Wednesday, December 21, 2011

Mexican Hot Chocolate or Happy Holidays, you snooty bitches.

I'm a fraud.

Yes gourmet eaters, I am a sham so feel free to turn your noses up at me. The following recipe will make you shutter.

1 packet Swiss Miss or whatever decent coco mix you have
1 cup of milk
some dark chocolate nibs
couple shakes of Cinnamon
a shake of Cayenne (careful, it's stronger than you think)
Whipped cream, if you want... and you do.

Heat milk in a pan with chocolate nibs and cocoa packet, continuously stirring or the milk will burn. Ick.
Once it's steaming and the chocolate is melted into the milk, pour into glass.  Add cinnamon, cayenne to taste. You must add whipped cream or you can't be my friend. Unless you're lactose intolerant, then it's ok.
Don't burn your tongue and enjoy!

Yeah, it's mostly mix. I don't care. Suck my holiday cheer.
Happy Holidays bitches!

Monday, November 28, 2011

Ok, so I'm a little dead...

Death is a bit of an eggageration.

So I've been away on my honeymoon for a few weeks or so and I'm finally recovered enough to crawl to my keyboard and tell you all (nobody) what I've been up to. Soooo lets see...

  • I got married
  • Had not one but two receptions, each in a different state
  • Continued looking for work, running errands, cleaning, organizing and packing
  • Flew to Europe
  • Skipped though Paris
  • Danced though Italy
  • Food poisoned hubby
  • And a partridge in a fucking pear tree! Yay!
So now I'm back and ready to move ahead with some amazing and riviting stories of the natural and not-so-natural world! 

Glad to be home!

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Mmmm, cookies...

Ginger molasses cookies. Fuck yeah.

2 1/4 cups flour
2 or so tsp ginger
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp cloves
1 pinch of salt
1 1/2 sticks of butter (yeah, that's a lot, shut up and do it.)
1 cup sugar
1 egg
1 Tbsp water
1/4 molasses (I like the super dark molasses but any kind will do)
more sugar for dipping

1. Eventually you will need to preheat the oven to 350 but you don't acutally have to do that first thing. It's gonna be at least 45 min before you can stick these mounds of yummy fun (not a euphamisim) in the oven.

2. Mix dry stuff. Flour, ginger, baking soda, cinnamon, cloves and salt and leave it someplace on the counter that you won't knock it over. (true story)

3. Cream sugar and butter. (ie mix the two together until it's a creamy mixture. If you have a mixer, use it.) Then toss in the egg, then water and molasses. Once that's all mixed, then slowly add the dry stuff.

4. Importante senors y senoritas! Let it set in the fridge for at least 25-30 minutes so that when you do the next thing, the dough isn't stuck to every part of you it touches. You have been warned.

5. Take a chunk, roll in your hand to make a ball, squish to a flat-ish shape. (I like to clap my hands together then simulate the cookie dough squish death.) Then take the happy ginger discus and toss it in a bowl with sugar in it. Coat well. Arrange on cookie sheet.

6. Toss into oven. 8-10 minutes. They will be a bit gooey so let them cool for a bit and they'll firm up.

7. Shovel into mouth.

Or if you live in my house, hide them from a certain someone who is addicted and eats them all before I can shovel them into my mouth. You know who you are.

Happy Hanukkah or whatever is coming up next month! Who cares?! Cookies!

Thursday, September 29, 2011

What's passing for romance

The Graduate is not romantic.

It makes me a little crazy that people think it is. People like the American Film Institute. Sorry Dustin Hoffman but you are a stalker and a bit of a bastard. Ok, maybe not Dustin but his character was. Well, maybe Dustin Hoffman is a bastard but I don’t really think so.  This is not a good example on how to win a girl.  Sure, the movie is at it's base about feelings of being lost, loneliness and perhaps, misguided love but so is Fatal Attraction. Both great movies but great romances? Nope.

The Way We Were? I think not. Ill fitted couple who fight constantly because they are obviously not right for one another. He wants the opposite kind of girl that she is and she insufferable, seemingly wanting nothing but to argue. I'm obviously not a fan of this one so I should just shut my hole.

My Fair Lady? Lovely story with fun music (if you’re into that kind of thing) but romantic? Rex Harrison’s character treats her like dirt on his feet, calls her names, dismisses her as if she were a dog. Sure he might come to his senses in the end but if I were Eliza I would run for the hills.

From Here to Eternity? (The one where the couple rolls around in the sand as the waves crash onto them) Burt Lancaster is quiet, brooding and a bit surly. Deborah Kerr is married and bored. She cheats a lot but ‘really loves’ him, unlike all the others. But her husband is leaving and where he goes, she must follow and they are never to meet again. What?

I’m not even going to touch Pretty Woman. Ug.

I’m not saying that none of these are romantic at all, I’m just saying that they are not good examples of a healthy relationships/romances. I know I've touched on this before but while picking up some library books I overheard some girls chatting about some new chic flick that came out and it ruffled my feathers that such shlock could be considered romance.

Ok you picky bitch, you’re saying, give me a good example! I’ll let “Girls with Slingshots” answer that one. Click it, you know you want to...

When I think of one, I’ll let you know.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Buster Keaton - One hot piece of ass

His name was Buster and he was amazing.

Actually, his name was Joseph. And statistically, 85% of you have no idea who he is. (I'm totally making that up, but you get the idea.) I think more people are familiar with Charlie Chaplin and many people compare the two but they are very different performers. Both important film pioneers, actors, directors but Keaton is sorely under appreciated.

He was born into show business, actually traveling with Houdini during the vaudeville years. When he was a small child, the family shtick was tossing little Buster into the scenery, offstage and even into the audience. The kid was indestructible. They had a decent run of things until Joe Keaton, his father, managed to break up the troupe (ie the family) with his horrible drinking.

He easily transitioned into film, he started pairing with Fatty Arbuckle (more on him some other post) in two reel shorts and began to branch off on his own. He did his own stunts, even breaking his neck once when a water tank full of water dumped onto him. He didn't realize it until later. The man was indestructible.

Unfortunately, like many silent film stars, this does not end well. Bankruptcy, divorce and, shudder, Beach Blanket Bingo. No joke. The studios screwed him over and over again and continuously was overlooked by those who should have been giving him wheel barrels full of money to make movies. He did continue to work but always below what he thought he should be doing. In Limelight, one of Chaplin's last films, he woefully looks at Chaplin and says "I never thought we'd come to this." That pretty much sums it up. Buster Keaton died of lung cancer in 1965. He wasn't totally indestructible afterall.

So why tell you this sad story? You have to know this man, if not for his amazing skills as a director, actor, stuntman, or the films he has left behind, then for the fact that he was one hell of a physical specimen. This was brought to my attention by Bangable Dudes in History, which I totally recommend you all check out. (there are bangable dames too, fellas.) Historical hotness is the best kind of hotness.

So get your ass on netflix and watch 7 chances or The Navigator on instant and enjoy his comic genius and adorableness.

Check out more info on this incredible performer and dead sexy man here:

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Let's get drunk and craft, bitches!

You're not supposed to drink alone.

You're also not supposed to get naked and cook bacon either but that never stopped me. The grease burns are worth it.

The Mad Scientist was away for the week at a conference so I found myself alone, bored and stuck with prime time gems like CSI: Sheboygan and My Dad's A Stupid S*#! or whatever. What's a girl to do?

Well, she slaps in Tangled, drinks an entire bottle of wine while singing along to the movie and crafts Star Wars characters out of perler beads.

Best night ever.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Futurism, objectivity, and the scorn for women.

In 1909, Founder of the Futurism art movement summed up the objectives as "We will glorify war - the world's only hygiene - militarism, patriotism, the destructive gesture of freedom-bringers, beautiful ideas worth dying for and scorn for women."

Not a good way to win this girl over.

I do so enjoy the art that this movement but it was, obviously, a movement full of men. (not totally; Natalia Goncharova was a prominent painter on the scene at the time.) It sounds good in the beginning. An art movement that embraces technology that was gaining speed at the turn of the century. Not just technology but change, media, and how it shapes our little lives.

But as it became engrossed in politics, and some of the artists embracing fascism and war (not too surprising since the movement started in Italy 1909), my feelings start to turn a little sour. I love the sense that I get from some the works, invoking the sensations of the world’s first big cosmopolitan cities. Beautiful light, color and always interesting movement. And because of Futurism movement, Art Deco was born, for which I will forever be grateful.

So the real question is, can you still love the art when the original intention of the art (or the artist) is something you are fundamentally against?

Can you like a painting by a serial killer? Or a member of the KKK? Hitler was a painter…

Can you look objectively?

Friday, July 29, 2011

"Nipples thru bra"


One of most searched keywords that leads people to my blog... "nipples thru bra". Please, take a sec and search my site. Go ahead, I'll wait.
This is not sex site. Sex is complicated enough without me sticking my nose into it. Sure, I'll occasionally talk about it but why is google sending perverts to my site with "nipples thru bra"?

...wait, I haven't thought this through.
I've changed my mind. People who search for something as innocent as "nipples thru bra" are totally  welcome here. If you were searching for "mandatory sex party", bien venue! If you were searching for "sexy red headed blogger", you are defenitly in the right place. But if you were searching for anything to do with sheep, trapeze, or zipper maskes, I think you're in the wrong place. You've stepped out of 'pervert' territory and into 'freak' country. Perhaps go here instead and lighten up. Otherwise...


Friday, June 10, 2011

Tor - The fabulous warrior

The story of Tor

Thor was made in Taiwan by a 13 year old boy on a hot afternoon on the week before Christmas.

He was big; a strong toy of a viking, Thor, was a destroyer of men. And he was the best viking of all of hundreds made that day. When his crate arrived in California's major distribution centers, all the other vikings had black eyes and smashed toes. He was king of all he surveyed.

And sure enough, he was the first one picked off the shelf, given to a freckle faced red headed boy with a mean look on his face. This was Thor's kind of boy.

Together, they terrified the neighbors and conqured mother's rose garden. Victory was theirs. But one day, on the boy's birthday, he got a bb gun and forgot all about Thor. Then one particularly dark day, the pit bull got ahold of Thor.

As Boomer tore into his mighty torso he thought what a sad state he was. And North Dakota sucked too. Splayed out on the kithen floor, his stuffing pulled from his stomach, he felt the cold despair and ruin fall over him. Alone and hopeless he resigned to end his wretched existence.

Into the fireplace he flung himself, but not far enough it seemed, for he only made it halfway, burning his arms and the back of his mighty head. Mother came in, shouting at the boy that he could have burned the house down. Tossed into the basement, burned and broken, he lay for many months.

He knew no  happiness or relief. And when mother threw this once mighty warrior to the bowels of the home, he thought about life and death and reincarnation. And he lay in the basement, in despair and a pile of rafes until an angel glowing in pink moved over him. For years he had wished and wished, He had cried our for help. and finally he grew quiet and gave up. But now, he was in the arms of God, speaking to the infinisly large person. God spoke. You can be reborn and begin a new life. There will be pain and death but you will become new again. What do you want, Tor? Tor thought and quicly agreed. White hot light pierced Tors body and he ceased to be.

Tor awoke at the Tulsa City art fair at 12:30 in the afternoon. To the left of him was a little dog that looked very funny. His long ears were fluffy but the rest of him was hairless. His stitching looked weird. It was as if someobe had turned him inside out. To the right, triplet penquins with the same syle as if they had been turned inside out. Then he looked down at himself. He was purple, inside out and funny looking too. What had he agreed to? What had God done to him?

The bright sun was suddenly clouded by a giant. A girl with hair like the sun reached down and picked up the purple bundle of muscles and polyester. Thor was frightened and waited for his inevitable mocking. But instead, words of love and praise came from the girl. His neighbors were picked up as well, hugged and put into a wicker basket next to him. Thor, Slukey the dog, and Eep, Opp, and Ork the penguins were going home with the girl with hair like the sun.

"You are all so wonderful and I know you will all get along and have wonderful adventures together!"

And the girl with hair like the sun was right. They were best of friends. They wrestled alligators, drank prickly pear juice and lived and danced in the sunroom in the girls home.

And they lived happily ever after.

The End.

Monday, May 23, 2011


Christopher Titus is fucked up.

I'm sure he'd be the first to admit that. A comedian that tells jokes about domestic violence, suicide, molestation, rape, death and his own struggles with addiction and pain, is not something you think would be all that funny. But he is. And that's why I've been a fan of his for over a decade.

His stand up is more like a one man show, telling stories about his life. He talks about his schizophrenic mother who shot her last husband (she was acquitted) then later killed herself in 1994. His father who married 6 times and was more than harsh to him at times. (He died in 2001 of a heart attack)The only person he doesn't speak much of is his sister Shannon, who killed herself in 2004. He's been beaten, cheated on, divorced, and fallen into a bonfire, hands first. I know it doesn't sound funny at all, but here's why it is.

For other fucked up people, who have had some bad things happen to us or have made some bad choices, we understand other fucked up people. If you've ever woken up some place you have sworn you've never been before.... If you given more than 2 eulogies in less than 6 months... If you have found yourself in an abusive relationship... If you have had any moment where you think to yourself, "This is so fucked but it's my life..."  then you are part of the club. And Titus is a proud member of that club.

Going to one of his shows is like going to church, therapy, school and stand up all in one. Sometimes the things he says are so close to home, you laugh not to cry. Many times, I have wanted to jump up and scream "Hallelujah!" or "Yes! Exactly!".  His stand up is brutal at times, taking bits from his sometimes tragic circumstances to stage, where his monologues stop and we all sit there in silence while he stands on stage, head bowed. Part of the act, yes, but poignant none the less.

Titus and me
After his shows, I feel exhausted, in a good way, like after a long run or a good cry. And even with all the shit that's rained down on him, he's still positive and ends with signs of happiness.

I've been a fan since I was a teen and over 10 years later I'm still coming to the shows. He's more than just a funny comic; for the damaged people (like myself), his shows are my proof that overcoming is possible.

So bring it on Professor/Dr./Pastor Titus. I'll see you at the next show.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

God Save the McQueen

I would kill for one of his dresses.

Well, I would definitely kick someone in the shins or cut in line. I would probably run though Times Square naked.  I would definitely pay, if I had the money. (Will work for red feather strapless dress with white tulle underskirt.) He was new, shocking and so inspiring in a sometimes uninspired landscape. (Tommy Hilfiger, I'm looking at you.) His clothes were like stories, portals into a stories, into the bodies of characters. Never was there a boring piece. It was art.

Even if you don't follow fashion, you have probably seen his work. A blatant ripoff of a wonderful McQueen dress was featured in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (part 1), not to mention on the red carpet, covering Lady Gaga, Cate Blanchett, Michelle Obama, and if you've been keeping up with all the silly royal wedding madness, Katherine Middleton's wedding dress was based on a McQueen design.

For his 2004 ready-to-wear collection, instead of the standard runway, McQueen staged an extravaganza, reenacting "They Shoot Horses, Don't They?". Models and dancers started the show with exuberant dancing moves, and ending with a sole dancer, barely keeping her head up, then collapsing on stage. McQueen and the choreographer carried her off stage. Not only was the staging ingenious but the clothes themselves were beautiful and innovative.

I personally loved that he dress the common girl to the first lady. He had a line at Target a couple of years ago but also creates dresses that retail in the tens of thousands. And he knows and loves women. Now, you might want to argue that after seeing some of the contraptions he puts his models in but I would argue right back. You can't look at some of his beautiful dresses and say he doesn't worship our bodies. The chest-plated outfits and high collars, I argue, are statements, art speaking about changing our shapes via harshness. But that's just one girl's opinion.

In this month addition of Bazaar, close friend Annabelle Neilson wrote about "Lee" (his true given name) on the one year anniversary of his death. In the article, she seems still in shock about the whole thing, her retelling scattered and grief-stricken. She spoke briefly that he had promised her that he would never go the way of Isabella Blow. 

Isabella Blow was a editor, style icon and muse for the fashion forward. She suffered from depression after the people she helped get started in the business left her behind, infertility and money issues, not to mention her ovarian cancer and bipolar diagnoses. She drank weed killer that finally ended her life but, according to Daily Collegian, before that she had attempted to do so by jumping off the Hammersmith flyover in London (breaking both her ankles), car accident, getting horse tranquilizers, drowning and overdosing on various pills. The woman was determined. And in the end, so was Alex.

Alexander McQueen meant something to me. It was as if he knew how I wanted to dress; the secret wish that I could be like the girls on his catwalk. They were romantic, tough, sexy, and highly strange. I would often see a dress and fall deeply in love with it only to find out that it was a McQueen. ("Of course it's a McQueen!" I would shout in the middle of the grocery store magazine aisle.) Dripping in style and never compromised, he never pussy footed around the concept. He was brave. And that's what I wanted.

I'll miss you, amazing designer, visionary and fabulous person. 

Saturday, April 30, 2011

The slings and arrows

Why is it so hard to be loved?

Is it because we inherently don't feel we deserve it? Is it because you survived while others didn't? You're not as beautiful or full of light or whole as you used to be? Your baggage to too great to be vulnerable again with another human being? Or maybe we just hate ourselves.

I never thought myself as one of those idiots who's self loathing was so great that they would turn away from love, to run from the fear of it. But here I am. So caught up in my own insecurity, confusion, my desperate and pathetic need to please and the pain of rejection, distrust and judgment so great, I can't even move at times. Or breathe. Or see the room in front of me.

What's the answer? I think sometimes it's to let go, love recklessly, fall head first, even though there is a 100% guarantee that I'll end the night with a arrow though my reckless stupid head. And how many arrows can my head take? Do I ignore the hurtful things said just to be free of them? Do I shrug off more criticism so they can't weight me down?

If only I thought life was richer without love. But I know that to be untrue and can't ignore the possibility of a half lived life. I must navigate and find a way.

But if anyone has a map, a compass or even vague directions, I'll take them.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Hollyweird - Part One

What ever happened to Baby Jane? Only this house knows. If you have never seen this movie, get it right now! Bette Davis was only about 54 when she made this film so you have got to give her credit for not being afraid to look like utter hell on camera. Joan Crawford played Bette sister and boy howdy, did they hate each other. Both were raging bitches in their own right but when put together really stirred up trouble. Bette put in a Coke machine in her room just to upset Joan, who held a seat at the Pepsi board of directors. During a scene where Bette was to drag Joan's near lifeless body, Joan put weights in her pockets and made herself so heavy Bette threw out her back. Me-ow! Not pictured is the home next door, which Judy Garland lived in while filming The Wizard of Oz.

Designed by Frank Lloyd Wright Jr. (also the inventor of lincoln logs and son of the famous architect) it's often referred to as the Jaws House. It was also home to Dr. George Hodel, who was one of a few suspects in the Black Dahlia murder case. Many think this is the house where Elizabeth Short was murdered then chopped up. Yum...

It used to be known as "The House That Nat Built", the Capitol Records Building has been a part of music history that can never be replaced. In '08, CBS broadcast a report that the legendary echo chambers, designed by Les Paul, could no longer be used because of construction noise from neighbors, although it's denied by those doing the noise making. It's said that the light on the rooftop spire of the Capitol Records building flashes "H-O-L-L-Y-W-O-O-D" in Morse code, but I'm not fluent.

The Chateau Marmont, the white house on the hill, has a torrid past. Led Zepplin road their motorcycles through the lobby. Bogart would work in the bungalow garden. Construction began in 1927 as apartments but when 1929 hit, it turned into a hotel. John Belushi died of a drug overdose in Bungalow #3. F. Scott Fitzgerald had a heart attack in the lobby. Grace Kelly hung by the pool. Jim Morrison hung off the side of the building by a drain pipe. Montgomery Clift recouped from his nearly fatal accident in one of the penthouses, rented for him by Elizabeth Taylor. Jean Harlow spent her honeymoon among the shadded trees and flowers. The place is just dripping in history, ghost stories and scars. One day, I'm going to stay there and maybe drive my mini cooper on the sidewalk... or something a little more rock and roll.

Follow the cute little bird tracks to the next installment of my long overdue trip to the darker side of LA.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Happy 137th!

Happy Birthday, Houdini!

So 137 years ago, little Erik Weisz was born in Budapest. (He claimed later that he was born in Wisconsin; this was perhaps to avoid anti-semitic and/or anti-foreign sentiment.) At 4, he traveled to the US with his mother and brothers. He grows, he astounds with great magical wonders, and then, before his time, he dies. (Due to peritonitis brought on by appendicitis being punched by some dumbass college kid, on Halloween, no less.)

Houdini's wife had a seance every year on Halloween to try and make contact until 1936, when Bess declared it would be her last. That didn't stop other magicians from picking up where she left off. Today, the annual seance is held at the Houdini Museum in Scranton, Pennsylvania. (Also famous for The Office and that's pretty much it...)

So in Harry's will, it stated that his brother was to get all of his personal belongings, including his very large magical memorabilia collection. Then, the will stated, after his brother's death, all of it was to be burned. Well, he kinda got his wish... But I digress. So Theodore didn't burn it, he stored it in a warehouse where it sat for some 40 years until it was auctioned off and was bought by a couple of entrepreneurs from Canada. They opened The Houdini Magical Hall of Fame and displayed the original Chinese Water Torture Cell, an extensive handcuff collection and posters from his magic displays, among other things. But in April 1995, it burned to the ground, destroying most of everything. So there. Houdini got his wish.

Another fun Houdini related story:
In 2002, Long Island resident Stephen Chotowicky called the police to report that his son in law had stolen some tools. The son in law proved that he didn't steal anything but out of spite, mentioned to the cops that his dear daddy in law had something they had been looking for. In 1983, the bust of Houdini was stolen from his gravesite, and he claimed that Stephen had it. So the police kick down the door and found not just the bust but also news articles about the theft to make a jaunty little shrine to the whole thing. And to jail he went!

He was handsome, talented and had a mind for magic like no one else had. So to you I raise my glass, Houdini! Happy 137th!

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Sept. 13, 1944 - aka I've been reading too much WW2 history

To my dearest, 

Winter has come and it’s turned frigid. I long for our time together and your warm embrace. While you fight in savage lands, far away from me, I oft think of you. Is your work going well? Is the government working you too hard on these progressive projects? Are you lonely in your bunk at night? Do you think of me? 

I am lonesome without you here with me. I have stopped having cocktail hours, even though you made me promise to continue without you; it’s too much to bear. After my day in town, I seem to only muster enough energy to read by the fire. I am distracted all day at the bakery, daydreaming of summertime, picnics on hilltops and bike rides in the country sides. My focus only becomes acute when I hear the radio with news. I know you have told me that you are not too close to the front lines but I still worry so.

Until that day, I humbly wait for you, bandaging young men’s wounds, baking bread for the wonderful people here and helping out the best I can. I will meet you in Paris on the day of liberation, which must be soon or I will dry up from all the tears I’ve shed missing you. 

With all my love,

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Hollyweird, Hollywonderful

Say what you want about Hollywood, I love it.

It's shallow, fake, full of itself. But I'm not interested in all that. I love the weird. The crazy mysteries and strange circumstances. The history! So many stories.

So last weekend, to soak up some of the weird during a less than exciting job interview, I ventured upon the Dearly Departed tour. Now I'm not a 'tour' kind of girl. I don't want to have the same experience/pictures as 10 other people who all have to share a bus. But life is short so I signed up and did I picked a good one!

Death, betrayal, broken hearts, love, hate, weddings, babies, theft, madness, nostalgia and fun all in one little van.

Join me, won't you?  For the next few posts I will share the gruesome knowledge and creepy fun that is Hollywood!

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Maybe they did see demons...

Being a young girl in 1692 must have sucked.

There was little frivolity, no dating, little free time and defininatly no dancing naked in the woods. (What? You didn't do that when you were a kid?) Actually, even being an adult wasn't a barrel of monkeys either. Escaping from persucution tends to make one more fervent in the thing that makes you persucutable. They were dedicated and rightious. The puritans forbade dolls, toys,  music, anything thought to be wasting time and even celebrating christmas. The only school was bible school and 3 hour sermans at least twice a week. To say some maybe have felt oppressed is a bit of an understatement. Some 'acting out' was bound to happen.

Two young girls in the settlement, Abigal and Betty, started to act strangely. They screamed, wailed, barked. They threw things around the room. They complained of being pinched and scratched. They would fall to the floor and freeze in a twisted position. They would speak gibberish and scream about demons. All around strange behavior for puritans. But an obvious answer to this insanity... no, not insanity. The devil. Oh, excuse me, I mean, THE DEVIL! (cue dramatic music, flip the lights on and off, gasp in apparent horror.)

So I'm sure you know this part that comes next. Lots of finger pointing, more fits, trial after trial. Then bad things.

Sidebar: I've known my fair share of preacher's daughters. They are rarely a complient bunch. At least one I've personally known has become a porn star. Well, of the online only variety, but I think that still counts. I obviously wasn't there in 1692 but if I know one thing, a repressed youth will react drastically if pushed hard enough.

Maybe they just wanted a little fun in their not-so-event-filled lives. Fun that lead to 20 deaths. But perhaps they weren't just being little brats; perhaps it was something no one thought of... mold.

Ergot. It's a type of fungi that grows on rye and related plants. They have a wide range of effect on humans, from circulation in the limbs to neurotransmission.  Ok, that doesn't seem so scary... Well you would be wrong. Think blackened limbs, hallucinations (which leads to irrational behavior), and major and minor seizures. Did I happen to mention the severe uterine contractions? I know that makes me act like a severe bitch regardless of consuming ergot.  Oh, and it's a analog to synthetic LSD. So there you go. Good reasons for the demons.

There have been lots of conflicting back and forth about this and who's to say what happened. Not me.

Perhaps the devil did make them do it.

O Christian Martyr Who for Truth could die
When all about thee Owned the hideous lie!
The world, redeemed from superstition's sway,
Is breathing freer for thy sake today.
--Words written by John Greenleaf Whittier

Monday, February 28, 2011

Red Flag Infraction

I hate my wedding.

It hasn't even happened yet and I hate it. I have been through venue after venue. (estimating about 75+, actually visiting 10.) I have been to 6 cake places. I've been to 3 different bridal salons.  I've made so many phone calls I've lost count.  I've spent hundreds of hours on the computer researching, doing the math, calculating our budget, guest list, gathering pictures and deciphering themes. I have spreadsheets, pdf, psd, abc123. I've been on the hunt for wedding toppers, bouquet flowers, hair accessories, invitations, table toppers and shoes. I've read at least 5 different books front to back about planning my wedding. And after all of this, I've got NOTHING. Goose egg. Big fat zero. I'm farther away than when I began almost 4 months ago.

There are so many considerations, nay-sayers, exceptions, minimums, maximums, constraints, time limits, and special circumstances, that I can't even pick a napkin color without a red flag being thrown! I get nothing but why we can't, with no suggestions or ways to make it work.

And everyone has a damn opinion. My mother, who always has an opinion but gives it lightly, has flat out refused some of the decisions I have made. My friends have been no help with appointments or research. Wedding colors, venues, budgets, caterers and yes, even my beloved wedding dress, all have been shot down. All the while, my guest list gets bigger and bigger. I am all alone in this and I'm being crushed under the weight of it all.

I can barely remember those happy, warm, fuzzy kitten feelings I had at the beginning of all of this. "Yay! I get to pick whatever I want! I get to plan a big party for all the people I love most! Yay!" Sitting on a couch while my favorite music played, sipping a martini in a beautiful Galina wedding gown, while my favorite people relax and enjoyed themselves. Sounds lovely, doesn't it? Yes. Yes it really does. It did.

I just want to get married! I just want to marry the man I love the most in the whole world. Is that so hard? Yes. Apparently.

I'm so tired of it all I want to throw up my hands. I give up! You win! No dream wedding for me! No romantic happy moments for that girl! BAD! BAD BRIDE!

(Commence the throwing of rotten fruit at the girl in the white dress.)

Saturday, February 26, 2011

Can you see my nipples through this nipple bra?

I took this picture the other day at Victoria's Secret.

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Wedding purgatory

I'm setting all the wedding stuff on fire.

Say bye bye rejected wedding favors (3.95 each) and aur revoir to left over wedding invites (2.00 each). Adios wedding mags and print outs and all the other crap that I though would be perfect. But then Aunt Milly thought my steampunk wedding invites were 'too depressing'. My mom thought that my first dress was too sexy so I took it back. (1940's floor length lingerie with hand sewn beading and applique.) We've changed the date to suit other people needs, changed venues and I'm tired of it.

I feel guilty tearing up all these expensive wedding magazines that my mother paid good money for but I need to do it. I am over it.
I mourn for the lose of my wedding. I hate to be a girl about it but it was something that I've been looking forward to since I was old enough to consider marriage and now I can never have it. Now, all I want is to be married.

I daydream not of my lovely wedding but of sitting in Europe with my husband, finally married, enjoying a coffee and people watching. Bring it on! Let's kick this pig! But not literally.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Escobar's Hippos

Pablo Escobar was a dick.

Take my word for it. Pablo Emilio Escobar Gaviria wasn't just a drug lord and criminal. He was a giant asshole who did some pretty messed up things. And he had it all. In '89, Forbes ranked him 7th wealthiest person in the world. He offered to pay off Columbia's national debt on 10 billion. Cash. Cars. Girls. Hippos.

He was born Dec 1, 1949 to a peasant life. Hustling and jacking cars soon lead to work as a body guard then kidnapping for large ransoms. By his early 20s he was making millions and according to his brother, they spent $2,500 a month buying rubber bands to wrap the giant stacks of money. And when the 80's rolled around and a sudden and urgent need for cocaine enveloped the country, Escobar really made a killing. No, really. He assassinated political figures, judges and even blew up planes.

So far, drug dealer and murderer... Now add child rapist. At 26, he married at 15 year old girl. Then, we can add yet another asshole label to it all for what he did to his animals.

At some point in all this crazy, he bought 7 square acres of land and built an expanding compound. A mansion, pool, and a zoo. Giraffes, zebras, ostriches, camels, even an elephant. But we will get to all that soon...

After escaping prison, Escobar was shot on a rooftop whilst running from police. And that's where he died. A day after his 44th birthday, Colombian National Police caught up with him (and his bodyguard known as 'El Limon') and it all ended there. (technically, a shot to the ear ended it...) His family believes that when cornered, Escobar killed himself via a bullet through the ear. No one knows for sure.

Escobar's land was given to low income families and the rest was left to rot. The animals had been left to starve and many died of exposure.  Except the hippos. They actually thrived. Normally, hippos are slow to reproduce. (Hence they are a vulnerable species and illegal to hunt.) Male hippos don't reach maturity until about 7 years old. Females only ovulate usually during the wet season and only ovulate again 1 1/2 after giving birth. But when in a hospitable environment with no enemies and little distraction, they multiply like rabbits.

4 hippos turned into 30 in as many years and they took over the compound. And that's where they are today. Hippos are aggressive and expensive to move and the Colombian government can't pay to have them shipped to a zoo. In the summer of '09, one hippo had to be put down after wandering off the compound and threatening to harm locals.

Don't you just love the idea of hippos sleeping in a million dollar mansion? I do. And I love a good example of nature taking over all things, eventually.

If you want to learn more about Escobar and his Scarface fame, check out "The Accountant's Story" written by his brother Roberto. Or check out the NYTimes article about the latest development here.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

A sane man in an insane world


I'm sorry but I don't want to be an Emperor - that's not my business - I don't want to rule or conquer anyone. I should like to help everyone if possible, Jew, gentile, black man, white. We all want to help one another, human beings are like that. We all want to live by each other's happiness, not by each other's misery. We don't want to hate and despise one another. In this world there is room for everyone and the earth is rich and can provide for everyone.

The way of life can be free and beautiful. But we have lost the way.

Greed has poisoned men's souls - has barricaded the world with hate; has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed. We have developed speed but we have shut ourselves in: machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical, our cleverness hard and unkind. We think too much and feel too little: More than machinery, we need humanity. More than cleverness we need kindness and gentleness. Without these qualities, life will be violent and all will be lost.

The aeroplane and the radio have brought us closer together. The very nature of these inventions cries out for the goodness in men, cries out for universal brotherhood for the unity of us all. Even now my voice is reaching millions throughout the world, millions of despairing men, women and little children, victims of a system that makes men torture and imprison innocent people. To those who can hear me I say "Do not despair".

The misery that is now upon us is but the passing of greed, the bitterness of men who fear the way of human progress: the hate of men will pass and dictators die and the power they took from the people will return to the people and so long as men die, liberty will never perish...

Soldiers - don't give yourselves to brutes, men who despise you and enslave you - who regiment your lives, tell you what to do, what to think and what to feel, who drill you, diet you, treat you as cattle, as cannon fodder. Don't give yourselves to these unnatural men, machine men, with machine minds and machine hearts. You are not machines. You are not cattle. You are men. You have the love of humanity in your hearts. You don't hate - only the unloved hate. Only the unloved and the unnatural. Soldiers - don't fight for slavery, fight for liberty.

In the seventeenth chapter of Saint Luke it is written " the kingdom of God is within man " - not one man, nor a group of men - but in all men - in you, the people. You the people have the power, the power to create machines, the power to create happiness. You the people have the power to make life free and beautiful, to make this life a wonderful adventure. Then in the name of democracy let's use that power - let us all unite. Let us fight for a new world, a decent world that will give men a chance to work, that will give you the future and old age and security.

By the promise of these things, brutes have risen to power, but they lie. They do not fulfil their promise, they never will. Dictators free themselves but they enslave the people. Now let us fight to fulfil that promise. Let us fight to free the world, to do away with national barriers, do away with greed, with hate and intolerance. Let us fight for a world of reason, a world where science and progress will lead to all men's happiness.
Soldiers - in the name of democracy, let us all unite!

Look up! Look up! The clouds are lifting - the sun is breaking through. We are coming out of the darkness into the light. We are coming into a new world. A kind new world where men will rise above their hate and brutality. The soul of man has been given wings - and at last he is beginning to fly. He is flying into the rainbow - into the light of hope - into the future, that glorious future that belongs to you, to me and to all of us. Look up. Look up.

-Charlie Chaplin, The Great Dictator

The Dream Marriage

A wish list for my marriage.
  • I wish to always be in love with my husband and our lives together.
  • I will wake up everyday and think about what I can do to make his day better.
  • I want to continue to learn something everyday and share that with my husband.
  • We will continue to travel and learn about history, culture and people in the world.
  • We will be healthy, happy and work together always.
  • We will do our best to listen to each other.
  • I will keep trying to make him laugh.
  • I will keep up my looks, even when I get wrinkly and saggy.
  • To accept that we aren't perfect but we are happy.
More as I think of them.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

The Dream Wedding

I wish I was more original.

I wish that I could be different and not want the things that are so cliche. So lame. So expected. But I'm sorry. I am the way I am. And I want to get married via lovely wedding.

I want a beautiful, meaningful wedding. Twenty of our closest friends and family join us for a very short secular ceremony. Then we have a tasteful and thoughtful cocktail reception. It's styled and lit. It has those little details people appreciate. Our guest can look around at our beautiful ceremony space and think how lovely it all is. I want to feel beautiful. My dress will be special and make me feel special for just one day. It will be stress-free enough that I can feel nothing but excited and happy to be marrying my dream fella. I'll just sit in my dress, drink a glass of champagne, and smile without worry about details, relatives or how much in debt we are for this one day. I get to be the prettiest girl in the room for one day in my whole life; the one day it's supposed to be about me.

I wish I would be ok with just running down to the court house. I wish we could just run off to europe and get married. I wish I didn't think those options were tacky and sad. (and that my mother would stab me if I did that...) I wish I didn't want this thing I've envisioned in my head since I was little. I wish I didn't care about a dress, a moment, a photo taken at a special moment.

Sometimes I wish I wasn't such a fucking girl. Fuck.