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.
5/25/08
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.
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.
5/20/08
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.
5/11/08
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.
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.
5/10/08
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.
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.
3/17/08
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.
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.
3/8/08
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?
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!
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!
3/6/08
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
3/2/07
What I would do with 100 million dollars.
Someday, when I win the lottery primarily through osmosis (since I don't play--the lottery is a tax on people who can't do math), I will have none of the worldly concerns that plague normal folks, and will be able to do the things on this list of Things To Do When I Am Filthy Stinking Rich. But unlike rich folks like Dick Cheney and Donald Trump, I won't concern myself with making America the butt of the world's jokes. Instead, this is what I'd do, in no particular order:
1. Buy the six houses to the left of us and build a reasonably sized maison du moi. Nothing too fancy or showy, just a 2 story modern mansion with a red lacquer door and big glass windows and a pool shaped like a kidney. It would have a koi pond, a hot tub, a japanese garden with tiny bonsais for the dogs to eat, a garage to house the ridiculous vehicles we will own but not drive, a recording studio, and not one, but THREE sewing rooms. To get to the front door, the general public will have to wind their way through a shrubbery maze which may, or may not, lead them right back out onto the street. Of course, me and the rest of my family and friends will get to the house by sliding down a secret tunnel on a rickety go-kart.
There might also be a moat, I haven't decided yet.
2. My husband will promptly quit his job so he can write full-time. In his spare time, he will fill up with tattoos and go bike riding so he doesn't balloon up from all the delicious food we will be eating, freed from the restraints of having to learn to cook, clean up after ourselves, and shop for groceries without being held at gunpoint.
3. My son, sister, sister-in-law, nieces, Aunt's adopted step-grandson, best friends' now and future kids, rest of friends' kids, Sister-in-law's sister's and brother's kids, and anyone else under eighteen remotely related to me by blood or just because I like them will be given the funds to go all the way through graduate school, should they decide they want to. I'll even pay someone to nag them if they don't. Bail, however, will be a case-by-case basis.
4. My mother, father, sister, brother, in-laws, favourite auntie, favourite auntie-in-law, best friend's mother, and bandmates will have their houses paid off.
5. My two bestest friends will have NEW houses bought next to mine. I'll also grease the wheels of the american immigration system so that this is no longer a problem, since we all know that's how politics work here. I'll buy vacation houses in Scotland and Mexico (which is where they live now) so they can go home any time they want.
6. My band will record albums because we'll all have free time and won't be dependent on the inspirationally-bankrupt american recording system. We'll fill the world with pure rock fury, then go home to sleep it off.
7. My business will get a lot busier. Also, I'll have the help people are always yelling at me to get. We'll give Wal-Mart a run for their money and still employ union labour while making things that don't fall apart before you get the tags off.
8. I'll set up small business grants and low-income merit scholarships. I'll give no-interest loans to businesses that want to invest in mom and pop shops in poverty stricken areas, so developers can't just let them go to shit and buy the land to make Home Depots.
9. My husband would get his all-original parts metallic-fleck-blue-with-white-racing stripes Shelby Cobra, which he could drive on the racetrack I would build over the ashes of our old high school--which I would buy so I could set it afire.
10. I would have a jet-black Chevelle SS hardtop with mag wheels, chrome pipes, blood red velvet interior, fuzzy dice, eightball gearshaft, and 6 CD changer with Social Distortion, Misfits, Distillers, Joan Jett, Donnas, and Johnny Cash playing at ear-splitting levels.
11. I would have the prettiest hair in all the land. People would pay me a dollar to touch it.
12. I would sponsor the Arch Rival Roller Girls, and buy them a roller rink of their own, with a black and red floor and a water fountain that spews Pabst. I would pay the Cramps to be the house band. They in turn would teach me to skate, a feat I have never mastered--not even when I was skating age.
13. Tattoos would start appearing once a year in various places.
14. Social Distortion would play my birthday party. Every single year.
15. I would buy some bars so St. Louis would have more small venues for bands. Bouncers would throw out anyone who owned a Dave Matthews Band CD. Every band who showed promise would be given a recording contract and a puppy.
16. I would buy an old movie theatre and play anything I want, whether it was current or not. People would be able to see Hedwig, Velvet Goldmine, and Spinal Tap every friday. We would have Jon Waters and David Lynch film festivals. Absolutely nothing with Tom Cruise or Julia Roberts would be allowed. People could get a free tickets for burning American Pie and Scary Movie DVDs. You could buy chicken vindaloo and mojitos at the concession counter. We would have Cadbury's cream eggs year round.
17. I would bring Johnny Cash, Joey Ramone, and Wesley Willis back to life. I would pay to have O.J. and Jeb Bush locked up and then ass-raped. I would have Precious Moments figurine smashing contests. There would be cotton candy every day until I got sick of it.
18. I would pay to have David Beckham train my husband's mostly-lesbian soccer team to mop the floor with their competition so people will stop feeling sorry for them. I would also buy my husband less fruity soccer shorts.
Now I'm hungry. I'm going to use my somewhat limited funds to go buy Cadbury's cream eggs while they're still around. I'm sure there are more things to do with 100 milion dollars, but I don't want to get ahead of myself. I'm sure building the moat will keep me busy for a while.
1. Buy the six houses to the left of us and build a reasonably sized maison du moi. Nothing too fancy or showy, just a 2 story modern mansion with a red lacquer door and big glass windows and a pool shaped like a kidney. It would have a koi pond, a hot tub, a japanese garden with tiny bonsais for the dogs to eat, a garage to house the ridiculous vehicles we will own but not drive, a recording studio, and not one, but THREE sewing rooms. To get to the front door, the general public will have to wind their way through a shrubbery maze which may, or may not, lead them right back out onto the street. Of course, me and the rest of my family and friends will get to the house by sliding down a secret tunnel on a rickety go-kart.
There might also be a moat, I haven't decided yet.
2. My husband will promptly quit his job so he can write full-time. In his spare time, he will fill up with tattoos and go bike riding so he doesn't balloon up from all the delicious food we will be eating, freed from the restraints of having to learn to cook, clean up after ourselves, and shop for groceries without being held at gunpoint.
3. My son, sister, sister-in-law, nieces, Aunt's adopted step-grandson, best friends' now and future kids, rest of friends' kids, Sister-in-law's sister's and brother's kids, and anyone else under eighteen remotely related to me by blood or just because I like them will be given the funds to go all the way through graduate school, should they decide they want to. I'll even pay someone to nag them if they don't. Bail, however, will be a case-by-case basis.
4. My mother, father, sister, brother, in-laws, favourite auntie, favourite auntie-in-law, best friend's mother, and bandmates will have their houses paid off.
5. My two bestest friends will have NEW houses bought next to mine. I'll also grease the wheels of the american immigration system so that this is no longer a problem, since we all know that's how politics work here. I'll buy vacation houses in Scotland and Mexico (which is where they live now) so they can go home any time they want.
6. My band will record albums because we'll all have free time and won't be dependent on the inspirationally-bankrupt american recording system. We'll fill the world with pure rock fury, then go home to sleep it off.
7. My business will get a lot busier. Also, I'll have the help people are always yelling at me to get. We'll give Wal-Mart a run for their money and still employ union labour while making things that don't fall apart before you get the tags off.
8. I'll set up small business grants and low-income merit scholarships. I'll give no-interest loans to businesses that want to invest in mom and pop shops in poverty stricken areas, so developers can't just let them go to shit and buy the land to make Home Depots.
9. My husband would get his all-original parts metallic-fleck-blue-with-white-racing stripes Shelby Cobra, which he could drive on the racetrack I would build over the ashes of our old high school--which I would buy so I could set it afire.
10. I would have a jet-black Chevelle SS hardtop with mag wheels, chrome pipes, blood red velvet interior, fuzzy dice, eightball gearshaft, and 6 CD changer with Social Distortion, Misfits, Distillers, Joan Jett, Donnas, and Johnny Cash playing at ear-splitting levels.
11. I would have the prettiest hair in all the land. People would pay me a dollar to touch it.
12. I would sponsor the Arch Rival Roller Girls, and buy them a roller rink of their own, with a black and red floor and a water fountain that spews Pabst. I would pay the Cramps to be the house band. They in turn would teach me to skate, a feat I have never mastered--not even when I was skating age.
13. Tattoos would start appearing once a year in various places.
14. Social Distortion would play my birthday party. Every single year.
15. I would buy some bars so St. Louis would have more small venues for bands. Bouncers would throw out anyone who owned a Dave Matthews Band CD. Every band who showed promise would be given a recording contract and a puppy.
16. I would buy an old movie theatre and play anything I want, whether it was current or not. People would be able to see Hedwig, Velvet Goldmine, and Spinal Tap every friday. We would have Jon Waters and David Lynch film festivals. Absolutely nothing with Tom Cruise or Julia Roberts would be allowed. People could get a free tickets for burning American Pie and Scary Movie DVDs. You could buy chicken vindaloo and mojitos at the concession counter. We would have Cadbury's cream eggs year round.
17. I would bring Johnny Cash, Joey Ramone, and Wesley Willis back to life. I would pay to have O.J. and Jeb Bush locked up and then ass-raped. I would have Precious Moments figurine smashing contests. There would be cotton candy every day until I got sick of it.
18. I would pay to have David Beckham train my husband's mostly-lesbian soccer team to mop the floor with their competition so people will stop feeling sorry for them. I would also buy my husband less fruity soccer shorts.
Now I'm hungry. I'm going to use my somewhat limited funds to go buy Cadbury's cream eggs while they're still around. I'm sure there are more things to do with 100 milion dollars, but I don't want to get ahead of myself. I'm sure building the moat will keep me busy for a while.
1/22/07
Yeah, so I've already broken one of three resolutions, right?
But hey, I have a kid. Anyone who's ever had a kid knows what tiny germ factories they are come January, so all three of us have been sick; one right after the other. I'm lucky to have been able to work this past week, and that's for cash. Writing is for free, so it takes a back back back burner.
But all that is neither here nor there; I'm here to tell a story. A true story, but for anonymity's sake I will not mention names.
My husband works at a warehouse from whence many of these stories spring. This particular one happened off-site, at a dirty hole-in-the-wall bar, and it stars the youngest member of a large, crazy, wall-eyed, possibly meth addled clan of river rats that work with him. They're good enough people, but they're the kind of people you're glad to see leave a party before something gets burnt down.
Apparentally, this young gentleman was drinking himself silly at a south side bar, and he got into an altercation with another genteel patron. In the ensuing fracas, this kid was forcibly ejected from the bar. The other guy was allowed to stay, and showed his appreciation for this by teasing the poor boy through the bar's front plate glass window. We like to call this 'poking the bear'. It's not suggested, whether dealing with the Insanity Clan or actual bears. The reason why will become clear.
Our hero, who had been drinking since the sun was still up, was feeling no pain. This was helpful because he decided to punch the guy through the plate glass window. When he came to, he had 60 stitches from his wrist to his shoulder, and he was arrested for assault.
But that's not the kicker. The kicker is that he knocked the guy out. With one punch, delivered through a plate glass window.
Suffice it to say, we are very happy that he likes my husband. Someone who suffers from that much of a restraint deficit is someone you definitely prefer on your side. It's marginally less dangerous.
And there you have it. Idiot one from Idiotville.
But hey, I have a kid. Anyone who's ever had a kid knows what tiny germ factories they are come January, so all three of us have been sick; one right after the other. I'm lucky to have been able to work this past week, and that's for cash. Writing is for free, so it takes a back back back burner.
But all that is neither here nor there; I'm here to tell a story. A true story, but for anonymity's sake I will not mention names.
My husband works at a warehouse from whence many of these stories spring. This particular one happened off-site, at a dirty hole-in-the-wall bar, and it stars the youngest member of a large, crazy, wall-eyed, possibly meth addled clan of river rats that work with him. They're good enough people, but they're the kind of people you're glad to see leave a party before something gets burnt down.
Apparentally, this young gentleman was drinking himself silly at a south side bar, and he got into an altercation with another genteel patron. In the ensuing fracas, this kid was forcibly ejected from the bar. The other guy was allowed to stay, and showed his appreciation for this by teasing the poor boy through the bar's front plate glass window. We like to call this 'poking the bear'. It's not suggested, whether dealing with the Insanity Clan or actual bears. The reason why will become clear.
Our hero, who had been drinking since the sun was still up, was feeling no pain. This was helpful because he decided to punch the guy through the plate glass window. When he came to, he had 60 stitches from his wrist to his shoulder, and he was arrested for assault.
But that's not the kicker. The kicker is that he knocked the guy out. With one punch, delivered through a plate glass window.
Suffice it to say, we are very happy that he likes my husband. Someone who suffers from that much of a restraint deficit is someone you definitely prefer on your side. It's marginally less dangerous.
And there you have it. Idiot one from Idiotville.
1/5/07
10 Random things about me:
1. I have an adorable kid.
2. I have four tattooes, with plans to get more.
3. I am terrified of zombies. No, really.
4. I sing in a band.
5. I turn 37 this year.
6. People generally think I'm 5-7 years younger than I really am.
7. I'm legally blind without my glasses.
8. Someday I really really want a hedgehog.
9. I would have taken my husband's last name if it wasn't longer than mine.
10. I've only been in Wal-Mart a total of 5 times in my whole life.
10 Things I Abhor
1. SUVS
2. religious wackos
3. Nike
4. McDonalds
5. Stupid People
6. Wal-Mart
7. bleached blonde hair
8. diamonds
9. yellow gold
10. chick flicks
10 Things I Love like Kittens
1. My little hell-raiser
2. his dad, my husband
3. muscle cars
4. good tattoos
5. Social Distortion
6. peep toed heels
7. a good pair of jeans
8. Vonnegut
9. MAC lipstick
10. My darling goofball friends.
Okay, so when I'm lazy, you'll be subject to a lot of lists.
1. I have an adorable kid.
2. I have four tattooes, with plans to get more.
3. I am terrified of zombies. No, really.
4. I sing in a band.
5. I turn 37 this year.
6. People generally think I'm 5-7 years younger than I really am.
7. I'm legally blind without my glasses.
8. Someday I really really want a hedgehog.
9. I would have taken my husband's last name if it wasn't longer than mine.
10. I've only been in Wal-Mart a total of 5 times in my whole life.
10 Things I Abhor
1. SUVS
2. religious wackos
3. Nike
4. McDonalds
5. Stupid People
6. Wal-Mart
7. bleached blonde hair
8. diamonds
9. yellow gold
10. chick flicks
10 Things I Love like Kittens
1. My little hell-raiser
2. his dad, my husband
3. muscle cars
4. good tattoos
5. Social Distortion
6. peep toed heels
7. a good pair of jeans
8. Vonnegut
9. MAC lipstick
10. My darling goofball friends.
Okay, so when I'm lazy, you'll be subject to a lot of lists.
1/4/07
So the year turned over.
I meant for my first post to be the first day of the year, but like so many other good ideas I have, life hit them out of the park. I don't know who, if anyone, will be reading this, but since I've taken out all identifying information in this blog, I promise you stories of fuckups I have known with no punches pulled, sarcasm galore, and streams of near-unconsciousness all tied together with questionable grammar and morals.
Except for today, which is all about the things I mean to change this year.
1. Exercise. Yeah, it's everybody's resolution. So what. It's everybody's resolution because it's so hard to do. Let's face it, exercise is bo-fucking-ring. I would rather clean the toilet with my hair. If the vials of crack that GNC sells didn't make peoples hearts explode, I might consider popping a pill instead of making myself a sweaty, stinky, yoga-panted, painful mess. I run around all day after my kid, but it's not the type of exercise that makes the baby belly go away, so I'm doing something else about it.
And of course, by "something", I mean "buying Carmen Electra's Strip Aerobics DVD set". If Pamela Anderson thinks it's a good idea, well.....I''ll still try it anyway. My husband rolls his eyes when I ask for a stripper pole, but hey, if you have to work out, you may as well make it interesting. If it's not, well, that toilet can always use a good clean.
2. Paint the goddamn house. We bought my house from my gramma. (nothing morbid, she just didn't want to take care of it herself anymore.) The carpet in said house was installed when my mother was in high school. In 1960. It's avocado green short pile wall-to-wall carpet with dog hair and stains and holes worn through to the lovely hardwood floor underneath. (If I ran the universe, people who carpet over hardwood floors would have a plague of locusts invade their eyelids. Except my grandparents, who get a pass for everything because I love them like cake.)
We can't pull up this nasty mess until we paint, because I want it to be useful just once: as a dropcloth. Then I want to burn it in the backyard while laughing maniacally.
We've been in the house for four years now. Every year, we say "this is the year we paint.". Every year passes. Except this year. This is the year we paint.
3. Write. Here, specifically. I used to write in journals and diaries when I was younger, but that was because I was unhappy most of the time, and I write more when I'm unhappy. Then I met my husband to be, and as sappy as it may sound, I just sorta stopped. Life became a lot calmer, and even though we still have the ups and downs that are endemic of humanity, they just don't seem to shred me as much as they did when I was alone.
Unfortunately, a lot of the experience of the last 9 years has passed out of recollection, lost forever. If I have only a handful of posts at the end of 2007, it will still be a handful that wasn't there before.
It's wierd to me that I've now been with my husband for almost a decade. Wierder still that it encompasses nearly a third of my total years on this planet.
Anyway, that's all the resolve I can muster. That and making sure I do at least 75 crunches a day, and getting an IUD. But y'all didn't really need to know about that last one. My bad.
I promise next time I write I'll start telling the stories that inspired the title of this blog. I have a ton, and they just keep getting funnier.
I meant for my first post to be the first day of the year, but like so many other good ideas I have, life hit them out of the park. I don't know who, if anyone, will be reading this, but since I've taken out all identifying information in this blog, I promise you stories of fuckups I have known with no punches pulled, sarcasm galore, and streams of near-unconsciousness all tied together with questionable grammar and morals.
Except for today, which is all about the things I mean to change this year.
1. Exercise. Yeah, it's everybody's resolution. So what. It's everybody's resolution because it's so hard to do. Let's face it, exercise is bo-fucking-ring. I would rather clean the toilet with my hair. If the vials of crack that GNC sells didn't make peoples hearts explode, I might consider popping a pill instead of making myself a sweaty, stinky, yoga-panted, painful mess. I run around all day after my kid, but it's not the type of exercise that makes the baby belly go away, so I'm doing something else about it.
And of course, by "something", I mean "buying Carmen Electra's Strip Aerobics DVD set". If Pamela Anderson thinks it's a good idea, well.....I''ll still try it anyway. My husband rolls his eyes when I ask for a stripper pole, but hey, if you have to work out, you may as well make it interesting. If it's not, well, that toilet can always use a good clean.
2. Paint the goddamn house. We bought my house from my gramma. (nothing morbid, she just didn't want to take care of it herself anymore.) The carpet in said house was installed when my mother was in high school. In 1960. It's avocado green short pile wall-to-wall carpet with dog hair and stains and holes worn through to the lovely hardwood floor underneath. (If I ran the universe, people who carpet over hardwood floors would have a plague of locusts invade their eyelids. Except my grandparents, who get a pass for everything because I love them like cake.)
We can't pull up this nasty mess until we paint, because I want it to be useful just once: as a dropcloth. Then I want to burn it in the backyard while laughing maniacally.
We've been in the house for four years now. Every year, we say "this is the year we paint.". Every year passes. Except this year. This is the year we paint.
3. Write. Here, specifically. I used to write in journals and diaries when I was younger, but that was because I was unhappy most of the time, and I write more when I'm unhappy. Then I met my husband to be, and as sappy as it may sound, I just sorta stopped. Life became a lot calmer, and even though we still have the ups and downs that are endemic of humanity, they just don't seem to shred me as much as they did when I was alone.
Unfortunately, a lot of the experience of the last 9 years has passed out of recollection, lost forever. If I have only a handful of posts at the end of 2007, it will still be a handful that wasn't there before.
It's wierd to me that I've now been with my husband for almost a decade. Wierder still that it encompasses nearly a third of my total years on this planet.
Anyway, that's all the resolve I can muster. That and making sure I do at least 75 crunches a day, and getting an IUD. But y'all didn't really need to know about that last one. My bad.
I promise next time I write I'll start telling the stories that inspired the title of this blog. I have a ton, and they just keep getting funnier.
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