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.
Things to celebrate:
It's going to be around 80 degrees here tomorrow! Woot! It's been almost chilly for a month now and I am getting the urge for some semi-hot weather. Remind me I said this when I'm complaining about the weather in July.
I maintained my self-control and ordered a 10 ml of O and one bottle of Lithia. That's all.
I get my hair done tomorrow. It's just entirely too long for me to stand it right now.
I did the trip to my mother's care center, the dinner and my trip home with equanimity. The drive was pleasant. I listened to Shawn Colvin on the way down and she was good preparation.
I'm leaving work now to go to yoga class. I think doing some yoga is going to jar loose a few mental blocks that I've been struggling with all day long. It's worth a try...
Music in my CD player: Bob Schneider, "Lonelyland." Because Baby Bob just rocks my world! And he's always something to celebrate!!!!
I have on a new layering adventure today; I bought a bottle of Bengal from chappiti on the forum (BTW, check out her avatar, I love it). While I really love Bengal, (or why would I have a bottle of it?), it tends to light up on my body for a bit. By that I mean, the cinnamon bark makes my skin flush rosy red for a brief time. So this morning I put down a nice layer of O (kind of like a paint primer) and then put Bengal over it. Yummy! Since I think Bengal smells like redhot candies over musk, and O smells, well, like O, I'm calling this blend Candy-O. That name is stolen from the title of an album by The Cars, which had this cover:
And now, for a brief aside: A friend called me and told me to turn on the Today show, because they were doing a shoe fashion show. Naturally, the Shoe Whore-Foot Fetishist turned it on right away. I just finished watching it. They were doing very close close-ups of each model's feet, and ARRGGHH! One of the models had on a pair of open-toe, slingback shoes and SHE HAD CRUSTY HEELS! OK, I know it was a big closeup, but I shudder to think how it looked on HDTV. I probably would have vomited. And who picked her to model shoes? Why didn't they put her in a pair of closed-back shoes? And if you had even 1 hour's notice that you had to sub for someone as a shoe model, would you at least do a little buffing and shining? Arrggh!!! At least I didn't see any French Manicures on the toenails, thank goodness. I would have screamed so loud that I would have frightened my coworkers.
Ahem, sorry to anyone who was eating as they read this. You probably had a hard time swallowing.
If you have the time, go to the BBC web site - www.bbc.co.uk
In the search mode, enter "brain test" and the first result you will probably get is "Science - Sex ID." That link will take you to a very comprehensive test that is designed to gauge if your brain functions on a more typically male, or typically female basis. Be ready to take time and have a ruler available -- you'll be doing some measurements of your fingers (index and ring finger ratios can indicate exposure to testosterone in utero and the degree of exposure can affect brain function). This isn't one of those little fun tests -- it's rather comprehensive and it makes you use your brain in ways that might not be your typical mode.
I have a male friend who took it who tested out as having more female way of thinking; this was no shock to him. He's the youngest child in a family with a stay-at-home mom and a military officer dad. He spent a lot of time growing up being exposed to a more female mindset. (And my friend isn't gay -- he's very straight, in case you were wondering.) I have a robustly hetero female acquaintance who last summer tested out as having a male mindset. Obviously, it's an indication of how your brain works, not your sexual identity.
How'd I test out? Directly between male and female.
Writing this made me think of a particularly idiotic quote from a politician of past years. Too bad that while he's still stooopid as hell, he seems almost innocuous in comparison to today's idiots:
"What a waste it is to lose one's mind. Or not to have a mind is being very wasteful. How true that is." -- Dan Quayle
And I'd almost (hear me? almost) bet a bottle of Monster in my Panties that you're thinking I'm going to go off on a rant about Brad dumping poor Jen for naughty-pants Angelina.
But I'm not.
Jen projects such a damn normal image that I have to wonder if she isn't a seething cauldron of weirdness, and Angelina is so out there with her weirdness that she may have less frightening shit lurking beneath the surface. I don't know; you have to live with 'em to really know.
But what I'm talking about is Brad's tendency to make himself look like his sweetie-pie of the moment. When he was dating Gwyneth and she cut her hair, he ended up with this blond floppy side-part haircut. I'm rather surprised he didn't sport wee little barettes in his hair, as did La Gwyneth.
When he was with Jen, he had to go through that suntanned and highlighted and immacuately-groomed stage. Jen should have seen trouble brewing when he stopped giving a shit if he looked like her.
Now with Angelina, he's kinda pale, dyed his hair really dark and looks like the earnest crusader for UNICEF efforts that his jeans, t-shirts and backwards ball caps.
I want to say: "You're Brad fucking Pitt! Why do you need to make yourself look like someone else?" It just boggles the mind.
Retail therapy, moi?
Well, I must stay true to my word, and when I say in my sales thread that I'll reinvest the proceeds from my sales in the Lab (and then some), I must follow through. I placed a tidy little order for a bottle of each of the following: The Brides of Dracula, Theodosius, the Legerdemain and Snake Oil. The Brides of Dracula was the only scent of the recent LEs that really tripped my trigger. I hadn't ordered the Legerdemain with my Carnaval order because the jasmine made me jittery. Then I tried Siren, fell in love with it and realized that jasmine need not be a reason to rule out a scent. So the Legerdemain it is. And of course I need a bottle of Snake Oil to sit in reserve and age like a fine wine while I use my current bottle.
And in the wine mode, I just finished regaling a friend about a Austrian (and I mean Austrian, not Australian) white wine, brand name Lois. Specifically,, it's Fred Lois Gruner Veltliner. It's very nice white wine, not too sweet -- dry, but not dry in an icky way. It's delicious. Really, really nice. As in, grab a bottle of it and sit in the sun and eat cheese and crackers over the long weekend. Preferably with someone you like, but if keeping yourself company is the best option, don't forget to treat yourself. Put on your favorite BPAL scent and let it waft around you.
What is it that the Lab's postcards say? Sensualist stimulation? By all means, go for it.
It's been a long month at work, since the start of the Legislative session. I've had a headache on-and-off since last Friday. It's indoor allergies and stress and not eating right and all that jazz. Thus, I've not been posting much around here, but I could not resist telling this story, courtesy of a coworker.
My coworker, W., has a daughter who's in 6th grade. Apparently the teacher was doing a "having fun with alliteration" project, and the kids had to make up a fun alliterative sentence and illustrate it. W.'s daughter was doing something like "Cool California cats cook chewy chocolate chip cookies." An impressive alliterative string, and rather Kerouac-esque, if you ask me. I asked W. if the cats were wearing little berets and playing bongos as the cookies cooked.
But I digress. W. told me that her daughter told her about a a friend's sentence, which was about "Big bald Bob." W. said she looked at her daughter and said: "What was that?" W. looked at my face, and started laughing, because I had taken it the same way that she had (for she's a perv too). We thought it was about "Big-balled Bob." I said I was picturing a 6th-grader's drawing of some guy with a wheelbarrow in front of him so his scrotal sac could ride on it.
Gah, I'd hate to be the teacher in that class, trying to keep a straight face when that one was read out loud.
I sit here on a late Sunday morning, with my cockatiel, Herb D. Byrd, sitting on my shoulder, doing his imitation of someone dialing a cordless phone: beep, beep, beep... He can also do a killer imitation of the phone ringing and then the answering machine going off, then the beep at the end of a message. He is a little character.
On Friday, the postman delivered a bottle of Dorian that I won on eBay last week! The seller charged me $5 for shipping, which seemed a bit high, but then I realized that she lives in Canada and she it airmailed to me. Bless her. I also bought a bottle of Dorian on the forum three weeks ago, and unless something changes soon, I think I've been swaplifted. I'm giving the seller one more chance to write back to me/send me the bottle and then I file a report with the mods. I'm more than willing to consider that it could have been lost or stolen by the USPS, but the seller's lack of a response to my PM makes me wonder what's happening. I've never had that happen before on the forum, and by and large, most people selling and swapping are incredibly nice and generous.
Anyway, the aroma of Dorian has some sort of effect upon me that I find hard to describe. It involves associations, and scents and music are my two major emotional associations. I love, love, love the smell of Smut and O and Urd and Underpants and Khajurajo, but Dorian almost makes me cry. I get over it after a while, but the first sniff gets me every time. But I love it, I want to wear it, and I think the emotional rush that it gives me is a cathartic thing I'm going through at this time. However, when I did wear it (when all I had was an imp), I had a couple of my male "noses" sniff it and they both responded with a dazed, wide-eyed "you smell so....incredible." Smut gets a vaguely drooly "ohmygodyousmellgood," Underpants and O gets the "yeah, that is nice," but Dorian, I think, has magic dust in it. I think it's the scent that Beth made for her beloved Ted, so maybe in a "Like Water For Chocolate" way, it reflects how she felt when she created it. My, I'm romantic this morning.
Like I said, music also creates some circuit-jamming emotional associations for me. I was at a wedding and reception last night, and weddings don't do that for me. I never cry at weddings. But at the reception, once the endless tape loop of Michael Buble music ended (he gets REALLY tiresome after 2 hours) and the lovely-dovey dance music was tuned on, I was somewhat relieved, if only for a change of pace. I was sitting there watching the bride and groom dance the first dance, thinking how sweet and cute they looked. And it was rather odd, no one else was watching. The parents were too busy being tense (bride's mom and dad are bitterly divorced, groom's dad had a lot to drink by that point), and the wedding party was utterly blitzed. Everyone else was eating, drinking and talking. I was glad that I gave that little moment of theirs my attention. I hope they never forget that they once were like that.
But then some country rock song came up on the rotation, and while I normally detest country rock, this song gets to me. I can't even tell you the name of the song, but it almost made me cry. I thought, well shit, I could sit here and sniff the inside of my elbow, get a big hit of Dorian, and just start sobbing, right here in the middle of the reception. I didn't. It was an open bar, and I got another drink and disassociated for a while. I hate to disassociate from my emotions, but sometimes it's what you gotta do, if only not to make a scene at a wedding reception.
My friend Ron always tells me that in spite of what I call my cynical attitude, I'm the most romantic person he knows. He says I'm not sentimental, but I am romantic. Did I read the Bronte sisters entirely too much when I was a teenager? Yeah, let's blame it on Emily and Charlotte! And Dorian, and that stupid country song! Charlotte and Emily and Dorian don't annoy me, but a country rock song? I humilate my own sensibilities with that one! But at least I take comfort that it wasn't a Celine Dion song! (Whew.)
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.
Now that things are entirely quiet at my job, way too quiet as far as I'm concerned, I tend to tune in satellite radio on the internet, put on the headphones and send the nosy or bored coworkers the message that I'm not tremendously interested in their blather. I head a song this morning that I really enjoyed called "Beautiful Wreck" by a guy named Shawn Mullins. He's a new one to me, but hell, I enjoyed that song.
I feel like a beautiful wreck a great deal of the time, although I hide my "wreckedness" behind a veneer of extreme cool competence. A few years ago I decided my cool, competent side was just fine for a professional exterior, but my beautiful wreck is really a component of my nicer side.
I don't know if many of you have read or thought much about your "shadow side" (very Jungian), but once I gave it some thought, I decided that I didn't always need to be the ultra-competent wonder diva that I normally try to be when I'm professionally "on." Fucking hell, I lightened up on myself.
We're all so complicated and utterly together and beautifully messed up, and I really adore it when someone else lets me see more than one facet of their person. That sort of honesty can scare a lot of people, but I think it's what it's all about. I have a lot of issues with people who get scared by honesty; it would seem that falsity is much, much scarier. But I guess it's not if you pretend that the illusions are reality.
While I know that we're all living in our own little dream worlds to some extent, I really wonder how many people live deep in the fantasy with occasional, and unwelcome, flashes of reality. And from what I've seen, reality can be far, far more amazing than the fantasies.
I was petting Ella Bean, Basset Queen, because she was feeling a little needy. Ella is more or less a rescue dog, and she wasn't treated very well in her previous home, judging from the lump on her rib where it was probably kicked and broken. When she gets needy, I sit and pet her and talk to her for a while and then she just gets giddy and runs around like a maniac. She tucks her butt down, causing it to come very close to hitting the floor as she runs. Then she grabs a dog toy or dog blanket and drags it around or tosses it in the air. It is hilarious.
Tonight I was petting her and she went into her happy dog frenzy. I wondered what dog toy was that red-maroon color and why she could so easily toss it in the air. It was a pair of my panties. She'd done a detour into the bathroom and with missile-like accuracy, dove into a pile of clothing that I was preparing to take down to the washing machine and grabbed my underpants. Then she played hide-and-seek with me, undies in her mouth.
I finally retrieved them. Bassets are notorious for having an underwear fixation. One woman on a Basset list that I belong to told a story of signing for a package, while her Basset appeared beside her, toting a bra for the postman to admire. (Lucky it wasn't the perv postman, he would have taken it as an omen.)
Anyway, I think this panty-stealing incident was in retaliation for my public airing of Ella Bean's fetishes. Considering I have now only revealed more of her fetishistic behavior, more punishment is certain to come my way.
(Of course, when I say "back in the saddle again," Steven Tyler's voice goes through my head...)
I don't really hide the fact that I work for a legislature, and today is the first day of the new legislative session. It will run until June. Anyone who reads this page will no doubt hear more about it than you will care to stomach. You will celebrate the end of it as much as I will. However, I'll try to keep a good attitude as long as possible, although I've already started it on a snippy, but personally meaningful note.
I was beginning my dressing ritual, which during the session, is a much more conniving process than the rest of the year. I tend to create a bit of an image that serves as an armor. There's a few people, mainly my friends, who see through it, but I can even fool some of my friends. The administrative support staff in the office get intimidated by me during the session, which always dismays and amuses me.
Last year's armor was some very nice pant suits, which I will of course continue to wear this year. The new additions to my armor include slightly above-the-knee pencil skirts, to be worn with very simple, long-sleeved tops. I have on such an ensemble today. Along with The Boots. The Boots are a new acquisition, and are black, knee-high faux suede boots, aprox. 3 inch narrow heels, pointy toes, and they have corset-style lacing up the back. From the front, I'm one thing, from the back, I'm another. The lobbyists will notice them, the senators won't. And in honor of the lobbyists re-entering the building in droves, I'm wearing Snake Oil as my fragrance. The choice was between Mme. Moriarty and Snake Oil, and I just didn't want to wear the Misfortune Teller the first day of the session. The Madame can be trotted out the second day.
I also have on my new red jasper pendant, which goes with my red jasper ring. I wear the ring all the time. I purchased it in late November because I felt I needed a ring with a red stone to provide some grounding energy. People are very attracted to it, but also a little intimidated by it. So of course, I had to wear the red jasper pendant on the first day to ward off whatever demons may approach. I am only half-kidding. This year I'm feeling very aware of the energy that some of these people (the politicians and the lobbyists) create, and I know what I want to avoid.
Today also marks the first day of the rest of my obsession, which is a really long story that I'm not going to tell. (How coy of me, I know.) Suffice it to say that a process of mine in a 12-year obsession is over. It makes me sad, and part of my recent red jasper wearing is to ground myself so I can move beyond that process. I'm not sure the obsession is over, but I know a certain process is over. That's as clear as I'm going to get.
But rather than be wistful about the end of something, I'll endeavor to remember that on New Year's Day, it occurred to me (out of the blue, while working out) that we can all grow our own power to whatever level we want, and we need take back seat to no one else's. While I work in a place where supposedly "powerful" people move about, political power is only one sort of power, and I sometimes think a rather pathetic sort of false power. Getting elected to an office is a way that some people use to create their own power, because they're so needy that they don't know how to back off and find the power in their own center. Certainly, there's a few elected officials who aren't that way -- they either ran for office out of a true sense of public service and dignity (rare), or they found something inside of themselves while they were serving. I've seen that happen, and it's always very nice to watch.
So let the madness begin, I have my look on and I'm really starting to think that most of them are completely full of shit. But I'll do my very small part to try to contribute something useful to the process. My my heart really isn't in it, not at all.
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...
I want to thank Dawndie for her observation that at the end of "Ocean's 11," it sounds like Andy Garcia is yelling "ARGHBLARGS!"
The reason being, I have this really, really annoying co-worker. I won't bore you with endless descriptions of her behavior, except to say that she drives everyone nuts. Those of us who have offices close to her frequently send each other emails to vent about her behavior. I have taken to giving all the blowing-off-steam emails the title of "ARGH BLARG!" so my coworkers know instantly that the subject matter is "her." It truly is what I'd like to yell at her when she comes in and starts reading the paper to me. And OK, here's a micro-vent: this woman is the consummate idea-stealer and funny quip swiper. Yesterday I made a comment about something that she felt was rather clever, so she promptly trotted off to tell other people in the office about her idea, then came back, got on the phone, and started calling people to tell them about her wonderful idea. And she does this within earshot of me -- once it goes into her head, it becomes her idea. Let's just say, if it's important, I won't even say it within earshot of her.
And my evilness is really minimal in this category, because every now and then I could plant an either bizarre or completely incorrect story in her brain, and watch her carry it around to half the world. She would say it with all the certainty of the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. But I do believe in karma, or the golden rule, or guardian angels shaking their finger angrily at you, so I don't try it. Plus, lest you think I'm too pure, if I told her something stupid just to watch her carry it off, she'd probably tell everyone it was my idea once it was exposed as being stupid and/or false. So my karma would jump up and bite me in the ass rather quickly.
But I have evil coworkers. Last fall I impaled the underside of my forearm on a dried-up shrub. I didn't realize I'd driven a shard of the shrub into my arm until about a week later, when the doctor extracted it. Being rather amused, and knowing a few of my friends at the office just love a good gross-out, I brought the shard in so they could see it. Crude jokes about me going to no end to have a woody in me ensued. Word spread and people who hadn't even known about the boo-boo on my arm came in to see what became known as "the branch."
Not to be outdone, a few days later "she" started carrying on that the had somehow scratched her eye, that she was in agony, that she could barely keep it open, how it was watering so hard that she could'n't see, and infection was probably setting in. (It didn't look any worse than the non-injured eye -- her eyes are normally bloodshot.) I can't tell you the number of times she stuck her face in mine, pulling down her lower eyelid and yelling about her pain. Having utterly HAD IT with her competitive and attention-seeking bullshit, a couple of my coworkers tried to convince her that she should go purchase an eye patch. They told her it was critical that she keep her eye closed and protected. And SHE DID IT. The two people who talked her into it still high-five each other when they think about it. Of course, the next day, she showed up to work sans the eye patch, claiming a miraculous recovery, due to her superior immune system.
There must be a Twilight Alchemy Lab formulation that could work on this person. If there was, I'd do a group order with at least 4 or 5 other people. We'd all need our own bottle. Beth could make a cool $150 or so, thanks to the office battle-ax.
And hey, how about that Mum Moon formulation? I realized after I'd put in my update order last week that I should have ordered Mme. Moriarity. I read the Mum Moon description and decided, oh well, there's a good excuse to order the Lunacy upate and a bottle o' the misfortune teller. So, I'm back to having more than one outstanding order. My disjointed little universe once again has its requisite suspense and deferred gratification factors!
Oh no! Fergus, the soccer hooligan, pushed LaVerna too far. Evidently she's watched too many Charles Bronson vigilante justice movies in her life, for she has utterly no remorse. Judging from his grinning death mask, Fergus was happy that he would be joining Beetlejuice's posse of the undead, and right now he's no doubt trying to get Wyonna Ryder to marry him.
Now everyone turn up Warren Zevon's "Werewolves of London" full-blast, and sing along!
It's really rainy today, and that's so damn rare for the almost-high-plains where I live. It's supposed to stay this way all weekend, and people will be merging lack-of-sunshine bitches with the farmer-ish platitude "well, we shore dew need the moisture..."
darkitysnark was into a Thomas Dolby-style 1980's flashback a few days ago, and today, thanks to the rain, I entered into a power ballad/metal/late'80's, early '90's time warp. Every time it rains a lot, the brainworm power ballad "Another Rainy Night" by Queensryche fires up in my head. Today I was browsing the music store and checked out the used metal section. There it was: "Empire" by Queensryche. For $5.95, I got to play "Jet City Woman," "Another Rainy Night" and "Silent Lucidity" as I drove around town in the rain. (I also took shit from the store manager, who is unaccustomed to seeing me in the metal section. "Get your ass back to jazz" was the directive, I believe.)
Queensryche's music, and most metal power ballad music, now seems to me to have a rather earnest quality that I find both a bit cheesy and ingratiating. I used to think "Silent Lucidity" was really deep, and now I think it's a bit silly. It's still kind of a compelling ballad and the lead singer does have a great voice. I know Queenryche still tours, because I saw that they were playing in a casino or somewhere a little pathetic like that, and my, the lead singer looked worn and a bit snacked-out. Queensryche was from where... Seattle? Pre-grunge, as I recall.
Nevertheless, it's fun to own that CD again, if only to put in on whenever it rains a lot, and in this part of the country, that really won't happen very often.
So when someone starts the inevitable bitching about it "bein' bone dry" around here this summer, I can look at them and say: "Well damn, and I haven't listened to Queensryche in weeks!" It will be good for a confused look.
Last night another saying that I've only heard said by The Prophet Raoul -- if you don't know who I'm talking about, read my entry from a couple days ago -- came out of my mouth. Whenever Raoul was discussing something or someone that he found to be particularly unsightly, he liked to say: "If _______ was a dog, I'd shave its ass and make it walk backwards."
What a visual.
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.
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.
Here's an example of the office cyber-patter that goes on about the Coworker From Hell, who is seemingly a Seinfeld character come to life. Let me clarify that she likes to pick a sworn enemy in the professional world and rant and rave about them. The sworn enemy is usually a female that she has deemed completely incompetent and of questionable sanity. (To borrow a line that I think was used on Seinfeld: "Hello pot? It's the kettle. You're black!")
First, my original "ARGH BLARGH" email -- I edited out real names:
What is she going to do now that 1) Person A, 2) Person B, 3) Person C and 4) Person D are all out of government? When will a new female sworn enemy emerge, so we don't have to hear retread stories about Person A and Person C?
One coworker's response:
I have 2 semi-crazy women, do I hear 3?
2 going once...
Going twice….
Gone! Sold to the lush with a bad case of bed-head!
Another coworker's observation:
If no viable object for her scorn emerges, I see a possibility that she may simply turn on herself. Let's hope not. The number of aberrant behavior stories that she then would be able to tell would be endless.
The only reason that I stay even slightly sane is because my other colleagues are really funny.
I was at the health club, riding the cardio cross-trainer (I've nicknamed it the sadiomaster), but I'm having a fine time because I'm reading "Insatiable" by Gael Green, the escapades of an unabashed sensualist food critic who had lots and lots of fun in the 1970's, eating and screwing her way around New York City. And while I was reading and riding (the sadiomaster, remember!) I was listening to Billie Holiday.
I finished a chapter and looked up at a TV, and there was Andy Garcia on screen. What a fine man he is. Could I take much more? Of course, because then the scene switched to George Clooney. ("Ocean's 11" was on TV.) In a brief aside, I think Andy and George make Brad Pitt look plain, but I'm a sucker for dark-haired men.
Could I take much more? Yeah, the guy at the club that I mentally refer to as "Scenery" (I don't know his name) was walking around the track, cooling down from his weight training. He has dark hair too, plus he's classically handsome and he doesn't realize it. I think that men who aren't especially handsome, but act like they are, are really appealing, as are handsome men who don't understand just how good looking they are.
But after that flurry of man-watching, I was content to return to reading Gael and listening to Billie. It certainly did make the sadiomaster session much more worthwhile.
Does anyone remember the old TV show "Taxi?" See it in reruns? The character played by Christopher Lloyd, Reverend Jim Ignatowski, was the classic '60's burn-out, but he occasionally showed flashes of a former self, prior to all the drugs. There was a show where he was sitting in his apartment eating breakfast and a wrecking ball crashed through the wall -- the building was being demolished, and Jim had somehow failed to see the eviction notices. I think he said something like: "Boy, there's a draft in here!"
There was another show where Elaine, the aspiring actress, needed someone to escort her to a cocktail party being thrown by a very wealthy theatre patron. Jim was the only one available to act as an escort, so Elaine got Jim all cleaned up and took him along. She told him to be quiet, and he was doing an OK job. But during the course of the evening, the pianist who was supposed to entertain the guests failed to show up, and the hostess was bemoaning her plight. Jim said he played the piano, and the hostess promptly took him up on his offer. So Jim sat down and began clunking out "Chopsticks." Elaine was slowly dying. Then Jim suddenly started to play gorgeous classical music; he stopped only briefly and said: "Hmmm... I must have done this before!"
At Meadowlark Coffee, there's a fair number of Jim-like characters hanging outside, because it's across the street from the hospital that houses the county mental health facility. The outpatients sometimes sit outside at Meadowlark waiting for the bus. There's one guy who's obviously medicated to the gills, but he's still somewhat coherent, just a bit dazed.
Last Friday I was sitting inside Meadowlark, reading, when someone began playing all sorts of songs on the piano. The repertoire ranged from jazz standards to show tunes to Beatles songs. I couldn't figure out who was playing the music, and I couldn't see the piano, so I stood up to take a look. And it was the Jim-like guy, playing them all from memory! A woman who was probably his caseworker from the mental health center was sitting with him, and every now and then, they'd start singing together.
Amazing. It was really very funny in a Reverend Jim sort of way, and it was also sad, because you wonder what this person was like before the schizophrenia, or whatever is organically wrong, got to him. He never did say "Hmmm... I must have done this before," but he did at one point stop, look at the keyboards and say: "Not bad!"
Here's some distance shots and a couple little close-ups of the garden. I'll post more in the next day or two, including one of critter-life around the back yard. Everything was shot on Sunday morning, October 8, and for you gardeners, I'm in zone 5 (on the edge of 6) on the growing season map:
I was bopping around Zappo's and came upon a company called "Pleaser USA," and then I recalled that evanesce provided a link to their shoes earlier this spring. I came across this pair of shoes and was sufficiently provoked to take a closer look. Then I had to look at the customer comments. Read the third customer comment from B.Y in Seattle. WTF? I sent this to my friend Ron (a shoe fetishist if there ever was one) and asked him if it could help him find religion. His response:
"There’s high church and low church. Then there’s high heel church. I know which I prefer!"
http://www.zappos.com/n/p/dp/15599613/c/1141.html
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.
