Since I work around politics, you're going to have to get a bit of it today, but you'll be entertained enough, since I'm not going to go on a rant.
The 3rd Congressional district in my state is basically the western two-thirds of the state, and it can range from typically midwestern farms to very western ranches. (I don't live in that district.) It is also Republican as the day is long, but this guy is running as the Democratic candidate and he might just win. The race is so close that el presidente is actually coming to campain for the Republican candidate this weekend. This district hasn't sent a Democrat to Congress for 40+ years, I believe. There's no incumbent in this race, the retiring Congressman is the ex-football coach. Yes, I'm serious. The major newspaper in the state endorsed the Democrat, something nearly unheard of. This is an entertaining race to observe, and women statewide have been happily watching his commercials. Go to his website and see why: http://www.scottkleeb.com
Even though he's a Democrat, he is a Midwestern Demo running in a conservative district, so temper your expectations if you're a blue state Demo.
But I love a good barnburner of a race with a new candidate who is creating excitement and buzz. And I really am talking about it on a political level. A lot of people aren't being so wonkish -- many women talk about him the way I talk about Bob Schneider. I do think he's inordiantely photogenic, although he's not ugly on video. (You can watch his commercials on the website.) And if you look at the photos page, notice all the hysterically giggling women wherever he goes. Some of those women probably haven't squealed like that in years. I think some women have an involuntary physical response to cowboy boots and jeans, worn very, very well. They just can't control themselves. Whatever it takes to get elected, baby! Even if he doesn't win, it's not the last of him. Anyone who can come out of nowhere as a Democrat in a district that usually gives the Republican candidate 80% of the vote isn't going to be held down.
It's stuff like this that makes me remember why I do enjoy politics. And even if you're apolitical, you can just look at the scenery.
Here I am, checking in with odd comments and reports of the usual odd goings-on in my life.
Why would anyone drink orange juice when they could eat an orange? I love oranges so much. Apples are really great this time of year, but apples make me hungry. Does anyone else experience this? But oranges are so yum. And orange juice is a fine beverage, it's just that I'd rather eat an orange.
A woman that I know passed away yesterday. I was acquainted with her via my ex-husband and through my job; she wasn't a close friend but someone I always enjoyed when we ran into each other. She was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer on her 54th birthday, which was 3 months ago. Doods, that is express check-out. Like a Zen master once said, our problem is that we always think we have time. This woman knew a lot of people, she had a certain zest for the world, and especially this little corner of the world. A lot of people will miss her. The last conversation that I had with her somehow morphed into a discussion of how cute Che Guevara was, and her comment was: "Yeah, he even looked good even when he was all shot to shit." Her legacy for me is to live like there's no tomorrow, never be ashamed to be quirky, and to be proud to love all the things that aren't supposed to be cool to love, but you love them anyway.
I need to photograph my garden tomorrow; it's supposed to be warm and sunny, and the weatherdudes say that by next weekend, it's gonna be cold! Eeek! I tend to have a fall garden; my garden is really looking interesting when other people have ripped out most of their flowers. Of course, I let things get really wild-looking and I love it that way. I like to say I have a cottage garden or a more "naturalistic" way of gardening. I'm reading "Devil In The White City" about the Chicago World's Fair in the 1890's, and the man who planned the midway (Olmstead) went to England and decided he liked the more naturalistic, wilder, overgrown English countryside far more than the perfectly planned and ordered British gardens. I felt terribly affirmed when I read that.
So maybe next week, I'll post some wild prairie garden photos. The purple dome aster that has gone bezerk, the Mexican sunflowers that have run amok, the hyssop and cleomes that keep blooming, the salvia and the zinnias, the native grasses. I am lucky enough to actually love the plains plants that thrive in this environment.
So until later, be happy, be quirky, laugh a lot and of course, smell like an angel or a very sexy devil!
I've been really busy at work. I'm tired. I go to bed late, because I'm such a damn night owl, but lately I've been waking up at 3 in the morning and don't get back to sleep for an hour. Then at 5:30 the cat comes meowing his little cat butt off, asking to be fed. I put him on the bed and then he stands on me, kneading his paws on my chest. Oh, how relaxing. Then I got to work and run on pure adrenaline for 8+ hours. No wonder I can always lose weight in the legislative session.
So it was such a rush when I came home yesterday and found my Lab order. I ordered another bottle of teh Smut, Chintamani-Dhupa, Swadinapatika, Vasakasajja and Bakeneko. Filgree Shadow already has my bottle of Vasa heading her way, because my body blew up the orchid in that one and 'gree is a vasa junkie! And bless her, she swapped me for the Bakeneko, because I ADORE that scent. Holy crap, I've never had a lunacy that I liked, much less loved. Swadinapatika is nice, it gets nicer after I wear it for an hour, even better after two hours. I think I should wear it on days that the little asshole wakes me up at 5:30, because if I put it on really early in the morning, it would be to its gorgeous mellow level by the time I got to work. I have Chintamani-Dhupa on my sales thread right now, but if no one buys it tonight, I'm taking it down. I don't adore it, but I don't dislike it. And Smut, I love teh Smut. Needed another bottle, but I don't wear Smut in the winter. The pure holy musk can be a bit much for me right now.
My yoga teacher always says this, and it's very true, the brain needs to be scrambled and stimulated every now and then to keep on top of its game. When I meditated last night, I was as quiet as I'd been in a long time. Lately, my brain has been whirling a lot when I meditate, because work can be an obsession this time of year. I can't let it drop. But I swear, what stilled me last night was that I'd spent all evening sniffing and testing BPAL. For the people to test BPAL a lot, you know it's a very sensual and analytical process, all at the same time. You're kicking your senses into overdrive, but your brain is trying to decipher what you're smelling. Last night, it was what the doctor ordered, because it kicked my brain out of those old thought patterns and into something entirely new. How fabulous.
So I'm off to meditate and to then attempt to get ready for bed and to find slumber early (ha!) and to dream sweet-smelling dreams. And if the damn cat wakes me up at 5:30 again, you know I'll be wearing Svadhinaopatika tomorrow!
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.
In my office, we draw names for the holiday Secret Santas. It's a small office, we know each other well, and we like to be creative in our endeavors. Several years ago, the two support staff in the office decided that we shouldn't have just one day of Secret Santa, we should have stockings and 5 days of Secret Santa gifting. This was met with great reluctance by the professional staff, as we're typically very busy in December. However, over the years it has evolved into a process that is much-loved by the professional staff, and the support staff would like to end it. (insert sadistic laugh here ) It seems that a number of people become fond of the notion that there could be a week of gift themes, some seriously clever hide-and-seek games that include notes and clues, wicked funny gag gifts, and general opportunities for creativity, giving someone shit or just good humor. And in all of it, we're really pretty nice to each other. We had a gift limit that used to be at $10, then went to $15, and has inched closer to $20 in recent years. We don't really eat out as a group or shell out money to buy gifts the rest of the year, so we take this in stride. The support staff has come to hate the expenditures (even though they are paid more than entry level professionals), the time and the effort involved to keep up. Too bad. We like our little reindeer games.
Last year I drew my troublesome, loud, insane co-worker's name. She fancies herself as a bit of a foodie, and when she sent out her "hints for Santa" email -- something else we all do, which is a bit of a creative writing and/or humor opportunity -- mentioned that she always wants things for the kitchen. I gave her small, polite items 3 out of the 5 days, with the intention being to throw people off of my trail. Usually the over-the-top gifts that include notes and gags are instantly blamed on me. (Why? ) But her last two gifts did go over the top, and of course, she DIDN'T GET THE JOKES.
The first one addressed her tendency to rant and rave at people rather harshly, especially people outside of this office. I gave her a citrus reamer and a tube of Boudreaux's Butt Paste. An accompanying note said something about now she had both the tool and the remedy when she wanted to ream someone's ass, but then felt guilty afterwards. She didn't get the humor. She was happy to have a reamer, but was mainly mystified as to what she would do with a tube of Butt Paste. (This is diaper rash ointment, BTW.) I did catch a number of other staff people huddled in other corners of the office, laughing about the gift and talking about how she truly didn't get it.
For the final day's gift, I was able to secure, at T.J. Maxx, a piece of cutlery at an astonishingly cheap price. The item was a 6 inch stiff boning knife by the A.B. Dick company. The note on her stocking said: "Pardon me, but are you having a Merry Christmas, or is that a 6 inch boner in your stocking?" On the package, another note said: "Santa heard you'd like a stiff Dick for Christmas." She was befuddled by the jokes but elated to get some cutlery. Everyone knew it was either me or my coworker Scott who had her name, since we're the only two who would risk her ire by leaving such notes. Scott high-fived me when he realized it really was me who had her name; he enjoyed the jokes the most, except maybe for the guy that my coworker always "flirts" with by hollering his name and sticking her tits in his face. He nearly peed his pants when he read the stiff dick note. She kept saying to him: "But no, look at this boner!" And he'd laugh harder. And then she'd say: "Have you ever heard of the A.B. Dick company? I hadn't." And he'd laugh even more. He had to leave.
So this year I have Scott's name. He's getting little things from me for the first part of the week -- fun little things that he'll like, but I'm saving most of my money for an item that I'm bidding on in eBay. I hope I can get it for a good price. If I lose this auction, there's plenty of others out there. Scott is a Gen-X'er, but his musical tastes tend to be Boomerish, and he loves Led Zepplin. Most of all, Jimmy Page. And I introduce you to the Jimmy Page action figure:
http://wizarduniverse.stores.yahoo.net/feb063823.html (Sorry, the hyperlink doesn't work on this computer)
He will absolutely die. He will freaking love it. This is what I love about eBay, doing a search for Jimmy Page items resulted in this little gem. I am so excited.
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:
Since there's an 1980's retro scene going on right now, I flash back to the cartoon strip "Bloom County." And "The Far Side" was a big deal back then. And "Calvin and Hobbes." I had a discussion with a friend about the how the '80's was a golden age of contemporary cartoons.
As winter approaches, I inevitably get an email that is a compilation of all the "Calvin and Hobbes" cartoons where Calvin made snowpeople doing all manner of twisted things. And didn't almost everyone have a stuffed toy in the likeness of Opus the penguin? I still have both of my Opus stuffies, one is a Christmas Opus. But, I have a rarity, something terribly special and wonderful -- I have a stuffed Bill the Cat toy. Something about his scrawny neck always leads to an association with Nancy Reagan's scrawny neck. Last year for Christmas, I got "The Last Basselope" by Berk Breathed, the "Bloom County" creator. You'll recall the Basselope was the Basset Hound with antlers. I really do need to take a photo of Ella Bean in antlers and use it on a Christmas card.
And in the '80's and part of the '90's, you could liven up most stalled-out discussions with the question: "What is your favorite "Far Side?" You know what's coming next... in the '80's, there was this trend for all the yuppie moms in the first wave of minivans to have triangular "Baby On Board" signs. Some of you reading this were probably the babies on board. (Gah! I feel OLD!) Anyway, my favorite Far Side was of a lady mosquito (beehive hair, lipstick) driving a van with a "Maggot On Board" sign in the window.
I used to be a distance runner in the '80's. Running all over the place, I used to run by all those minivans and just get really depressed. Not because I wanted kids, but because I would see that lifestyle, picture myself in it, and feel instantly stultified. My running was a bit symbolic of my "running free" attitude in the '80's, when I used to toss throw pillows at the TV when Reagan came on the news and discovered the joy of mute buttons on remote controls. A few boyfriends were a bit confused the first time the "hit the mute and throw the pillows" drill occurred. Well, they're called throw pillows for a reason. I never dated Republicans.
Sometimes I think that maybe if I'd met the right person at the right time, I could have been a yuppie '80's baby boom mom. If the right sort of guy could have gotten my attention and married me really young... nah, no way! I didn't date Republicans! I'm not sure I dated a Republican, ever. Most of them take one look at me and see trouble. No hold it, I did date one, and that was in the early '90's. He was cute, but way too Rush Limbaugh-ized in the head, and I only went out with him once.
I have one wonderful, crystallized memory of the '80's, and I'm sure this says something about me, but I'm not sure what -- I was out for a long run, it was January or February, it was cold but not quite bitter (maybe 15 or 20 degrees), I was in my Gore-Tex running suit so I was warm enough, it was dark outside, maybe 6:30 or 7 pm, it was snowing a little bit and the wind was eddying the dusty snow around in the street. I was running towards a particularly busy intersection, and I hit all of the green lights so I didn't have to stop. The darkness, the snow, the streetlights and the headlights made everything in the world look silver and black. Running was no effort whatsoever. It was just perfect, away from Reagan on TV, the Republicans didn't matter, the minivan yuppie moms were all home being efficient, and I was running free.
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??
Well, I haven't been very chatty on my blog lately. I've focused a lot of my chatting towards commenting on everyone else's blogs! You give me things to talk about without coming up with something of my own!
Hey, it's 06/06/06 and the President landed in my state a few hours ago. Hmmm... what does this say? It's ostensibly because he is going to deliver a speech on immigration tomorrow, but as a blue person in a red state, I find it significant. As in: "Oh my god, Satan has arrived!" So I exaggerate. The W. isn't clever enough to be the Old Nick. Now Dick (hmmm...Dick/Nick, Dick/Nick...)Cheney or Rumsfeld, maybe, but not W.
OK, now to drive this into the gutter, because I always go there, has anyone seen photos of Dick Cheney's package? Not that I would want to look, but the Wonkette political blog runs a few photos of it every now and then. Now we know why he isn't called Richard. However, I think he has an ostomy bag or something like that packed in front, especially in the first picture. I can't get a link to the photos, because Wonkette always redirects you to the front page of the blog. But if you want to see what I mean, google "Dick Cheney very big Wonkette." You will get hits on links to two photos of the Dickster that ran on Wonkette. You be the judge of what THAT is all about!!!
Oh hell. I wasn't going to order Harvest Moon, the scent, until I read the update thread and someone commented that it was her birth moon, so she just had to get it. Well, it's my birth moon also, and while I'm not sure it will smell that great on me, it has all sorts of things in it that I hold near and dear, because I do love those late summer smells. Anything with Russian sage in it is worth owning, in my opinion. So I ordered a bottle. If it doesn't work on my body, it might make a wonderful scent locket or room scent.
And the t-shirt, I simply must order the t-shirt! Macha's design is astonishing. A bit of a Celtic/Gothic/Georgia O'Keefe quality, and who but Macha could weave all of it together so perfectly? I'm just really, really fond of the design, and hey, it's for my birth moon, so I simply must.
So the scoreboard says:
Update: 2
Resolve: 0
OK, the other matter at hand: I have enough reward points to cash in and change my member title to whatever I want. I love all the self-titled names, they are all so damn clever. I'm having problems coming up with anything like "rapscallion in fuchsia tights" or "1/32 too few" or "part-time ninja" or "fae fatale." Sookster just changed her title to "p-town's naughty sea monkey."
In a prior entry, I'd commented that I could call myself "Phantom of the Prairie Phallus," a reference to the building where I work. But it's not that funny, unless you know the architecture of my state's capitol building. I thought about calling myself "The Jean Genie" (as in the Bowie song), since it's a reference to my real name. Then I thought I could call myself "The Jean Genie in Joe Perry's bottle" because we know my feelings about Joe Perry. Or I could say I was "The Jean Genie in Bob Schneider's bottle," but very few people would know who I was talking about. (Bob may get famous yet!)
Then I remembered that in my review of Sacred Whore of Babylon, I was bemoaning that exotic flowers like jasmine and orchids are hardly indigenous to where I live, so I'm not exactly familiar with their exact scent. And I further postulated that exotic florals smell icky on me due to my geographical location somehow influencing my body chemistry (I don't really believe this), but if Beth ever made a scent called Sacred Whore of the Prairie, it would probably smell good on me. Now, "Sacred Whore of the Prairie" might be a good forum name, and it amuses me. (Some might heartily agree that I'm a whore, the sacred business is no doubt highly debatable; but the part about the prairie is indisputable.)
Any ideas, reactions, comments?
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
Hey there everyone... Given the somewhat decadent image I tend to craft for myself on the forum, I really do more than check my manicure and pedicure, fuss with my hair and peruse shoe departments and Victoria's Secret catalogs. (Although those are some of my favorite things to do.)
I also go up to the gym and ride cardio machines and I lift weights. I've become fond of doing lunges holding a 12-lb. medicine ball all the way around the indoor track. That would be approximately a block long. It's good for the legs and the bum, and at my age, I need all the help that I can get to keep the bum suspended somewhere above the back of my knees.
And I take vitamins, mainly out of habit, because when I was going into high school, I'd apparently had a bit of a rapid growth spurt that caused me to become really anemic. I had to take slugs of vitamins until that was remedied, and then I just kept up the habit.
I drink, but it seems that I've always tended to either get full (if drinking beer) or fall asleep before I get really drunk. I also had a formative experience on my 20th birthday that perhaps altered any tendency to drink a lot. I was living in a resort town for the summer and some girlfriends took me to a bar for birthday drinks. Various tourists hanging in bar kept sending me drinks. The notion of the lascivious geezers who were sending my innocent 20-year-old self tequila makes my current self shudder and thank the powers of the universe that I had several friends who didn't ditch me. Anyway, my friends deposited me on the front door of where I was staying, I crawled in and made my way to the shower. My roomie and her boyfriend kept waiting for me to scream and I didn't. I happily showered for about 15 minutes, puked and fell into bed. It seems the hot water heater had died and I took an ice-cold shower without knowing it. The hell that I felt the next day is something I still remember.
And I don't smoke, and I never have. I tried, but was hopelessly incompetent at it. I guess that was my good luck. And now I'm going to sound like a harpy old lady, but if you smoke, do think about quitting sooner rather than later. A guy who worked in my office up until a year ago, when he took a different job in the same building, was diagnosed with lung cancer about 2 months after he started his new job. He'd stopped smoking a year earlier. But he smoked entirely too long and didn't quit soon enough. I don't think he's going to make it. This sucks. He used to have a gorgeous head of thick wavy hair and now he's bald from chemo and he's holding onto the walls to keep his balance when he walks down the hall. When he stopped working in my office last year, I took a photo of him, copied it a number of times and "Andy Warhol-ized" it by coloring over it with pastels. I modified his hair, put glasses on him, turned him into all sorts of things. He loved it and took it with him to put away as a keepsake. I really don't want to see it hanging up on one of the memory posterboards that you see at a funeral, but shit, I think that may be what's going to happen.
Weird thing is, this guy was the king of kvetchers when he was well. If his lips were moving, he was probably bitching, albeit in a likable, often funny sort of way. After his diagnosis, he developed a shockingly good attitude. It's amazing. He's tried to work and stay social and even go on his powerwalks when he had the energy. And he never complains about being sick or losing his hair, and he flat adored his hair. It makes me really sad.
And my blog has recently sounded like the old lady in the retirement center with her endless stories of people dying, and seriously guys, this has been an unusual stretch. Lest you think I'm not myself, let me tell you this: I went down to my ailing former coworker's current office to say hi to him one day in late August. I wanted to give him a hard time about something or other, because he loves to be harassed and treated like nothing is the matter. I had on one of my summery wrap dresses that can dip kind of low in the front. Normally I'm pretty careful to keep the foundation garments out of the public eye, so I'd frequently check what the neckline was doing. So I was sitting there talking to him, and I knew my bra was showing a little, and I just let it. I know he noticed because he called a mutual friend and told him all about it. And I didn't care. So there. Vaguely naughty is a good, good thing.
If you do anything this 4th of July season, make sangria! I made some first thing this morning and put it in the refrigerator, and by this evening, I had a lovely, lovely brew. I was deeply proud of my efforts. I'm steeping some sangria blanco as I write this, and time will tell if it's as good as the red. If you make red sangria, try to get a nice, fruity Spanish wine. It makes all the difference. Here's the recipe that I used -- it's a modification of "Sunset Sangria" by Rachael Ray, and you can find it on the Foodnetwork web site.
3 tbs. sugar
6 tbs. dark spiced rum with citrus flavor
1 orange, sliced
1 lemon, sliced
2 ripe peaches, peeled and cut into wedges
3 ripe plums, cut into wedges
2 cinnamon sticks
1 bottle Rioja or a good fruity Spanish red wine
Club soda, for topping off glasses of sangria
Combine everything but club soda in a large pitcher. Chill several hours. I ran the wine liquid through a strainer to catch the excess fruit pulp prior to serving. Serve over ice, topped off with club soda for some fizz.
This is not the equivalent of bottled Cruz Garcia Real Sangria -- Cruz Garcia needs vodka or rum added to it in order to make it seem like an alcoholic beverage. This is just a smidge stronger. Thus, adding a bit of club soda will not turn your sangria into the alcoholic equivalent of Welch's grape juice.
I am very tempted to make some Sangrita Margaritas, which entails combining a margarita with sangria. Tasty, tasty. Sangria blanco review to follow tomorrow night.
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 am especially fond of running across people in relatively odd get-ups. Outfits that are vaguely off rarely mean much to me; instead, I'm talking things that don't even fit in the fashion faux pas category because you don't know where to begin. Things that are almost mind-bendingly odd, because they are being worn by a person who is obviously not mentally ill. There is a very distinct difference between mixed-up clothing thrown on by some poor soul who has a lot of personal difficulties and by an otherwise functioning individual whose innate style compass has become seriously skewed.
It's one of those weird autumn days when you just don't know what to wear; it's sunny, but only about 62 degrees and it's windy. Days like today are always a good opportunity to find some weird clothing combos going on, and I saw one when I was walking back into the building after lunch. This woman was evidently out on a late-lunch stroll for a bit of exercise. She had on a long, almost ankle-length skirt that had a design on it that was a cross between a batik print and a tropical print. The background was black and the design was a bright blue. I like black and bright blue together, and it was a nice skirt. But on the top, she had on a casual, sporty, waist-length, zip-up, water-repellent material windbreaker. Some sort of Nike design/lettering on it; the colors were white with baby blue. She had short hair and she was wearing a blue and white visor. On her feet she had blue and white flip-flops. The pretty skirt drew me in and then the picture became oddly distorted.
But my favorite weird combination is one I saw about 4 or 5 years ago; it was again about this time of year, but it was a cool and rainy day. I was walking downtown on my lunch hour and looked across the street as I waited at a light. There was a woman in a sort of Laura Ashley-style skirt, long, fluttery, a cream-colored background with a tiny rosy flower print. Suntan-colored hosiery. (Arghblargh! Maybe that's what Andy Garcia caught sight of at the end of "Ocean's Eleven?") Cream-colored, 1980's style pumps that were looking a smidge rugged. But on top of all of this, she wore a black NASCAR pit crew jacket. And the jacket was boldly emblazoned with the team sponsor logos, most prominently, Tide detergent soap. I think there was at least one beer logo, and maybe Slim Jims jerky snacks. I know all of this in detail, because the woman had her head down as she walked into the wind and misty rain, so she didn't see me when I stared at her as I walked by, and then when I turned around and walked backwards to check out the back of the jacket. I mean, wow. It's my favorite of all time. If she'd had on black leather pants and biker boots, the jacket would have been fine. If she'd had on a huge Irish sweater, I would have forgiven the '80's pumps. (Suntan colored hosiery is something that I never forgive. White legs are a far, far better thing, and actually make sense with a Laura Ashley theme.) The combination was, and still remains, unprecedented.
So, the guy at Meadowlark who always tells me he loves me, the one who said his name means "Wandering Gypsy" in Czech and calls me "gypsy girl?" He just put out an album. I am serious; it's a small local recording company. They're selling his CD at Meadowlark and he saw me this morning and cajoled me into buying one. Here is something from his liner notes: "A special thanks to all the girls I have known, starting with my Mother, for giving me such great material for my songs. And to all the guys, remember that you need more than a good line and a lure to get the girl of your dreams. I love you all." And amazingly, his CD isn't bad at all. So if you've read this far and you're the first reader to respond, I'll send you his CD. Not my copy, I'll buy another one! There may be a lot of you thinking, oh my hell, I am so NOT responding until someone else reads halfway through the blog and decides to respond about bad clothing combinations! So really, if you don't want his CD, just say so, because I do want to hear about bad clothing combos that you have seen in your life and time. I love you all.
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.
Today I decided to put on some Monster Bait Underpants because I hadn't worn it in a while, and then I put a touch of Bengal over the top. This blend could be called "Panties on Fire." Hell yeah!
That "hell yeah" reminds me -- because the t-shirts you buy at Bob Schneider's concerts have that on the front -- Bob has a new recording coming out on August 8! Ah, something to live for! Bob can set my panties on fire, I tell ya. Plus I really do like his music.
I decided to get all dressed up this morning because I was having one of those days that, when all else fails, be a diva. On the way into work, I decided to stop at my favorite locally-owned coffee house (this town is big into non-franchise coffee houses) called Meadowlark. There's outdoor seating for the smokers and people who generally just want to hang around outdoors, and often there's a real blend of denizens at the outside tables. I've seen residents of a nearby halfway house for mental health center clients sitting at one table and a stockbroker sitting at the next table.
This morning it was a group of characters that I've never seen before at the outdoor table. They were unique. I walked past them and one of them, who had a mullet and was wearing a "Got Milk?" t-shirt, looked at me and said: "Wow, baby!" I walked into Meadowlark and the barrista behind the counter looked at me and said: "You're so fancy today!" I think I may have diva-ed myself to excess...
It's going to be a skort and a black tank top tomorrow!
A nice photo of Bob Schneider, whose CD I listened to as I was driving around town in the rain today. Queensryche can remain novel only so long, you know.
Look at the great joke icon that minilux made for me:
And if Beth ever makes an actual scent with that name, I will to her even more than before.
Does anyone remember the Alan Cumming fragrance commercial from last summer? Someone linked to it on the forum, and I feel compelled to link to it again here in my blog. It's great, and I believe Alan is a naughty little Scotsman himself: http://www.cummingthefragrance.com/html/commercial.html
In the state where I live, there's a Cumming County. I have a friend who moved here several years ago, and when he was driving down the road and saw a sign that said: "Entering Cumming County," he just about wrecked his car. He pulled over, laughed, and called a friend in his home state to say: "There's a Cumming County in this state!!!"
There also used to be convenience store/gas stations called "Cum and Go" in this town. Another friend used to live around the corner from one. When the chain (all 3 or 4 of them) was purchased and turned into Quik Shops, my friend and her boyfriend had their photos taken in front of the old Cum and Go, because it had been such a source of amusement for so long.
From Bob Schneider to underkilts to Alan Cumming to Cum and Go. What else is left to say?
I was listening to Lucinda Williams song "Essence" on the way into work, and while it's an amazing song in its own twisted way, and I have to admit that I really like it because it just throbs sexual energy, the male reaction to it has always mystified me.
I don't know if many of you listen to Lu, but I think of her as a southern gothic rock/folk/blues/alt country singer. She's just difficult to categorize. Her voice isn't very pretty, but her lyrics are so raw and real that they bleed. Her dad is Miller Williams, a nationally-known poet who read a poem at William Jefferson Clinton's* first inaguration. Lucinda hasn't exactly led a simple and idyllic life. Jesus Christ she has terrible taste in men, and I'm not sure that being happy and just a little bit content doesn't make her really really nervous, she's obsessive-compulsive about her music and apparently can be a real bitch to work with. But there's no one quite like her.
She also has a certain physical appeal, in this hot mama biker chick sort of way. (She's even older than me, but I've seen some pretty young guys get worked up over her, so go figure.) Lots of sulky surly attitude with a distinct vulnerability. Gets 'em every time.
So her song "Essence" is about a really obsessive stalker chick who wants her man and follows him all over the fucking place. And she wants him now, forever, and all the time, in a very twisted and addicted sort of way. ("shoot your love into my veins," "please come find me and help me get fucked up....") Printing the lyrics does not do justice to the song -- you have to listen to it. Her vocals, the guitars, the drums, the throb.
I've seen Lu in concert twice, both times in a smallish theater/club, because Lu likes it that way. When the guitars kick into the opening bars of "Essence," men rush the stage like bull elephants chasing cows in heat, bellowing "LU! LU! YEAH! LU!!"
I was aghast. I've always thought that the attraction to sick assholes who would make your life a living hell was a primarily female trait. Silly, silly me! I saw a small herd of goofballs who apparently have a fantasy that it would be cool to be stalked by a woman as hot as Lucinda Williams. Yeah, right fellows. Maybe it might be kind of cool to have it happen once. But that sort of shit doesn't happen once, and the boys would get mighty tired of it. Besides, women like Lu don't need to stalk men; they're too busy hiding from their stalkers and feeling miserable because they're in love with the one man in the world who doesn't know that they're alive.
We humans, we're such perverse, perverse creatures!
*It made me happy just to write out his whole name. It made me feel better just to think about him. You may have been an old poon-hound, Bill, but I miss you as President. A lot.
Here'a a photo of Puddin' Tom, the cat who came to live on my front porch. He's lounging on the bench, contemplating his next nap. As you can see, he's a little rough around the edges, but he's probably around 10 years old and he's earned his rugged good looks:
Every now and then, Ella Bean the Basset Queen will tend to Mugzy's front and rear ends (pie-hole and corn-hole duties) and then decide it's time to mount him. It's usually a half-hearted little humping and she either gets bored and slides off or he sits up. When she somehow gets turned around or is too lazy to head to his rear end, she humps his head. He sits up rather quickly, as you would well imagine. The most entertaining humping incident occurred once when Mugzy had rolled over on his back and I was rubbing his belly. I walked off only to have the Bassetress promptly pounce on top of him, much to his alarm. Her belly was right over his rear legs and when he let out a shocked little "Gnnnarfff," he kicked his legs up in the air. This feet were exactly under her belly and he elevated her off the ground for a little bit. It reminded me of a circus acrobatic trick. The looks on their faces were priceless. He rolled on his side and she rolled to the floor (it wasn't like he had her up that far) and she proceeded to chew him out. He stood up and walked off.
This is primarily a dominance issue with Ella, who is utterly convinced she is alpha bitch over poor Mugzy. However, I know women who act this way -- seriously. My annoying coworker tends to be this way; she is normally loud and mouthy, an insane suck-up to authority figures, but will then abruptly do something really sexual in nature to certain men. Sometimes after she's gone on one of her power walk breaks and she's wearing a longer tent-like dress, she will go into a male coworker's office and, while leaving her dress demurely between her legs, will pull the sides up to mid-thigh. This woman DOES NOT have a nice figure. Whenever this happens, I go to a picture of a beaver that I have earmarked on Google, copy it and paste it into an email to him. The subject of the email is usually "LEAVE IT TO THE BEAV." He sits there as she regales him and hears the little "ding" in his inbox, and he knows that the beaver has landed.
Another good friend of mine is also a favorite of hers; he comes down to do business with the guy who gets the thigh show. Her mode with this man is to walk in, yell "Hi MAN!" at him, then stick her tits in his face, back arched, butt hiked in the air. She's also been known to kick off her shoe and ask hin to look at her foot. Seriously. This is not a pretty sight, and I sometimes fear he's going to pass out or vomit. He tries to tell her to back off by saying things like: "You do not have to get in my face and tell me that story at such a level of intensity," or (sarcastically) "Thank you for showing me your foot," but it does no good. He usually calls me up later and says: "Why must she fucking do that to me every fucking time I walk in the door???"
But I always think she looks like an uncute version of the Bassetress when she does this. Did anything like this ever happen on "Seinfeld?" My coworker needs help, and a lot of it, but our boss refuses to deal with her because he's simply not interested in a fight. An alpha male he is not. We sometime joke about him being the "anti-silverback" (silverbacks are often the alpha gorilla male) or "Mr. Loopner" (from Saturday Night Live -- Mr. Loopner was born without a spine).
And what to me is alpha bitch-dom? I tend to look at the canine world and the true alpha bitch females that I've known. They usually don't have to display it in any manner other than a look or a turn of the head. If someone is too dunderheaded to get it, they simply display their teeth. Complete morons or very willful pack members get a growl or a nip. I am frequently convinced that dogs are apparently able to function at a higher level of subtlety than some humans.
For anyone who would like to do a little retail therapy, or simply likes to do some online window shopping, I present a few sites for your perusal. Most of the sites are not the favorites of the retail therapy section of the forum, although there's one or two that may have been prominently mentioned.
Good incense is in the nose of the beholder, and my nose has different moods. But for both Fred Soll incense (very resiny, strong, smoky, long-lasting) and Nipon Kodo incense (classic Japanese) and everything in between, and all in one order, I go to: http://www.bambuddhas.com In between Fred Soll and Nipon Kodo is Terre d'Oc incense, which difficult to find and not cheap, but very much worth the money. It can be found at: http://www.sensia.com There are endless goodies at both Bambuddhas and Sensia that will tempt you mightily, be warned...
Mentioned frequently in the powdered mineral makeup thread of the Bathing Beauty section of the forum is Alima powdered mineral makeup. It is the greatest stuff, beautiful colors, subtle coverage, and you can order samples. Support a small business that includes cool little philosophical sayings on the back of cards that you receive with your order: http://www.alimacosmetics.com
For anyone who wants to get that great western U.S. smell into their home, via wreaths or incense or tea or soap or jellies, go to: http://www.juniperridge.com I smell their products and this flatland girl is back in the western mountains.
She's a forum member and we did a swap, me sending her Khajurajo and she sending a necklace from her web site. The photos do not do the jewelry justice; it is beautiful and delicate and drapes beautifully: http://www.todiefordesigns.com
And her clothing is gorgeous.
Beautiful jewlery, a lot of animal and celtic designs. Just fabulous. I have the Irish Wolfhound pendant: http://www.black-horse-design.com
Just fun! The name should tell you so! http://www.stuff-o-rama.com
Really great designs for the goddess in you -- surely this site has at least one that is you: http://www.thaliatook.com
I'd like the Jeanne d'Arc t-shirt, because it's a name thing, the Green Tara design is gorgeous, I really like Nyx, and the Rhiannon design is beautiful, but unfortunately, if I wore it, I would keep thinking of a goat because it reminds me of Stevie Nicks singing that Fleetwood Mac song.
ETA:
My coffee guy! Even though he closed the coffee shop that was my refuge from the perv postman and the other oddities of downtown coffee houses, he still runs a custom coffee roasting business. The best coffee I've ever had, hands down -- he buys only the best beans and is a stickler for roasting. No burned beans from this guy! http://www.coffeecultureonline.com
Thornefolk Solutions -- A neat little female-owned business, bath goodies. Check out the fizzing skulls for Halloween/Day of the Dead favors, their bath salts are great and they're having a sale on Pixie Sticks (their samplers of bath salts) right now. It's a great deal! http://www.thornefolk.net
There's a guy I know here at work who tends to use what I consider rather quaint and old-fashioned terms to express outrage, like "What in the Sam Hill?" and "Son of a buck!" I never hear anyone else use those terms, unless I would happened to head down to a senior center. Apparently "Sam Hill" somehow got started as a way to avoid saying "hell," but whenever I hear that term, I always picture the cartoon character Yosemite Sam.
I also used to know a guy from work who would say: "Well cheese and crackers!" when he was trying to not swear, which was on very rare occasions. I have never heard anyone else use that term in my life. I always found it really hilarious, because it was so odd and because this guy would normally use f**k like most people say "uh."
Then there was the guy who was seemingly the basis for Ignatius J. Reilly in the book "A Confederacy of Dunces." Seriously, he was a big, fat, extremely high-IQ person who lived in his own little la-la land most of the time. He made his living as a software tech support specialist. He used to go sit outside the building that he worked in and chain-smoke and hold court of the topic of the day. The bench that he sat on was made of some sort of industrial-strength recycled plastic and he warped the bench because he was probably 6'4" and around 400 pounds. His name was Jerry, but somehow I came to call him The Prophet Raoul, a term that amused him greatly. Two of his favorite terms were: "Well Christ on a bicycle!" and "I don't give a flying f**k at a rolling donut." The last comment always produced visions of this gargantuan man throwing himself at a huge rolling donut, trying to leap through the hole the way dogs jump through hoops.
Anyway, The Prophet Raoul shuffled off this mortal coil (another one of his favorite sayings, courtesy of Will Shakespeare) a few years ago. Anyone who has read "A Confederacy of Dunces" would probably agree that Ignatius was not a role model for health and long life. The Prophet was a huge football fan and he died laying around in bed while watching the Super Bowl on the day of the Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction. It is my hope that he said to himself: "I've just seen a tit during Super Bowl halftime, I can die a happy man," and did just that.
There's a still-smallish pine tree in my back yard (probably 6 or 7 feet high) that has a cardinal nest in it. The nest is tucked in a bit, but is right at eye level. Mrs. Cardinal was faithfully sitting on the eggs, and would hold still if you approached quietly to look at her. Yesterday the eggs began hatching, and now there are four baby cardinals, making their tiny tweepy noises, little heads thrown back and beaks open wide. They are so cute. Both Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal are feeding and guarding.
About 5 or 6 years ago, a fledgling cardinal, really a pretty tiny little thing, was flapping around in the back yard. The parents were frantically accompanying it, trying to get it to fly again. It was almost 100 degrees, and the poor little thing was exhausted and stressed. All the wild bird experts say to leave the bird alone if this is going on, so I just watched it. But then I noticed a neighbor's cat rambling around and that was it -- I went out and picked up the little bird. I brought it inside, put it in an old finch cage and fed it watered-down canned dog food all evening. I got up in the morning and fed it. I came home at noon and fed it, and by this time, it was just opening its beak and crying for me to feed it when it would lay eyes on me. It would fall asleep in my hand after it ate. Too precious for words.
At that time, I had an Airedale Terrier named Karma. Karma was most interested in Birdy-Birdy (as I called him), and I let her sit in the room when I was feeding the little guy. She wasn't being mean, just curious -- she was used to my pet cockatiel and didn't consider birds to be food. When I came home at noon, Karma was sitting outside the closed door of the room where Birdy-Birdy was staying. It was a much nicer day, and the wildlife rescue folks had told me to put the little guy out and see if he'd fly again. So I did, and as it turns out, his parents had been hanging around waiting for him. I put him out and they were there right away. He fluttered away and I hoped like crazy that he made it to saftey.
But here's the strange thing -- later that summer, a male cardinal would frequently come sit on the fence and Karma would sit and look up at it as it gave her a sweet, chirpy tweep. She wasn't watching it aggressively, it was like she was just listening to it. She never acted that way with other wild birds -- she just ignored them. But this bird and Karma were talking to each other. I always wondered just what that was all about. I like to believe that it was Birdy-Birdy, back for a visit.
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.
