Thanx for the Spanx

Trite though it surely may be, and undoubtedly sloppy writing, this time of year always makes me wistful for all the things and people I am truly, truly, thankful for. I have blessings too numerous to count, confidants and loved ones galore, and a path in life that affords me not only a sense of purpose, but enough money to pay my bills and perpetuate my chosen livelihood. Not many, especially in this horrid economy, get to do what they want to do with their lives. I am lucky, a fact I thank Fate for every day.

So in the spirit of shaking things up a little, I'd like to give some thanks for events over the past year, which, while seeming highly negative on the surface, have actually enriched my life. No particulars are necessary, because the people involved don't really matter in the long run.

When you're young, your standards for friends and acquaintances are very easy to reach. Anyone who's ever watched two children bond instantly over a shared age or love of dinosaurs can attest to that. The hoops adults jump through later in life are constructed after years of easy friendships lead to false or fair-weather friends.

Eventually, your bullshit filters get just sharp enough to keep most of the detritus out. You weed out the codependents, the backstabbers, the toxic attention vampires, and all the rest of the people you outgrow on your way to becoming a grown up.

Every once in a while, though, you encounter people who slip under your radar. Hey, we're all fallible. It feels good to meet new people, and tell all your stories, and hear all their stories, and bond. And 99% of the time, it's a beautiful thing. Most people are basically good, (but don't tell anyone I told you so, I've a rep to protect) and I believe even the people who do you dirt don't set out to do it on purpose. But dirt they sometimes do, and the consequences are the same whether intentional or not.

I've met some really, really wonderful people this past year. People who I would take a bullet for, people whose kids I would protect from bears, people who I dearly and truly love. And for that I am lucky, because many people in this world go without one good friend, much less the ones I have. They know who they are.

I say this to illustrate that the rewards of close friendship come with the occasional pitfall; sometimes people misrepresent themselves, even to themselves, and it's only once you've come out on the other side and gotten some distance from the person that you can start to see the bullet you dodged by ending the friendship. Particularly if that person is batshit, head over heels, balls out swingin', looney tooney bins.

But I digress.

The reason I bring this up is not to dwell too long on the person involved, but to demonstrate the positive effects of dealing with a negative person. Chiefly of which is this: dealing only with people you like, who like you, can only tell you so much about how you handle a stressful situation. Dealing with people who have made you angry, and doing it in a manner befitting an adult, tells you much more. If you can keep your cool but still get your point across, you can count yourself a grown-up. Congratulations.

Likewise important is the fact that making a mistake in sizing up a potential friend lets you know you're not infallible, and we need those curveballs every once in a while to keep us on our toes. Psychosis doesn't just live in the stinky guy who shuffles down the street talking to Elvis: it takes many forms, and some of those might be in front of you from time to time. You don't have to let it make you bitter, because like I said before, most people are basically good. It just serves to remind you to keep an eye open every once in a while.

And finally, getting through the breakup of a friendship lets you know that no matter what happens in the blowup, the aftermath is never as bad as you think it's going to be. Frequently it ends not with a bang but a whimper. Or a sigh of relief knowing you don't have ten more crazy years in front of you with someone whose screws aren't tamped down so tight.

So here's to a new year, with new challenges and victories, peaks and valleys, and all other trite metaphors for the greased roller coaster of life. But as long as I have my boys, my health, and my boys' health, I will abide.

'Cause I'm a soldier, fool, what?!

Why you shouldn't fuck your siblings.

Because your offspring may wake up from their afternoon paint huffing blackout and try to assassinate a presidential candidate. I mean, jumping jesus on a pogo stick! Even by the yardstick with which trailer trash is usually measured, these cro-mag, wall-eyed, lead-poisoned, knuckle-dragging mouth breathers are particularly hideous.

It reminds me of one of my favourite lines from Preacher: "Why are the saviours of the white race always the worst examples of it?"

I guess it beats their normal pastime of stealing children and living under a bridge.

Yard Wars

I've been doing a hugely non-scientific, very haphazard study of presidential yard signs around my neighborhood and the surrounding areas for about a week now. I think St. Louis is a pretty good microcosm of the country, and hopefully a good indication of how the election might play out.

So far I've counted 100 Obama yards to 46 McCains.

Now, I'm counting yards, not signs, because one yard can have as many signs as they want before the cops knock on their door with neighbour complaints. Also, in the spirit of fairness, I should mention that I've been giving McCain the benefit of the doubt as often as I can because I don't want to be accused of bias. (By who? I don't know. The voices in my head.) I even counted the people who seem to think Sarah Palin is running for President, even though the thought of an unqualified beauty pageant contestant with her finger on the button fills me with dread. Because let's face it, McCain's got one foot in the grave and the other on a roller skate. The odds of him making it through the next four years aren't ones I'd play in Vegas.

Still even with this help, Obama is leading McCain over 2 to 1. Including in neighborhoods that traditionally side with the GOP. Rich white people with Obama signs on their perfectly manicured front lawns, what's the world coming to?

So we'll see. We'll see. At any rate, even a wheel of cheese in the Oval Office has to be better than what we've got.

Colour my World

I finally did it!! My living room, after being the colour of split pea soup for nearly FOUR DECADES, has finally been painted!



Gone are the yogurt stains, the crayon mural my son painted for us on the front wall when my husband wasn't watching him closely enough, and, of course, the early 70's asparagus vomit hue. (for those of you who don't remember the 70's, it's the era that brought us harvest gold appliances, coke paraphenalia as personal adornment, and the Chest Thatch.) Any decade that tells us the colour of baby poo makes for good home decorating is not one I need to listen to. So, out with the old, in with the new. The new bright coral, to be exact.

See, I'm not afraid of colour, provided it's reminiscent of a Miami bordello, circa 1957. It matches our stained Toddler Couch and 2006 Crapshack Woodlike computer desk perfectly. But the best part of it isn't the paint, or even the afternoon-long high I got from the primer fumes (thank you, Kilz!), it's the fact that we can finally get rid of the godawful, slowly disintegrating Carpet from Hell.

See, the last time this house was redecorated, Nixon had yet to be a crook, Elvis was still alive for the first time, and the nation's tastemongers went through a coke-induced hallucination that olive drab short-pile wall-to-wall carpet (made solely of petroleum by-products) was the most delicious thing a thinking person could put under their feet. As visionary as this line of thought was, the miles of bile-hued Berber that covered our bungalow as a result have not held up since their inception two score years ago.



This carpet has been wasting away like the Bush Administration's approval rating. I don't need to wonder what we have underneath it, because I can see it. Carpet, pad, and webbing have worn away to dust, and our wonderful hardwood floors have been sitting there like a cruel reminder of a more stylish time.



I didn't pull it up because I've been adamant that it serve at least one purpose in its foul life: as a drop cloth. Now that the walls are no longer the colour of lime jello left out in the sun, I can rip it out by its filthy roots. And then piss on it. And set it on fire. And insult its mother.



So as soon as my pre-school induced head cold (toddlers are cute little germ factories, the lot of them!) finally leaves me some peace, I am taking a box cutter to the whole mess. This house will be party-ready, by, like, 2030 or so.

I f*cking love my kid.

Seriously. The F-bomb is necessary, because the pedestrian sentence doesn't cut it without it. I fucking love my kid. He's the best, he's the bomb, he's the bees' fucking knees. If everything else I ever attempt in this world fails dismally, and I raise a happy, healthy, independent kid, I'll count my life a success.

Look, I'm a sarcastic bitch, but not about my kid. I'm not easily domesticated; I'm a shitty housekeeper, I go to cooking like I'm being sent in front of a firing squad, and my skill at being a quiet, demure wife, is well, *snort* nonexistent. But as a mom, I unequivocably rock. My kid is the spitting image of me as a kid: highly energetic, independent, smart, problem-solving, boundary pushing, empathic, and easily affectionate. He's not the easiest kid to wrangle in the world, but let's face it: I don't want that kid.

Easy-going kids are not my thing. Easy-going morphs too quickly into bland, boring, and milquetoast; or covers up a conniving personality that uses subterfuge and manipulation to get what they want, since they don't have the balls to ask for it. I can't stand people like that, and I'm glad my kid is as far away from being a mousy pushover as he is.

Which is not to say he's a bully: he's a very affectionate, loving, empathetic kid who happens to have a lot of energy he doesn't (at nearly 3) know what to do with. Let me illustrate: one day I picked him up from his day care place(he goes two days a week so I can get something done besides wiping jelly off of everything three feet high), and the teacher came rushing over to me. She told me, in excited tones usually reserved for a Nobel Peace Prize nomination, that a little girl in the class had been having a meltdown that day when her mom had left. Apparentally, she wasn't comforted by anything, and the teacher had to hold her, sobbing and wailing, for a good fifteen minutes with no signs of stopping. Anyone who's ever held a screaming child knows that fifteen minutes is a lifetime.

This little girl plays with one, and only one, toy in the classroom. Ever. Apparentally, apropos of nothing, little Eddie walked over to the toy shelves, found the favoured toy, and brought it over to the unhappy girl. The teacher told me she was floored. She said it like he performed open-heart surgery or wrestled a bear.

That's one of my favourite stories, because it shows off a side of my son that isn't always in the forefront. At two and a half, he not only tried to comfort another child who was upset (a feat in itself; toddlers aren't known for their sympathetic natures), he did it by offering her her favourite toy. So not only did he want to help, he also paid enough attention to the kids around him to know what this little girl would like. For a toddler full smack in the me-me-me stages, this is something pretty fucking amazing.

So whenever he's leaping headfirst into the couch from the coffee table, or writing on the TV screen with non-washable crayons (I know, I know, but the washable ones don't come in any good colours), I have this story to remind me that underneath all the ballyhoo, my son's a genuinely good kid. And that's a platform you can build a good adult from, so we're already halfway there.



Forgive me for gushing about my kid, I know to non-breeders or pre-breeders the constant kid stories parents make can get a little grating, but all the stories you've heard about having kids are true. They will take over your life. Of course, if you're even close to being a decent human being, you won't miss your old life too much; you'll no longer give a shit about all the things you worried about when you were childless. You'll have all new things to worry about, like how you're going to pay for college, or how you're going to get the peanut butter sandwich out of the VCR.

Of course it's hard, it's harder than anything I've ever done in my life. It's more stressful than my job, my marriage, and my relationship with my family combined. I've gotten more grey hair in the last 3 years than I got in the first 35. But it's worth it, it's worth more to me than everything else in my life combined. I love my friends, I love my family, and I love my husband. But if worst comes to worst, I can survive without them. The only person on this earth I can't say that about is my son. But that's how it is with kids. They bring out the best you have to give as a person. Let me illustrate further:

I am terrified--at 38--of zombies. Pissing myself terrified. Hyperventilating-in-the-theatre-during-Sean-of-the-Dead-terrified. I say this to you with the full force of my (admittedly irrational) fear:

I would walk through a cityful of zombies to get to my son.

Even clown zombies.

That's how awesome my kid is. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go wipe yogurt off my laptop. :)

Best Garage Sale Ever

Sometimes it’s fate.

I’m not usually the kind of person who assigns divine origins to ordinary things. I don’t think god, if she/he/it/they exist, gives a rat's ass about the outcomes of elections, baseball games, American Idol, or war, for that matter. Deities have better things to do than pay minute attention to the daily lives of their creations; anything more is just the narcissism of human beings.

Still, if it wasn’t fate that sent me to the Best. Garage. Sale. Ever, I don’t think fate exists. Because truly there never was a garage sale more tailored to me than the one across from the house of my friend, Kate Valleroy. She’s a crafty girl I know who happens to be due to pop out a young’un in two months’ time, so I was there to give her a bag of boys’ clothes that little Eddie has *sniff* outgrown. Also, I was there to gawk at her lovely house and wish that we, too, had had the sense to paint and fix our own before the baby came. But that's a whole ‘nother tale.

We were enjoying the atypically lovely St. Louis July weather out on her carport, while my son threw fish food and leaves to her thankful koi and we snarfed down some of the sweetest strawberries I’ve ever eaten. In between bites, she mentioned her neighbor was having a really cool garage sale, and we should go before we left. Since my kid was getting further away from feeding the fish and closer to joining them in the pond, I gathered him (and his father) up, and we moseyed across the street.

Holy flarking shnit.

First of all, there wasn’t a dud in the whole sale. Tons of retro religious kitsch (the seller is a lapsed catholic who alternates between loving religious art and being creeped out by it), ‘shabby chic’ vintage linens, vintage clothing in perfect condition, juice glass sets, retro paint by numbers pictures, 1950’s figurines, and a ton of space age ashtrays back when smoking was still considered classy and refined. I just about shit myself. Every piece was better than the last. It was the best combination of circumstances ever: on one hand, she was an antique dealer, so she knew her shit when acquiring pieces--none of her items were reproductions or poor representations of the era. On the other hand, she was trying to get rid of everything, and the items she was selling weren’t her particular taste, so the prices were low. The killer was that she knew she could get more money for the stuff, but she didn’t feel like it making the extra effort.

I bought less than $50 worth of stuff, but probably walked away with $250 worth of items, easy. She said she might be having another sale, and I’m considering going back and buying another $50 to sell on Ebay or etsy to pay for the first bunch. So to share my good luck with the world (of course, I’m not sharing the location, I’m not quite THAT nice.) I took photos of everything I bought and will let you in on the finds without further ado.



This lovely couple was one of the first things I saw, and I had to have them. For one thing, she was selling them for about a 1/3 of what they’re worth, and for another, I have inherited my grandmother’s tastes for 1950’s Asian kitsch as well as almost all of Gramma's items. These will go nicely in with the rest, as will these:



And these:



In addition to that, I picked up this adorable planter and vintage painted leather doll that are hanging in the catchall shadow box in our dining room. The doll in particular walks that line between cute and creepy that I love so much in my décor. If I’m not a little afraid it’ll come to life and strangle me in my bed, it doesn’t belong in my house.



All that stuff alone is worth what I paid for the whole lot, but then she added the holy grail by having not one, but two double tiered lampshades for sale. The second one she gave me for free. With the lamp attached. She didn’t want to sell it because it needed restringing on one side, but 5 minutes total work in front of the TV will fix that. She gave me a few items for free because I bought so much stuff; also, I think, just because I was so knocked out by everything.





Also free was the little horse statue that I looked at and then put back. The lady was nice enough to throw it in gratis, just because I liked it. Of course, because she did that, I bought an additional whale planter, crescent shaped candy dish, and 4 pieces of vintage jewelry. So maybe she's smarter than me. No, scratch that, she's definitely smarter than me.






But near and dear to my heart was the final purchase: a little vintage sewing basket with all kinds of antique notions inside, including some beautiful 1920's era needle cases. I love all kinds of vintage sewing gear, especially if it has the packaging intact. Some people collect baseball cards, but I'm not much for sports. I'm much happier risking tetanus with sharpened vintage steel.





So where does fate come in, you ask? Well, I was originally supposed to meet Kate on Monday at Cooperella Cafe, but due to my famously unreliable memory, I missed it until it was well over. When I rescheduled for Friday, I forgot that most places would be closed for July 4th, including--you guessed it--Cooperella. Kate was gracious enough to invite me, my erstwhile hubby, and our whirling dervish of a son into her adorable house, which happened to be across the way from this sale, and which she just happened to know about even though it wasn't officially open yet.

For anyone besides me who loves midcentury modern, slightly tacky antiques, you'll understand that having that many things in one place for THAT cheap takes an act of god, or several gods, for that matter. So score one for the big guy. I'm sure he's much more interested in this than the Superbowl anyway. ;)

None of my Exes live in Texas

Stolen from Kristina's blog--I love to reminisce.

EXES SURVEY

Have you had many exes?
Not as many as some, more than others. If I had to guess, I'd say about 10.

Did any of your ex’s have pet names for you when you dated?
I'm sure they did, but I certainly don't remember back that far.

Did you ever re-date an ex?
Once they're officially an ex, no. No point in burning yourself on the same stove twice. If we played around in a grey area, maybe, but I'm not usually a very grey person in relationships.

If yes, how did that work out?
It was a waste of my time, but I don't think I'd appreciate my husband as much if I han't gone through it.

Do you have any ex’s you wish you would have been friends with instead of dated?
Not really. I tended to date people I didn't necessarily want to be friends with. It was mostly about physical attraction for me, and once the relationship ended, my physical attraction ended as well. I have no hard feelings toward them, but we wouldn't have been good friends even if we hadn't dated.

Do you have any regrets about an ex?
I don't regret anything I've ever done.

Do you do the breaking up or do the ex’s do the leaving?
I was usually too chickenshit to break up with people, so I instead became unbearable so they'd leave. That way I didn't have to deal with them anymore, but I didn't have to feel guilty, either.

If you could completely remove all trace of an ex from your life, would you?
Nah. I barely remember dating anyone other than Eddie anyway.

What is a good memory you have of an ex?
My memory isn't my strong point. Probably just going to shows, hanging out, that sort of thing. I can't remember too much specifically.

Were any of your ex’s the jealous type?
One was, but he was smart enough not to be so to my face. I don't like people who are too clingy. If I'm with someone, I'm with them and no one else. I don't like people enough to bother cheating.

Has an ex stalked you after the break up?
Not an ex, but I did have an acquaintance fall in love with me and not take "fuck, no" for an answer. He used to try to deliver flowers to me, leave me gifts and shit. I threw them all away and told him to leave me alone. He was really creepy.


Did you ever have an ex steal from you? What did they take?
One ex stole my writing and used it to write a letter to his other girlfriend (who I didn't know about.) This same ex gave me stolen merchandise for my birthday. He was quite a catch. ;)

What was the creepiest thing an ex has done after you broke up?
Other than trying to come back to me, nothing.

Do you have any ex’s that you wish you would have married?
Oh good god, no. What a horrifying thought.

Are you friends with your ex’s?
I wouldn't say we hang out much, but I have nothing against most of them. Even the ones I dislike I wouldn't fight with. I barely have time for my own family; I'm not going to waste it on exes.

Will any of your ex’s read this?
I doubt it, but what do I know?

Someday my House will be Clean

Sometimes my house makes me so depressed, because it's old, and has been housing a packrat(me), a slob(my husband), and a tornado(my son). It needs so much work, but because of the aforementioned inhabitants, we have no time or room in which to do it. I have a long list of things I'm planning, but I'm afraid it won't happen until the kid's in school every day. So we're shooting for 2011, which seems far away but in reality will probably disappear before I have time to notice. Lack of sleep does that to you.


So here are the things I'd like to do, should time suddenly stop for everyone but me and make finding a free moment no longer a problem:

1.paint my front room a pretty coral peach with a deeper coral accent wall.

2.paint my dining room a lovely shade of 1940's mint green that's a touch yellower than what most people think of mint.

3.Paint the attached kitchen a lovely 1950's shade of buttery yellow and accenting it with black, red, deep green, and mint green accents. The cabinets will stay white, and the appliances will all get a much needed deep scrubbing.

4.paint the baby's room a lovely muted aquamarine blue with a mural of pirates, robots, dinosaurs and monkeys on one wall. Preferably before he enters high school.

5.paint our room a nice bordello off-red to complement our rose red/black/yellow silk/leopard print colour scheme (It's not as gaudy as it sounds-or maybe it is. I'm probably not the best judge).

6.PULL UP THIS GODAWFUL AVOCADO GREEN CARPET!!! We have hardwood floors beneath. Know how I know? There are holes in the carpet. Big holes that look like someone's been snacking on it. The carpet is literally older than I am, and the colour is the visual representation of airsickedness.

7.putting up all our accumulated 1950's-1960's knicknacks in Target-bought shadow boxes and shelves so we have some actual horizontal space in the house.

8.hanging our paintings so we have a nice assortment of our artwork on display, instead of housing it all in the basement where it floods.

9.replacing furniture that's been wrecked by toddler hands with reasonably nice vintage pieces. Blonde wood, mostly, which is how I like my furniture but not my men.

10.building a stone patio in the back yard. Why hire a contractor when you can injure your own fingers, toes and back?

11.building a koi pond in the back yard (mostly that's my husband's gig--I'm not as big on digging holes in the lawn).

12.finishing the basement, and putting a tiki bar/home office/workshop in place of the multitudes of boxed up junk that resides there now.

The house in my head is so lovely, and so much better than what I see around me now, which is a mixture of Armageddon, Beirut, The day after Spring Break in Daytona, and Crayola carnage. Hopefully someday I'll get a little closer to it in real life. Toddlerdom can't last forever, can it? :)

My new obsession

Okay, so we got our "Please don't hate me on my way out" government bribe money, so I ran out and got a laptop. This is the first computer I've ever owned that's all mine. I love it I love it I love it. No dirty finger swipes, no crumbs in the keyboard, no giant computer game files that magically appear on the hard drive every time I turn around. It's a midnight blue Toshiba something-or-other, and it's worth every penny. Now I'm not stuck to my desk at home when I want to update my blog or put new items on my Etsy site!

Now I'll have a keyboard readily at hand for all those times when I'm on the road and inspiration strikes. Well maybe not on the road, exactly. Wouldn't want to make our nation's highways any more dangerous than they already are.

That said, I'm still pissed at Bush, and I still think he's the worst president the country's ever had. Even Nixon was better than this. Bush can give me a house, a Vespa, a solid gold Ipod, shine my shoes and my windows, walk my dog every day for the rest of his life, balance my checkbook and send out all our Xmas thank you cards, and I still wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire.

MYSLART scam

Warning to anyone contacted for MYSLART
Because the arts/crafts community is so small, there's a good possibility that if you are an artist, you might have been contacted about a new online community called MYSLART. It's billed itself as a 'MySpace for artists' page. It's run by Don Erickson, the same guy who stuck 40 vendors in a glass and garbage strewn parking lot and pocketed $90 this June. He also runs the Art Coop, which bills itself as a non-profit despite being shut down in a previous venture for not filing the revenue paperwork necessary to maintain non-profit status.


As artists, we have to protect each other. I was burned by Don so you don't have to be.
:)

Warning for Crafters/Artists!!

Well, I'm back after a useless day at OLTA, and I have a warning for any St. Louis artisans or crafters who may be contacted by Don Erickson or Art Coop in the future. OLTA's outside booths took place in a back parking lot behind a building--invisible from the street, and complete with an overflowing malodorous dumpster on the booth site. There were no signs, no street traffic, no promotion whatsoever. The only way to OLTA's 'fair' was a slummy alleyway strewn with overgrown weeds and broken glass. The earliest vendors had to actually clean drywall off the lot when they arrived, and ended up not being able to use half the space they cleared because of black mold.

The only street promotion visible were some yellow chalk arrows hastily drawn on the sidewalk. Last I checked, yellow chalk and broken glass didn't cost $90 per vendor. Don claims to have spent $800 promoting this event, yet he can't produce even one concrete instance of actual advertising.

Don't get me wrong, I've vended booths where I haven't made money. This isn't simply sour grapes on my part. But I've done a lot of these events and this is above and beyond simple bad luck. This is neglect bordering on consumer fraud.

From all appearances, this is a case where someone spent almost no money and simply expected to pocket all of it for handing out booth space without promoting the event or even cleaning up the parking lot where it was to be held. The stench from the dumpster was disgusting. Equally deplorable is the fact that several vendors made a trek from Chicago and Kansas City who are now out not only $45 of their $90 booth fee (he agreed to refund half our fees, although I'll believe it when I see it.) but their gas and time as well.

The fair didn't get one client. Not one. Had we gotten lookers but no buyers, I'd chalk it up to a bad economy, but we didn't get any lookers. Schlafly wasted beer serving no one, Mangia Italiano wasted food serving no one, bands played to no one in a hot parking lot. Several vendors mentioned having a similar experience with him during previous events, so I'd say he's making a habit of it.

For that reason, I have to put this out and warn everyone who might likewise be swindled by him. Tell your friends, tell your blogs, tell any crafty forums you're a member of. Crafters put too much money and time into their wares, they deserve not to be taken advantage of.

Obsession of the week

Okay, this is something I picked up from Walgreen's one day because it was on sale, and the first one I ate I thought was totally gross.
Then I craved another. And another, and another, until I had finished the bag. I think they put crack in there. I have to pace myself, because I can literally eat the whole thing at one sitting, which is kind of bad for me.

Vote for my Cute-Ass Kid

My kid is cute as hell. I entered his photo in a contest to be on a Jones Soda bottle label. Please, please, please help me by voting for his cuteness!

To vote, go to Jones Soda and vote.

Thanx! I'll let everyone know if he wins, because that would be pretty boss.

Just Can't Wait

Okay, I have TWO obsessions this week. I've already mentioned the first, so it's only fair to lay the second one on you.

Jalapenos

I don't know if it's my proximity to the Farmer's Market all yesterday, but it seems everything I've eaten for the last day and a half has had something to do with jalapenos. I suppose the salsa I wolfed down (and later regretted somewhat) yesterday is to be expected, but less obvious is the delicious Sweet Jalapeno Jelly I bought from the Kimker Hill Farm booth. Slap it on toast with some cream cheese, and it's the tastiest lunch you can make in five minutes when there's nothing edible in the house.

It's not really good for you, mind you, but then again it only has four ingredients, all recogizable as foodstuffs, so it can't be all bad.

Now if someone could just find a way to make Jalapeno flavoured hard candy, I'd be the happiest girl in the world.

Obsession of the week.

Okay, so in an effort to post a blog on here more than once in a blue fuckin' moon, I'm introducing a series I'd like to call Obsession of the Week. Once a week, whenever I get a wild hair you-know-where, I'll let you in on anything special that might be giving me more pause than normal, no matter how small or silly.

And I can get pretty silly, so be forewarned.

And so without further ado, this week's obsession is:

Band Aid Pink



You know the colour, not quite pink, not quite beige, a little lavendar thrown in for good measure. You can't put your finger on it, but you've seen it before--on thousands, literally thousands, of 'fleshtone' Band-aids. No one has flesh that colour, and yet there it is. And I love it, even though it's a pastel form of puce. I love it so much, I am now sporting it on my recently pedicured piggies.

It's the same non-colour of my gramma's all-metal 1950's Singer sewing machine, the 60 year old beast that's powered through nearly 10,000 garments with little complaint. It's not so purty, but it's sturdy.

Band Aid Pink. Hue of kings. My obsession de la semaine.

We Are Filled With Shame

So yeah, I've been threatening this post for a while, and now that I have five free seconds to myself, I'm gonna write it, damn you! So be warned. If you had any respect for me, this is the end of that. Of course, if you're a certain redheaded friend of mine who like to flash her unmentionables at my husband, it will be a day like every other.

To look at me, I proably look fairly similar to every other aging hipster chick on the planet: unnatural black hair, unnatural blonde streak, prominent tattoos, black-top-jeans-black-shoes uniform, glasses for street cred/myopia verging on blindness, etc. You would possibly assume I like a lot of good bands (social distortion, danzig-era misfits, clash, johnny cash) and good music (dirty early jazz and blues, rockabilly, moonshinin' country, old skool punk rawk). Most of the time, you'd be right.

Most of the time.

But the thing is, as I age, I become less and less interested in pretending to like crap I hate. Fugazi? Senseless noise. 99% of Bikini Kill? Nails on a chalkboard. Bjork? Let's just say I never got past the swan dress and leave it at that. Every emo song I hear makes me want to punch people, and most indie sacred cows make me feel like I'm watching the emperor prance around with his giblets hanging out. Want me to fall asleep standing up? Force me to sit through a Sonic Youth album. The only song of theirs I ever liked was "Kool Thing", and that's probably due mainly to Chuck D.

Maybe I'm old. Maybe I'm a philistine. Maybe I just don't get it. That's fair, but the thing I'm finding as the years go by is that I no longer want to get it, if it is tuneless meandering navel-gazing precocious shite. Call me imbecilic, but I just wanna dance, fucker.

So as my standards have veered toward things I actually like as opposed to what I should like, I've picked up a few songs along the way that might be considered a little, well, embarrassing. Songs that are the musical equivalent of Twinkies: sweet, barely palatable, with no nutritive value whatsoever. Songs those who don't know me as well as they think they do might be somewhat surprised to find in my playlist. The top ten of which I'll be listing here, for all to see.

(Because that's the paradox of this post: though I'm fully aware that I probably should make some pretense of shame at owning these horrible songs, I feel not one whit.)

So without further ado, in no particular order, this is what I got:

10. Say Say Say, by Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson. The tenth selection is also my most recent iTunes purchase. I heard a snippet of this the other day, and felt overwhelmingly nostalgic for the .45 my stepmother bought me for my 15th birthday. Say what you will about Michael Jackson. He might really like kids, but his song comes on the radio, you gotta dance.

9. Toxic, by Britney Spears. Yeah, so I was in the Complex a looooong time ago, and this song came on, and of course, because it's a dance club, the music plays for a while before the vocals kick in. And the music to this song is pretty banging. So I've had a few, and I'm moving my ass, because dancing is one of the few ways to exercise I don't hate like poison. By the time I figured out I was dancing to Britney Fucking Spears, it was too late. I was hooked. So I downloaded it. Oh well, a hundred sweaty shirtless gay men can't be wrong.

8. Heat of the Moment, by Asia. Yeah, THAT Asia. Over-synthed arena-rock Asia. 80's cautionary tale Asia. If you haven't figured out that I don't care by now, then this post isn't going to be much fun for you.

7. Walking in Memphis, by Marc Cohn. Okay, this one might make me wince a little to admit. I know it's cheesy. I know I'm not supposed to like it. I know it's one step away from being a Michael Bolton impression, and yet I can't bring myself to change the station when I come across it. And, oh yeah, I wail on the ending chorus like nobody's business.

6. Love Will Keep Us Together, by Captain and Teneille(sp?). I was a little kid in the '70's, and this song played every 15 seconds or so. And the thing about music that you were exposed to before you learned that you weren't supposed to like just anything is that it will make a secret place in your heart warm every time. This kind of music reminds me of my childhood, just like Disco Duck, which I'm sure I will also download eventually.

5. 8 Mile, by Eminim. I hate Eminem. Hate hate hate hate hate. Think he's a latent self-loathing homosexual supplement-popping asshat shit-for-brains. I still bounce to this.

4. I'm With You, by Avril Lavigne. Like Eminem, I hate Avril Lavigne. She's a pop dunce tarted up in punk princess clothing. Britney, these days, is more punk--at least she's shaved her head and been to rehab. But there's something about this song that makes me do the slow-motion Axel Rose dance in the car when it comes on. With the windows all the way up so no one can know what I'm listening to, of course.

3. Cars that Go Boom, by Tigre & Bunny. Anyone lucky enough to have a TV in the late eighties that went all the way to channel 57 could catch Video Jukebox, a pay-for-play ghettoized MTV knockoff. If you were broke, like me, you just at around and watched what other people bought and paid for. Which was a lot of 2 Live Crew, Gerardo, and this song. The funny thing about this song, which was sung/rapped by two tiny girls who sounded like they'd been sucking down helium all afternoon, was that it got into your head and. never. got. out.

2. Rock Me, by Great White. When I was about 13, which was long long ago in 1983 or so, I had two paths ahead of me based on my favourite bands at the time: Duran Duran and Def Leppard. In those halcyon junior high school days, the musical battle lines were drawn very clearly indeed, and there was no room for fence-sitters. You picked your pony, and you rode it to the end. I chose the flouncy bouncy pretty Durannies at the time, but never lost my secret hair metal yearnings. Even in the golden age of grrrunge, I held a special place in my heart for mulleted cock rockers who dared to be so uncool as to attempt to actually entertain their audience. This is a great song in the acid-washed marlboro-smoking tradition. Plus, you can't go wrong with a band whose stage show has an actual body count.

1. Makes Me Wonder, by Maroon 5. I know, I know, it's Maroon 5. But the song is so fucking danceable, like the best of Duran Duran married to oily disco popsters ABBA. When this plays, I can feel the plush red shag carpet growing under my dancing feet, and hear the swish of an italian suit jacket being swung cavalierly over one shoulder. Plus, they drop the f-bomb in the chorus; I checked. That's gotta count for something.

So by now you're either a.)horrified by my horrendous taste, or b.)wistfully mulling over your own musical crimes. If it's the latter, I raise my glass to you and toast your lack of self-conscious inhibition. If it's the former, well, sweetie, I don't give a good two shits. Cool people are boring, bad in bed, and have stinky feet. So there.

I am REALLY avoiding work today

I arranged a bunch of photos on Flickr. This is where the slideshow is:

Pics and flicks

Never Go on Quizilla when you have other things to do.

A while ago, I was bored and made up a test of my own on Quizilla. It took, like, a squillion hours to finish, but I was pretty happy with it when it was done, particularly since (unlike 99.999999999% of Quizilla) it was spelled correctly. So if you're bored, avoiding work, or just plain can't think of anything to do with the next 5 minutes of your time (which is why you're here, of course) take this test. The Internet Gods Command Thee.

What Subculture do you belong to?

Black Grapes

I'm lazy today. My friend Jill sent me this test, which turned out to be surprisingly accurate. She's a cherry, BTW, which she so is.

Which fruit will you pick if you were handed these? The results will astound you!

1. Orange
2. Apple
3. Banana
4. Coconut
5. Pineapple
6. Papaya
7. Mango
8. Cherry
9. Black Grapes
10. Peach
11. Custard Apple
12. Pear

Which did you pick??? (Pick one before you scroll down...do not CHEAT!!!) Remember, you'll be surprised by the results!


YOU'D BETTER NOT BE CHEATING!! KEEP SCROLLING!!








ORANGE - If orange is your favorite fruit, it speaks of a person who has enduring patience and willpower. You like to do things slowly, but very thoroughly and are completely undaunted by hard work. You tend to be shy, but are reliable and trustworthy friend. You have an aesthetic bent of mind. You select your partner with care and you love with all your heart, and not in for just a fling. You avoid conflict at all costs.

APPLE - If apple is your favorite fruit, you are an extravagant, impulsive and outspoken person, often with a bit of a temper. While you may not be the best organizer yourself, you make a good team leader and are good at taking things forward. You can take quick action in most situations. You enjoy travel immensely. You ooze with charm when you are with your partner. You have an enthusiasm for life, unmatched by most.

BANANA - You are a softy! Loving, gentle, warm and sympathetic by nature is the banana lover. You often lack in self-confidence and are quite timid by nature. People often take advantage of your sweet temper, and sheer vulnerability to a situation. You adore your partner in every which way, both for their mental and physical beauty! Because of the way you are, your relationship is always very much in harmony!

COCONUT - The coconut lover is a serious, very thoughtful and contemplative person. Though you enjoy socializing, you are particular about the company you keep. You tend to be stubborn but not necessarily foolhardy. Shrewd, quick-witted and alert, you ensure that you are right on top of any given scenario, especially at work. You need a partner with brains, and while passion is important it certainly isn't everything for you.

PINEAPPLE - You are quick to decide and even quicker to act. You are brave in asking career changes, if that is what is to your advantage. You have exceptional organizing abilities and are undaunted by the size of the task at hand. You tend to be self reliant, sincere and honest in your dealings with others. Though you are not given to making friends very quickly, but once you do, it is for life. Your partner is often impressed with your sterling qualities but disappointed in your ability to show affection.

PAPAYA - You are truly fearless and take much that happens in life in your stride. You give considerable thought to things you do. You have a sense of humor that, along with your generous nature, keeps you in most people's good books. You are a go-getter in your professional life, and have a knack for being in the right place at the right time. You enjoy meeting new people and seeing new sights whenever you can. Your sense of humor is what attracts members of the opposite sex to you more than anything else. It is simply
charming!

MANGO - A mango lover is a personality to reckoned with; quite often, you are a person who has quite fixed ideas, and influencing you is not an easy task. You tend to be an extremist with strong likes and dislikes, and at times even like to control a situation.. You enjoy getting involved in something that presents mental challenge.. Strong as you may be, you are like a kitten when you are with your partner. You accommodate the love of your life, and make up for all the strong will elsewhere!

CHERRY - If cherry is your favorite fruit, life isn't always as sweet for you. You often face ups and downs, particularly professionally, and find that you make small sums of $$$, instead of a lump sum. You have a fertile imagination and are often involved in creative pursuits. You are a very sincere and loyal partner, but find that expressing your feelings is not very easy. Your home is your haven, and you love nothing more than being surrounded by close family and your beloved partner.

BLACK GRAPES - You are a polite person in general, but do have quick flare-ups of temper that cool down just as quickly. You enjoy beauty in all forms, including beautiful people. You are very popular because of your warm, gregarious nature. You have a zest for life; you enjoy everything you do, right from the way you dress, to your style and your day-to-day life. Your partner must share your zeal and zing for life to enjoy all you have to offer!

PEACH - Like a peach, you enjoy the juice of life and all its lush ripeness! You are the friendly sort, and are quite frank and outspoken, which adds to your charm. You are quick to forgive and forget; and value your friendships highly. You have an independent and ambitious streak in you that make you a real go-getter. You are the ideal lover, fiery and passionate but sincere and faithful in love. You don't, however, like to display all that passion in public.

CUSTARD APPLE - You are a modest and conservative person who can be quite sensitive at times. You tend to be thoughtful and contemplative, and therefore are rarely rash in doing things. You are quite ambitious and are good at anything that requires much detailing or working with numbers. You are quick at finding fault with others. While looking for a partner, you value a person's intellect far above their looks or good old passion. You are quite shy and not very comfortable demonstrating affection.

PEAR - If you put your mind to something you can do it successfully, but by and large you tend to be fickle and have trouble completing a task with the enthusiasm you started it with. You need to know the results of your efforts almost immediately. You enjoy mental stimulation and love to get into a good discussion! You tend to be a restless and high-strung person, and are easily excited.. Being happy doesn't mean everything's perfect! It means you've decided to see beyond the imperfections!

Life to Live By

Current mood: amused


Everyone has their beliefs; the internet is full of them. We are overrun with opinion, whether ours or alleged experts. Indeed we are assaulted by them, the disquiet of a million voices clamoring for your attention, all diametrically opposed to one another until your own voice is lost in the din. So in the interest of pulling my own mantra from the pile, I thought I'd share a few of mine.



1. Cute Shoes Hurt. There are simply no two ways about it. We weren't meant to totter around in stilettos, weren't meant to crush toes into witch-points, weren't meant to hobble on platform beds. But so what? Humans weren't meant to do a lot of things they do on a daily basis, and many of those things won't ever look as good as a black leather retro peeptoe pump on a stacked heel. Let's face it; there's no such thing as fuck-me Crocs.



2. Art isn't meant to match the couch. True art, whether it be visual, writing, music, performance, dance, or some sum of these parts, is meant to change our perceptions of the world and our place in it. Otherwise it's not art, it's kitsch. Not that you can't love kitsch, but know the difference between the two.



3. No one, and I mean NO ONE, knows if there is a God. Believes? Hopes? Thinks? Imagines? Sure. But no one knows. No empirical evidence exists to prove the existence of any given deity, be he Jehovah or the tooth fairy or Zombie Elvis. Likewise, atheists, no evidence exists to wholly discount him. It works both ways, which is why I'm agnostic. I don't know, and I'm comfortable with that. It feels more honest to me, somehow.



4. Real friends are few and far between. I know a lot of people, but I consider very, very few people to be my friends. Those that truly are, know it.



5. People who equate commitment with boredom are boring people. It's all well and good to cat around in your teens and twenties, but by the time you hit your thirties, it starts getting a little pathetic. You don't have to have a ring, but you should have something or someone in your life that's worth your time. Be it a career path, or a calling, or another human being you can have a complex, healthy, egalitarian, adult relationship with, you have to have something grounding you. Don't have it? Trust me, it's at least partially your doing. If you keep meeting all the wrong people, the only common denominator is you.



6. Once you have kids, your needs take a back burner. Those kids didn't ask to be here. Every child deserves a decent shot at life,and that includes a stable household where the basic needs are provided for. Of course you can't plan for every disaster, but if you don't have a job, health care, decent housing, and a loving, safe environment in which to raise them, then you're doing them a disservice being their parent. And if you're still making excuses about why you don't have these things, you don't have any fucking business having kids.



7. Real style doesn't change all that much. Well made items that fit the body you have now are the best place to start. Truly stylish people dress for themselves; they rarely incorporate outlandish trends, but they're aware of them enough to add an update now and then. Style also doesn't demand a huge price tag: Paris Hilton's outfits cost more than my house payment, but she still looks like a cross between a hooker and a bag lady most of the time.



8. No one who's ridiculously wealthy is a good person. I'm not talking about upper middle class, or even lower upper class. Owning a Hummer, while ecologically unsound and a little ridiculous, doesn't apply. Owning Hummer, the company, does. No one in the world who gets to that level does it by being a decent human being. NO ONE. Wealth accumulation is like power: those who would use it the most altruistically never seek it out.



9. Vices in moderation are lovely, indeed. A stiff top-shelf drink in a pretty glass, a cigar, cursing like a sailor, or a new pair of come-and-get-me pumps are all well and good, just don't overdo it.



10. Actual enjoyment beats indie cred every time. I'd rather listen to "Rock you like a hurricane" 350 times in a row than ever have to sit through a Fugazi song. After a while, all that precious hipster posturing just gets overbearingly lame.



11. A little overweight looks better than a little underweight. Don't get mad, skinny friends, I still love ya. This is just a judgement call on my part, and it applies to guys as well as chicks. There's something about cushion that just says sexy to me in a way that visible collarbones don't.



12. You should love, but not need, love. Being genuinely interested and attracted to your partner is wonderful. Being clingy and codependent isn't. If you spend all your single time desperately searching for another person to fulfill your self-esteem, you're going to have a pretty shitty life.



13. Women that want to do something for themselves get vibrators, not breast implants. Do I even need to explain that one? A truly sexy chick is one who likes herself and knows how her junk works. Not an empty headed princess with pneumatic baseball halves inserted into her torso.



14. Any man who raises his hand to me or my child will never surface again.



15. Family is only as good as the people in it. Just because your name sits on the same family tree as mine doesn't mean you deserve my respect no matter now you act toward me. You are under the same rules as everyone else in the world; you get my respect by earning it, because I don't owe you a damn thing just for livin'.



16. None of us is getting out of here alive. So make the most of your life while you're here. Strive to leave the world better than it was when you found it, because you can't take shit with you when you go.



So there you go. A partial list of stuff I think is right. Added to the ether, for whoever happens across it. Enjoy, mi hijos.

Tag, I’s It.

Here's how you play:

Once you have been tagged, you have to write a blog with 10 weird, random things, facts, habits, or goals about yourself. At the end choose 10 people to be tagged, listing their names and why you chose them. Don't forget to leave them a comment (you're it) and to read your blog. You can't tag the person who tagged you. Since you can't tag me back, let me know when you've posted your blog so I can see your answers

1. When I was in sixth grade I made up a language, complete with verb conjucation.

2. I never ever wanted boobs.

3. I almost drowned in Lake Michigan when I was 17.

4. I can twirl my hands in two different directions at the same time--try it, it's not as easy as it sounds.

5. I can also tie cherry stems with my mouth.

6. I'm insanely ticklish on my feet.

7. When we went for the second ultrasound, my son was totally doing the Billy Idol fist pump.

8. I can change a tire in 10 minutes, or used to.

9. I can sew a skirt in 30 minutes, including cutting the fabric.

10. I found a pair of vintage Levis redline 501xx's in new condition for 1.00 once, and sold them on Ebay to a japanese guy for over $740.

I tags me some--

Robin, Robin, Mia, Eddie, Donna, Cheryl, Stephen, Allison, Wendy, and Carrie


Because I loves 'em all, I don't sees 'em enough, and they's got some funny shit to say.

Mythbusters: Self-Employment Edition

"It's so nice that you can set your own hours."

If I had a nickel for every time I've heard that since starting this business in June of 2000, I'd have--well, a large pile of nickels, for one. A lot of well-meaning people in my life have been under the impression that since I'm my own boss, I'm able to take time off whenever I like. While this may be true during the slow season, it certainly isn't the case a majority of the time. So in the interest of full disclosure, I thought I'd make a short list of some of the tasks involved with running a business by yourself. In any given week, these are the tasks that fall on my solo shoulders.

1. Supply buying. I would say I spend as much time shopping for and buying supplies as I do sewing. A lot of people are suprised when they find that I don't go to some super-secret textile batcave to make my clothing. The difference between me wandering through Joann's or Michael's and the average person? After over 10,000 garments and 4,000 pieces of jewelry, I can spot a good print from across the store. It saves a lot of trouble when you can train yourself not to see stuff you don't want.

2. Manufacturing. This includes: making or altering patterns, cutting fabric, pinning zippers/darts/pleats/sleeves/collars/facings/appliques and/or patches, the actual sewing, serging seams, cutting threads, any necessary handsewing after the garment is taken off the machine, and ironing.

3. Mailing. Pretty self-explanatory, right? Except the difference for me is that every piece of paper involved in finishing your order has to be designed by me. The label you get on your order has been drawn and designed by me, as have most of the graphics involved on my website and in my ads. I started drawing when I was little, and when I still worked for someone else, I did graphic design. Luckily for me, I still get to use those skills in this job.

4. Website/Advertising. This can either be on the fun side, like when I get to design the look of the site or draw illustrations to use in my ads; or it can be more workaday type stuff, like changing the price codes during sale times or sending out sale notices. Sometimes it means loading the dress forms into the car and photographing product in the park for use in advertisements. (I get some funny looks with that one, let me tell you) And everything--everything--you see on my website is coded and designed by one person--me.

5. Fashion Design. I'm constantly designing, looking at what I see in the world around me or in decades past, and changing it to suit my own tastes. There's a lot of stuff I like that I don't see in the world around me, and sometimes I think fashion can get a little foolish or be out of touch with what actually flatters a woman's body. Women have hips and breasts and thighs; you can't design clothing more suited for teenage boys and expect it to fit them properly. If you sell to women, sell to women.

6. Paperwork. Ugh. The less said the better. Let's just say that if there was one part of my job I wish I could fob off on someone else, this is it.

7. Festival work. As if the website work and the select group of stores I sell my goods to aren't enough, I also participate in a half dozen DIY/indie craft markets a year, with more added all the time. These are always fun, but with wakeup times that can run as early as 4:30 in the morning, they're also a lot of work.

So as you can definitely see, there are weeks I don't have a lick of free time; every waking moment is spent eating, sleeping, breathing, and living for the business. It's not uncommon for me to dream I'm sewing, and 14 hour days are routine in the busy months. The upside of that is that I really do dearly love my job. Since 2000, I have made over 14,000 wearable items. That means that instead of spending my day taking orders from someone else, I spent it putting something in the world that I made with my own hands.

And if that isn't enough, taking the occasional break to dance like a maniac around my studio to "Rock you like a Hurricane" is pretty sweet, too.

My girl won the motherfucking Grammy.

Current mood: satisfied


That's right, Amy Winehouse. Yeah. Fuck you for snickering.

She won motherfucking Album of the Year, Song of the Year, and Best New Artist. More than that, she made me watch the Grammys for the first time in fifteen years.

I haven't given two shits about popular music in close to two decades because most of it is pure unadulerated shite spat out of ProTools-addicted throwaway hit machine onto a dopey undiscriminating Wal-mart addled public. Gone are the Clash, Eddie Cochran, the Ramones, Johnny Cash, Ray Charles, Billie Holliday, Janis, Jimi, and Elvis. Gone too, is the new rawness of the medium, the flawed nude beauty, the fury, the rock, the roll. It's been processed until everything that made it transcendent is pressed out, and all that's left is a tasteless concoction bland as Miracle Whip.

So I don't give a shit that Amy Winehouse smokes crack. I don't care if she has knockdown dragout brawls with her junkie husband in the streets of London, is frequently photographed looking like shit, and takes a page from the Johnny Thunders book of Rock and Roll Self-Destruction. I can't stop her, and it isn't my place to try. What I can do, however, is listen to her album. Over and over, and get excited about an artist in a way that I haven't since the Sex Pistols.

Before the tabloids, the fame, the cameras, and all the crap that comes with it, Amy Winehouse made the best album to surface in years. She did it without being a thought-free jailbait Barbie Doll, all gloss and plastic tits, and no gritty filling. She did what Joss Stone only wishes she was capable of doing; she made a fucking soul album in a world that's forgotten what soul is. And she did it the old-fashioned way without being a paler copy of her better forbears. For one thing, the bitch wrote the songs herself. As a response to trauma in her young life, she sat down and made songs that mean something more than a way to sell Nikes. Beyonce can't, Rihanna doesn't, Britney probably doesn't even know how to write, much less write lyrically. The girl has a right to sing the blues, and no snarky paparazzo can take that away from her. If Billie, Bessie, and Etta had been in the spotlight in the throes of their own addictions, it would have looked like this. No more, no less.

Should Amy take better care of herself? Sure. Is she on a path that leads to grief and heartache? Absolutely. But there are hundreds, no, thousands of pop stars on the charts today who lead--if not scrubbed clean, then at least reasonably shiny--lives who then turn around and make horrible, unlistenable forgettable crapfest albums. Self-important emo, melted down fluffy punk alloys, regrettable pop tart farts, wonder bread country shite, and soulless rap that's nearly a minstrel show in its ghetto fetishism. So I ask you, what's a worse crime? As a listener, what's more important, role models or balls-out musical fury?

I remember the first time I heard 'Rehab' through my friend Robin's earbuds. I went out and bought the album that day. I couldn't--couldn't get that wonderful music out of my head. It was more of a compulsion than a mere want; upon buying it, I put it in my car stereo and listened to it nonstop for a month straight. I actually wore it out from use, a fate reserved for only my cherished favourites. There are 5 albums I'll own as long as I'm on this earth, in whatever form musical paraphenalia takes. In this decade, only two new albums have been added to this list: Mike Ness's Cheating at Solitaire, and this one.

So Amy can continue on her path, whichever way it turns. If she's (and we're) lucky, she'll climb out of this mess she's gotten herself into and go on to make a dozen more wonderful fucking albums. She's certainly got the chops in a way that 99.999999% of modern artists just don't. If she's unlucky, we can add her name to the long list of talented artists who broke under the weight of their own battles. It won't make her music one iota less the mother. fucking. shit.

So g'wan, Amy. Tell the world to go fuck itself.

Totally Random Shit

totally random shit
Current mood: sick


So it's December, it's 10:52 am, and I got 3.25 hours of sleep last night, and that's AFTER a 3/4 dose of Nyquil. I've been sick for so long now that I don't remember what it's like not to be, and I'm supposed to be (wo)manning a booth at Wintermarkt with Allison, my wee friend.

And I would be, if it weren't 37 degrees and raining. But something about being barely sentient, snot-filled and outdoors in St. Louis dreck weather doesn't fill me with glee. So I'm here instead, enjoying the company of my overwhelmed husband, similarly sick son, and the strains of Johnny Test in the background. I have a rare moment to reflect on the past year, and this is my summation.

This has been the worst year to date since I was about 17.

Really, all hyperbole aside, this year has sucked like a cyborg whore with a Dyson for an esophagus. Sucked like Jar-Jar Binks, Kevin Federline's music career, New Coke, and Branson put together. Like Donald Trump's hairdo and fat ass combined.

My grandmother died this year. The woman who was, along with my grandfather, the sole source of unconditional, functional love in my entire family for me, is gone forever. That in itself is enough to make a banner shit year, but there have been some runners-up in the Grand Caca Pageant, and without dwelling too long on the particulars, I'd like to list the most notables.

Worst Birthday Ever: In addition to having no party this year, which is unheard of in my birthday-centric world, I was also a.)stood up by my mom on my birthday for lunch after driving around west county convinced I had the wrong restaurant location since no one showed up, and b.)issued a speeding ticket the day after.

Parenting means always having to say you're sorry: My lovely son, who turned two this year, is a normal toddler boy. That is to say, he's a beautiful brown eyed tornado, with similar impulse control and destructive capabilities. I do my best to run around after him, but as any parent can tell you, that's the sum total of what you can do. There's a reason they don't call it the Terrific Twos, or the Totally Zen Twos or some such shit. People without kids, however, are fond of telling you what you are doing wrong, since they have vast personal experience sitting near parents and clucking their tongues. I put up with no less than 5 or 6 instances of people being rude to my face this year, and let me tell you, that's it. Next person who hasn't figured out not to poke the tattooed mom with the big arms and angry scowl is going to learn why you shouldn't--fast. Just because my kid is throwing a tantrum doesn't mean you get to. He's two; his behaviour is understandable even if it's annoying. Which brings me to my next contender.

Goodbye, Hartford. Those of you who know me, ignore this. You've heard this story a hundred times. I repeat myself, particularly when pissed off. In the time we've been parents, My husband and I have dropped close to a grand at Hartford Coffee. It's one of maybe three places in St. Louis you can take a small child when you want to eat. When I found out about it pre-pregnancy, I thought it was a smashing idea. I loved the community feel, the hip moms sitting around talking to one another, the good coffee and food, and friendly staff. It felt like exactly the place I wanted to hang out at when I had a kid, so when I had a kid, I did. And it was great. Until this year. This year, the old owners sold the place, and the new owners took an employee who had previously been fired (and with good reason) and made her a manager. Within two months' time, they lost their entire staff. The food quality suffered, and the family-friendly atmosphere, well, changed. The aforementioned employee started spending all her time there, having no real life outside of work, and began to run the place like she had a mandate from god. The straw that broke the camels' back for me was when I was verbally assaulted in front of her and she took the (non-parent, possibly certifiable, non-food ordering) customers' side. Cooperella had opened by then, we had gotten friendly with the owner and staff, and I thought it was time to stop spending my money where I was no longer welcome. Since that day, I haven't stepped foot in Hartford, and when I've met up with former momquaintances I used to see from there, their experience has been similar. It's a shame, really, because the old Hartford was so wonderful. So if the owners have googled this by happenstance, you should really think about who you employ to represent your company. Probably it shouldn't be a woman who announces the consistency of her period to the people whose food she's serving. (I so wish I were kidding.)

Those are just the ones off the top of my head. The instances have been too numerous to mention, and seem to include everyone around me. My best friend is having job ills that are actually making her physically sick, my husband has had job woes totalling the entire year, friends of friends are dying unexpectedly (the death toll this week is up to 15--it's really been a bad year.), the health of some close pals of mine have taken turns for the worse, so really, this is the year to feel marked by bad karma. There are no two ways about it, this is a shit year.

If there's one bright spot in the totality of this crapfest, it's that I've met some very, very good friends whom I've had the pleasure of growing extremely close to in a pretty short period of time. There isn't a bad one among them, or their spouses and offspring. So: Robins 1 & 2, Mia, Jill, and less often but not forgotten Raquel, I raise my glass to you. Or would, if I were currently holding one. Your kids and mine will take over the world one day, god help us.

And let me welcome Mona back after all these years. Proof positive that just because you lose touch for 14 years, doesn't mean it's forever.

So there have been some bright spots in a very dark year. Still, I'll be toasting the fuck out of years' end, because I'll be motherfucking glad to see this one go away forever.

HOW NOT TO BE A SHITHEAD

HOW NOT TO BE A SHITHEAD. IN 10 EASY STEPS.
Current mood: cranky


HOW NOT TO BE A SHITHEAD.

In my 37 years on this planet, I've started to notice a shift in the amount of people determined to ignore even the most basic tenets of common courtesy. More of them seem to appear each day, as though there were a planet-wide virus attacking entire nations, or a birth defect popping up like hanger proliferation in the closet. I have a name for these people. I like to call them shitheads.

You know who they are. They aren't horrible people. They haven't killed anyone; they don't routinely kick puppies. They aren't overtly racist or sexist, and they wouldn't dream of beating their kids with kitchen implements. Yet shitheads they are: the guy who farts in the elevator, the woman who whistles the Bee Gees in the cubicle next to you, the woman who lets her Great Dane take a Great Shit on your lawn, or the guy who holds up the line for coffee because he's too busy discussing his fantasy football drafts on his cell phone to notice the barista stabbing him in the neck with a pen.

So to vaccinate you, gentle reader, (and I can't for the life of me understand why you would, in fact, want to read the words of a crotchety gal like me, but there you are) against this scourge of shitheadism, I have outlined some fairly obvious rules of ettiquette, even though I'm sure you are a lovely person who has never been guilty of any of the following transgressions. At least not without some shots of Old Crow in you.

1. Your cell phone? Hang it up. Unless you're lost, your baby is lost, your dog is lost, your baby and your dog are lost, the dingo ate your baby, you are locked out of your car, you are locked out of your house, your car or house is aflame, or you are bleeding profusely from multiple wounds, you don't need to clutter up an already noise-polluted world with detailed discussions of your latest pap smear. This goes double for anyone in a situation where you 're dealing with a real life person, (because that is the height and breadth of rudeness, really) triple if you are in a movie theater, and quadruple if you're piloting a motor vehicle. You aren't that interesting, and there aren't phone booths in the middle of restaurants for a reason. Learn the art of saying little. You're much smarter that way.

2. Hold the door for people if they're right behind you. And thank them if they do it for you, which they will if they aren't jerks. Don't worry about whether the person will take offense to being helped; only shitheads get offended by someone giving them an honest gesture of courtesy. I don't know about you, but I get a lot more offended having a door swung shut in my face. Stuff like that leaves nasty karmic debts I like to repay sometimes by kicking you in the kneecap ever so gently.

3. Don't talk about people so they can hear you, even accidentally. Look, we all talk about strangers behind their backs. I know I do. Hell, I'm a connoisseur of jonesing on folks; as far as I'm concerned, that's the whole reason Uggs were invented--what other reason could there be? But I am always, always careful to do so out of earshot of the victim. There is no reason to hurt someone's feelings who isn't doing you any harm, even if they did dress themselves like Paris Hilton doing the Walk of Shame or doused themselves in patchouli in lieu of bathing. People who hurt people's feelings callously and carelessly are doomed to have ass rabies in the next life. And speaking of patchouli…

4. Wash your stinky ass, you hippie. Seriously. I know people get sweaty sometimes, and you can't always go home and take that four hour shower when you're running from place to place, but there's stink, and then there's stink. There are things I don't want to smell on another person, and they are: pits, bits, breff, and feets. Not necessarily in that order, either. And don't think store-bought smell covers it up. It doesn't. You're just mingling one bad smell with another until you're one big stink cocktail. And keep the farts to yourself until you're not in a small confined space; if you can't, you need to rethink that plate of broccoli at lunch.

5. Realize that if you don't have kids, you have NO IDEA how to be a parent. Dogs and cats don't fucking count. Not even a little. Parents cannot put their children down if they get a disease that costs thousands of dollars to fix. They similarly cannot put little Billy in a kennel if they decide to go to Vegas for the weekend. And it may surprise the childless among you to know that parents have little to no control over their child's temperament; that's a genetic role of the dice. An easygoing kid was born that way. The parents deserve no special credit. So if you 're out somewhere and there's a kid nearby who's having a fit and the parents are trying everything in their power to settle them down, keep your thoughts to your fucking self. You were a horrible kid too. Because you're past your terrible twos doesn't mean you get to expect every other toddler to act like a thirty year old. Don't like kids? Stay the fuck home. Unless you're in a four star restaurant, an R-rated movie, a bar, or a crack house, you have to share this planet with the next generation. Get the fuck over it. That said…

6. There are places small kids don't belong. Restaurants with more than 2 forks per place setting. College lecture halls. Tattoo parlors. Quiet libraries. The Neverland Ranch. Kids have limits on attention spans, patience, and quiet beatitude: don't exasperate theirs and those around you by expecting them to be something they aren't. When they're letting their inner demons do all the talking, it's time to haul it home. Whenever you can, make sure that they aren't out in public without being well-rested, well-fed, and with a Santa's bag full of toys to keep them busy for as long as you can. Never expect sales staff or restaurant workers to baby-sit for you. After all, Michael Devlin worked at Imo's for years, and you see how he parents.

7. Tip your wait staff. 20% is the norm, not a great tip. If you don't have the money for a tip, eat at McDonald's, you cheap bastard. Otherwise get used to the taste of spit and derision.

8. Don't talk to me about Jesus. Or Muhammad. Or Jehovah, or Allah, or the Mother Goddess, or Thor, or veganism, or fantasy football, or the Grateful Dead, or anything else tinged with religious zealotry. I don't know you well enough to have you preach to me, and really, isn't it the height of arrogance to assume any person past 18 can't make up their own mind? Similarly, don't tell me you're praying for me. Give me a cup of coffee and an Ipod if you want to help me. Anything else is done for your own self-righteousness, which is just pride. And if I remember anything from all the years of sleeping through church as a teenager, that's a sin or something.

9. For god's sake, the foreigners conversing nearby aren't talking about YOU. Are you that self-centered? Really? If you went all the way to another country, would you talk about nothing else with your companions save the people next to you? Have some common sense, you asshound. And hey, let's play devil's advocate: say they are talking about you in their native tongue. You have no idea what they're saying, so why do you care?

10. Kill yourself in the privacy of your own home: don't use the highway to do it. Cars are not toys, penis extensions, phone booths, reading rooms, wet bars, proof that you are a god, indestructible, or made of bubble wrap. What they are is huge adult responsibilities that can kill small children or somebody's gramma if you pilot them impaired by legal or illegal substances, sleepy, on the phone, or just plain distracted. So really, if for any reason you feel you're unable to drive like a sane and reasonable adult, ride the fucking bus. Don't tailgate, swerve from lane to lane, forget your blinkers exist, drag race, cut people off, drive in the center lane, speed through parking lots, run red lights, or refuse to pull over for emergency vehicles. Because if someone comes home to discover you killed their only child because you had to take a call from your caterer, they're going to be justified in shooting you in the face.

So yeah. Shitheadism. Try to avoid it in the future, and encourage others gently to avoid it as well. After all, the world is only getting more and more populated, and if we all keep acting like it's our own private planet, it's going to be a pretty unhappy place to live. At least for you. I'll be in the water tower with a high-powered rifle.

Fashion Don'ts.

Fashion Don’ts




15 Rules for Dressing Yourself

Or: Things your mom never told you but probably should've.


1. A sports bra is not a top. Hence the word "bra". I don't care how hot it is outside. I don't care if your skin is actually boiling off your bones as you read this. You can still wear a shirt.

2. Men. Speedos. Really? Out of hundreds of styles of swimwear, you picked up a banana hammock and said "Yes, this feels right." Are you a blind tourist or do you just hate eyes?

3. Tweety bird does not belong anywhere on your clothing. Unless the look you're going for is "Winnebago Warrior", your attire should be WB-free. This ESPECIALLY applies to Taz tattoos.

4. Women, your skin should never be darker than your hair. Remember this rule if you don't want to resemble your handbag in your mid thirties.

5. College age girls are the worst dressed people in the world who are not currently homeless. No one wants to see your pajama bottoms and bunny slippers out in public, particularly if it's already noon.

6. Remember, comfortable doesn't always equal "should be seen outside of the house, or even through an open window". Sometimes it's a sign to others that you have, in fact, slept in those pants.

7. Anyone who's ever seen the movie "Big Daddy" knows why you don't let your kids dress themselves.

8. Men, cologne from the supermarket is not your friend. And unless your choice of mate is a lowland gorilla, you should run briskly from anything labeled "Musk".

9. Face tattoos pretty much tell the world you make bad life choices. If it's a path Mike Tyson's been down, it's probably a good one to avoid.

10. If it looks like your sixth grade art teacher would have worn it, it's time to burn it. Caftans and wooden jewelry the size of dinner plates have never been in, ever.

11. Purple and orange are the team colours of sexual dysfunction.

12. God put hair on men's toes as a sign they weren't to be aired in public. Sure, shoes are a bummer in the summer, but so is looking at acres and acres of hobbit feet.

13. Star Wars is a litmus test for dorks. If Boba Fett is on your shirt, you don't need a date.

14. Sir, if the hem of your t-shirt extends below your crotch, you are wearing a dress.

15. If you have a visor on your head, you'd better be serving me a tennis ball or a large order of fries.

I'm Beqi. I'm just doing my job to make the world a more beautiful place, one Six Flags patron at a time.

My beloved gramma passed away on sunday.
Current mood: melancholy


I am saddened beyond all hope of expression. Words can't begin to scratch the surface of my grief, but I give them anyway. Some feel grief is something to be subverted or disguised, but this is a belief I have yet to share. For what is grief but the weight and measure of loss? It cannot shame us if we have loved truly, nor diminish us for loving deeply. Indeed, it is the very price of love. We cherished her as she did us, and keenly will her absence be felt.

Her pride in her family was indefatigable. My brother and I have her to thank for our livelihoods, for she believed in both of us enough to invest in our futures. She had faith in me when I didn't have any in myself, and for that I owe her eternal gratitude.

She treated grandchildren like they were her own, great-grandchildren like grandchildren, and spouses of grandchildren like cherished friends. I'm glad my son was born in her lifetime, and that they got to know each other. I know she took pride in all the kids. She would introduce them to everyone who passed, beaming with obvious pride.

It's no small comfort to me that she's happier now: reunited with Grandpa and free of pain or illness. If an afterlife exists, there is surely no person more deserving of its rewards. In my own life, I knew no one more gracious, no soul more generous, no love more unconditional.

She was the strongest woman I know. Her resolve was no less steely for being tempered with love. I believe it served her well in the end; because she left this world as surely as she entered it: on her own terms, and with her dignity intact. We should all be so lucky to merit such an exit.

I loved her more than mere words could convey. If I take nothing else with me in life, I have this: that I am a better person for having known her, and in loving her, I am lifted up.