wafting up from the recently vacated basement. This assumption is based mostly on the fact that she had to point it out to him. But she could not resist scent combinations like hinoki wood & cypress, blackberry & sage, persimmons (The Mister's favorite dessert fruit) & water orchid, and the legendary Red Velvet Cake. Because Chez Snark will not have Old House Smell. It musn't! Snarky is contemplating some sneaky shadiness in the form of "Oh! Why, it must be a housewarming gift from some mysterious and tasteful benefactor!" Yeah. That's the ticket. Scent-induced memories have always been important to Snarky. Her memory is uneven and mostly buried in her subconscious (she could tangent off into a rather lengthy recap of this morning's just-before-the-alarm dream that dredged up all manner of high school, college, and oddly enough, recent pop-culture bugaboos). Anything to help trigger a sense of continuity and a past is snapped up and put in the arsenal. Snarky wants this house to be linked to anything other than the Old House Smell. She probably went a bit overboard, but she wanted to have all her ol factory bases covered.

Why thank you! The Snarks can almost remember what it was like to own a house. It was a pain in the patootie (Snarky has a black thumb, and The Mister has a pro-wrestling approach to yardwork), but they loved it! They painted their last house all sorts of funky colors and broke random holes in the wall (with good intentions... that were mostly met... mostly.) And this house (and yes, it is the little pink dollhouse from previous posts) has so much already done to it... they are getting very excited. Snarky has made the executive decision to use this blog to document the goings on in Chez Snark along with random third person flights of writerly fancy (and sometimes maybe both at the same time).

Darkity was going to squee all over the "how are you feeling?" thread, but there's some heavy shozbot going down over there and she didn't want to be the inappropriately gleeful one interrupting the flow of commiseration... So she'll subject her blog to rampant glee instead. Because the house? Very almost nearly officially ChezSnark! Darkity and The Mister signed away their lives and handed over The Big Check yesterday. The Sellers had already signed their bit up in Canada, so all that stands between The Snarks and Homeownership now is for the paperwork to record (and the check to go through... Darkity still regrets that her bank does not make their checks proportionately sized to the amounts they represent. She wanted to have a picture of the Ginormous Check Handoff complete with Ginormous Publisher's Clearinghouse style Check.), which is scheduled to happen sometime on Friday. To add to the glee, some good friends visiting from Back East were dragged to the homesite for One Last Look on Saturday, and the house (and grounds) met with enthusiastic approval. These friends have about two more decades of experience with the world than The Snarks. The husband is the Ultimate Mr. Fixit and the wife is a Master Gardener. They both knew The Snarks' last ChezSnark (in all it's cute, quaint, cramped glory) and are famliar with Darkity's Black Thumb of Doom. So to get their nod of encouragement was... extremely encouraging! Now The Snarks are dealing with nesting instincts on Overdrive. They found a place that consigns ecclectic furniture. They are addicted to Craigslist. They are gonna have a home!

Snarky is wondering if her blog might not morph into some sort of "This Old (Goth/Fragrant/Funky) House" log instead. There's only so many permutations of navel-gazey prose that can be eeked out before repeating the angsty loop.

antimony, I your ginormous egg brain! This is not an insult, this is the highest intellectual regard I can give to anyone. I admire your drive, your discipline, and again, egg brain! Have a wonderful time at your performance too! I miss that sense of giddy, slighty queasy, adrenaline WHOOSHing few moments whilst waiting for my cue in the wings. Also the waiting backstage, heavily scented with carnations and Aqua Net (hm... maybe I should find my imp of Stardust), the sounds of Uno and gossip and rustling tulle. Ahh... nostalgia!

Punching? Also theraputic. But yeah, I know what you mean about the touchy-feely culty strangers. I get the same type of heebie jeebies whenever I go to a church with all the forced neighborly stuff. I get my physical succor from a select few intimates. The added stress of coping with a strange (albeit well-meaning) body all up in my area does not help with the coping AT ALL. Having said all that, I haven't experienced this intense of a loss yet. I hope you do find some more people who have gone through this to help you feel your way through your grief.

That just put a special smile on my face.

Snarky's rule of thumb for writing is the good/bad/good sandwich rule she learned to apply to constructive criticism. Start with something good (ex: "Your lettering on this proposed architectural plan is immaculate and evocative of long past youthful, carefree summers.. "), slide in a critique of what you found lacking (ex: ".. unfortunately your design not only is not to code, but evidences a blantant disregard to ADA regulations and to the human body in all its forms and functions, plus it sucks... and is made of poo ... "), and always close with another positive comment to lessen the sting and leave a better taste in everyone's mouth (ex: "... again, those are really pretty 'g's!"). It's an old crutch of hers, but it's served her well and has allowed her to limp far in the world of BPAL oil reviews, friends' fashion choice advising, The Mister's culinary side-step evaluations, and also blog entries. Unfortunately Snarky didn't make a good sandwich in her last entry, which was nothing but ageist, whiny pantied, somewhat gross yuckiness. For this, she apologizes. Snarky knows that every person is allowed to feel like total and utter crap, that sometimes indulging in a Bad Mood can help to purge oneself of built up gunk. But laying it all bare and out there with no relief or sign of redemption was irresponsible of her. That is what LiveJournal is for. So here's Snarky's after-dinner-mint to ease any indigestion from the last bad-bad-not funny enough sandwich of the last post: Always Look on the Bright Side of Life -Lyrics by Eric Idle, from "Life of Brian" Some things in life are bad They can really make you mad Other things just make you swear and curse. When you're chewing on life's gristle Don't grumble, give a whistle And this'll help things turn out for the best... And...always look on the bright side of life... Always look on the light side of life... If life seems jolly rotten There's something you've forgotten And that's to laugh and smile and dance and sing. When you're feeling in the dumps Don't be silly chumps Just purse your lips and whistle - that's the thing. And...always look on the bright side of life... Always look on the light side of life... For life is quite absurd And death's the final word You must always face the curtain with a bow. Forget about your sin - give the audience a grin Enjoy it - it's your last chance anyhow. So always look on the bright side of death Just before you draw your terminal breath Life's a piece of shit When you look at it Life's a laugh and death's a joke, it's true. You'll see it's all a show Keep 'em laughing as you go Just remember that the last laugh is on you. And always look on the bright side of life... Always look on the right side of life... (Come on guys, cheer up!) Always look on the bright side of life... Always look on the bright side of life... (Worse things happen at sea, you know.) Always look on the bright side of life... (I mean - what have you got to lose?) (You know, you come from nothing - you're going back to nothing. What have you lost? Nothing!) Always look on the right side of life... (And yes, I know, I'm referencing two different Monty Python movies. The song fit the theme better, and I can't pass up a good "wafer thin" joke pretty much ever. So there you have it. It's worse than mixed metaphors!) (Of which I am unnaturally fond of as well.)

Snarky enjoys the occasional gross-out too. She just felt she was a little short on the redeeming factor with yesterday's post. Depressing staring-into-the-void is so her-rogue-poet-days-in-high-school. Also, yes, sammiches are good. Almost as good as soup. But soup and sammiches? Perfection! Darkity had forgotten that part... but now it's back full force, in technicolor smell-o-vision. Such a wonderful bit of oneupsmanship line-wise. Wonder who thought of that throw-away bit. Darkity still has fantasies of rogue accountants storming the office all swash-buckly and manic some days.

You're proof that even admirable folks aspire for other things. It's what makes us human. We *are* because we *want*. S'perfectly normal. I've always feared that complete happiness would herald the end of me via complacency and absolutely no desire for improvement.

At one point I had planned to cataloge character studies of concert-going archetypes. Scary-fat-class-clown guy was one of them (and I agree, that guy is brrr scary!). There's a whole "painfully earnest teen" subtype including "Little Miss/Mr. Drumalong (bottom lip between teeth, eyes closed)" and "OMG I'M SO HAPPY THEY'RE PLAYING *MY* SONG/Bunny Hopper". For the record, The Mister is a "Totally White Dude/Bobbing Head Hipster Wannabe" while I'm "Entitled Short Chick/Interpretive Dancer" I, uh, have never seen any of the CSI's. (Though I keep hearing about the awesomeness of it. Plus the yumminess of Grissom. I can't help but think of Peterson in his "Manhunter" role, which just makes me think of Meier architecture and Miami Vice. Which is sort of a guilty kind of a turn on.)

Oh dear. Now I've got my imaginary William Jefferson Clinton (wow, that does make me tingle just saying it) voice crooning in the back of my head: "Ah couldn't help it, y'know. After all, I'm just a crazy ol' poon hound, ma'am." One part aw-shucks, one part pick-up-line, all swirled together with a Southern swizzle stick. I suppose all us angsty/gothic types romanticize stalking at some point. What higher kind of twisted devotion is there than the one where you completely lose yourself in the charisma of another? It took one very slight brush with stalkerdom (an online acquaintance looked up my phone number and called me out of the blue when I wasn't quick to answer an email) for me to kill all romantic notions of the practice, though. That was just creepy. ETA: Poon hound. Hee!

This has been a year of body horror. Turning thirty, while not nearly as traumatic on the very day back in January as expected, has become a bit of a milestone despite her best efforts to avoid cliche. Thirty was when she had her first (and hopefully last) root canal. Thirty was when she had her first (again, she hopes last, but fears this is really the first of many) cancer scare. Thirty was when she not only looked at her own changing body, but also The Mister's with a bit of shock, a bit of revulsion. Just a bit. Her uneasy truce with her skin shattered. She now feels like a dying tree trapped in the tightening grip of some parasitic growth that has managed to encase her in its foreigness, its utter otherness. She's caved in in a mountain of puss, bile, shit, saliva, and tears. It moves and shifts at the whims of Nature and she must move along with it to avoid suffocating. A puppet mistress tangled up in her own skeins of control. She's glad she only has to see the dentist twice a year if a routine cleaning unearths these kinds of thoughts every time!

Snarky didn't mean to scare ya, honest she didn't! She's had a fascination/horror of her own body, its fluids, and its functions her whole life. It's just that turning thirty seems to put a real sense of finality to it all. When she isn't navel gazing Snarky does enjoy feeling her age too. Some things she didn't have in her teens and early twenties: - self awareness - a good relationship with her parents - The Mister - a real understanding of the depth of her friendships (see also: self awareness) - non-slutty fashion sense Sometimes Snarky looks in the mirror and curses the march of time. Other times she looks and doesn't see the fault-lines, just the way she's grown up. Thirty ain't so bad unless you want it to be. This could probably be applied to any age, really.

Ha! That's pretty much The Mister and my musical tastes in a nutshell as well. He didn't work in the industry for a decade, but he did spend his bachelor years doing a weekly ritual of heading out to Tower Records and making himself listen to every single one of the new albums for the week, no matter the genre, and buying anything that struck his fancy. He has his old skool favorites as I have mine, but we're eight years apart (which is like a whole generation music-wise, and also means I like crappy music -- my first concert was for NKOTB ). We love all the retro bands that have been coming out (Interpol, Killers, White Stripes, She Wants Revenge, etc.) and also have a special place in our hearts for raucus ensemble bands like Arcade Fire, New Pornographers, and the March Fourth Marching Band (local gypsy/punk/vaudevillian/marching band). I'm big on quirk (Flaming Lips, though I've heard not-so-good things about their new album; They Might Be Giants; Dresden Dolls; and dammit if Modest Mouse hasn't finally grown on me). Still, we also appreciate older stuff too. Suzanne Vega, Concrete Blond, Siouxsie, Cure, New Order, old King Crimson, Rush, Depeche Mode, Sisters of Mercy, all those numbers/letters (B-52's, REM, U2). We have a love/hate relationship with Mark Eitzel (of American Music Club). Sadcore is the cantankerous grand-pappy of Emo. S'good to have a variety, but it's also good to have your comfort music, y'know?

Antimony ruminates on the Lloyd Dobbler/Diane Court dichotomy of soul mating. Snarky has to admit, should the world of couples fall into the strict either/or of Lloyd or Diane archetypes: she aspires to Dianeness (Dianeity?), but is most likely the Lloyd in her relationship with The Mister. Sure, Snarky is the rightful egghead of the two. Her nerdiness and geekiness are such to elicit hybrid words like gnerd or possibly nee(k) (an homage to Monty Python, which adds a flavor of Dork to the mix as well). Heck, she even started making notes in dictionaries (her own copies, of course), she was crushing on Diane that hard. But her yearning for The Mister, even now almost six years into their marriage, is all Lloyd. She feels she needs to be a better woman to be with him. He makes her want to succeed at things she's barely even dreamed about. He didn't take her across the pond, but they did end up on the other side of the country to follow his career. (OK, and it was separate flights so no hand/breath holding, "waiting for the 'ding'" moment for the Snarks.) (Which seriously? Next to the "holding up the boombox" moment? One of Snarky's favorites.) Currently The Mister has a slight advantage to Snarky on bread winning. Very slight. The care and feeding of the home fires is done jointly (though the laundry-and-dishes part of the kindling often gets neglected). Snarky has taken the reins of the check book and manages most of the financial matters of the house, though The Mister does his Annual Duty of Using His Accounting Degree Once a Year for Taxes. All in all, Snarky has to say her relationship with The Mister falls into a more stereotypical, "traditional" one (man provide, woman manage)... with leanings toward scale-like equilibrium rather than yin-yang parity. She is thinking about taking up kickboxing. Today Snarky is nekkid! Well, in the ol factory sense anyway.

Now that's a compelling mental image! More incentive for Snarky to get said frilly underthings. The Mister often makes the "... in English, please" request of Snarky, though she is having a similar reaction to Antimony's seemingly related string of words. Snarky finds comfort in knowing that there are men out there that allow the giant egghead women in their lives to go to the scary brain places.