Hello, friends. The Heiress von Lone Wolf is sick and grumpy today…trying to complete a stack of work so she can go home and throw herself into bed with Moe and Big Sur. There might be some Metalocalypse viewing, too.
In times like this, great solace is found in one’s favorite things. And so, without further ado…feathers!
P.S. The Heiress has also reminded me that her birthday approaches in less than two weeks. All ideal gifts are garnished with feathers.
Maybe it’s the sunshine slipping through the window next to my desk, but everything feels magical right now.
Probably the most magical, mystical thing–the one phenomenon than can always stop me in my steps and make my jaw drop open–is a rainbow.
A rainbow spans a continuous spectrum of colours. Traditionally, however, the sequence is quantised. The most commonly cited and remembered sequence, in English, is Newton’s sevenfold red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. “Roy G. Biv” and “Richard Of York Gave Battle In Vain” are popular mnemonics.
Rainbows can be caused by other forms of water than rain, including mist, spray, dew, fog, and ice. Moreover, rainbows can have shapes other than a bow (arc), including stripes, circles, or even flames.
In Greek mythology, the rainbow was considered to be a path made by a messenger (Iris) between Earth and Heaven.
A supernumerary rainbow is an infrequent phenomenon, consisting of several faint rainbows on the inner side of the primary rainbow, and very rarely also outside the secondary rainbow. Supernumerary rainbows are slightly detached and have pastel colour bands that do not fit the usual pattern.
Another ancient portrayal of the rainbow is given in the Epic of Gilgamesh: the rainbow is the “jewelled necklace of the Great Mother Ishtar” that she lifts into the sky as a promise that she “will never forget these days of the great flood” that destroyed her children.
Right now I am reading Big Sur by Jack Kerouac. It’s amusing to me that I am now, at the ripe old age of 30, suddenly a big Kerouac fan. In college, I would never read his work because I associated him with earnest pseudo-philosophical young men (a loathsome bunch, I can assure you). And then in my 20s, it just seemed to passe to take up his books. But earlier this year, I read On the Road and The Dharma Bums, and my mind was blown.
Last night, two small details made me smile (amidst several really brilliant descriptive passages).
The first was this:
“There’s the poor little mouse eating her nightly supper in the humble corner where I’ve put out a little delight-plate full of cheese and chocolate candy (for my days of killing mice are over).”
This reminded me of my first apartment with Brad (back in ye olde days of yore…otherwise known as “the 90s”). For one, it was quite suddenly infested with cockroaches after the Chinese restaurant next door began storing trash in the basement (because trash pickup was too pricey). This was pretty horrible. I could barely sleep…and when I was home alone, I kept all of the lights turned on, in an attempt to keep the insects in hiding. Eventually that problem was solved by a really intense pesticide bombing (we had to leave for the weekend…and if I end up with a rare cancer in my old age, I will blame the chemicals that coated all of our belongings).
But then…the mice moved in. It was actually a small mice family. They lived in the wall behind the stove. Even though Brad was pretty disgusted, I just couldn’t put out poison/traps. Instead, every night, I would put together an assortment of Easter candy on the counter for the mice(Brad’s parents had given all sorts of disgusting treats, including those nefarious Peeps). This went on for a month or two, until the cat upstairs killed all of the mice in one really intense Saturday of mouse genocide.
But back to Big Sur….the narrator also mentions sending a letter to his mother requesting that she “give a kiss to Tyke, my cat.” This reminded me of an article I read years ago (in Chicago, I think) about the last diaries of William S. Burroughs. He spent most of time writing about his love for his cats. A lot of them were elderly and frail, so he was consumed with worry about their health (both physical and mental). This article actually made me cry. My roommate, also a cat lover, laughed at me…until I forced him to read it, too. We both declared that we were officially “huge fans” of Burroughs, if only for his love of cats. (I won’t lie…I really love some of his books, but others bored me).
I tried to find this article via Google this morning, to no avail. But I did find something pretty cool…he wrote a book entitled The Cat Inside (it was published in 1986). Amazon describes it this way:
“Best known for the wild, phantasmagoric satire of works like Naked Lunch, William S. Burroughs reveals another, gentler side in The Cat Inside. Originally published as a limited-edition volume, this moving and witty discourse on cats combines deadpan routines and dream passages with a heartwarming account of Burroughs’s unexpected friendships with the many cats he has known. It is also a meditation on the long, mysterious relationship between cats and their human hosts, which Burroughs traces back to the Egyptian cult of the “animal other.” With its street sense and whiplash prose, The Cat Inside is a genuine revelation for Burroughs fans and cat lovers alike. “
I think this is going to be the next book I read.
Two choice cat-related quotes from Burroughs…
“All you cat lovers, remember all the millions of cats mewling through the world’s rooms lay all their hopes and trust in you…”
“We are the cats inside. We are the cats who cannot walk alone,
and for us there is only one place.”
Do you think that creative people are more prone to loving animals? When I started to think about all of my most interesting/creative friends, I realized that all of them could be described as “animal people.” Some prefer dogs to cats, and other just love all creatures.
Though my most recent photo session with Janelle might seem to indicate otherwise, I am not goth…even if I did have dyed black hair for most of twenties (I was under the perhaps mistaken impression that it was very mod). Furthermore, I usually do not enjoy horror movies because they scare me! And, like a child, I usually have nightmares later.
My favorite character is Virginia (shown above). From Wikipedia:
“Virginia, is obsessed with spiders, thus, “Spider Baby”. She stalks and eats bugs, moving in a strange and spider-like grace. She also wraps unsuspecting victims in her rope ‘web’, and then ’stings’ them to death using two butcher knives. In one scene, while murdering an innocent delivery-man, Virginia cuts off one of his ears, which she then keeps in a match box.”
I am a sentimental packrat, so I can relate to her desire to keep the ear.
One of the greedy relatives spent a majority of the movie inexplicably wearing lingerie. This is always the hallmark of a fine film.
She bears a striking resemblance to Meryl Streep, don’t you think?
P.S. Not to fuel the fire of evil, but my pre-grocery shopping food purchase at Wegman’s yesterday came to a total of $6.66.
P.P.S. I now live with two black cats, as Moe “$$$” McCarty has moved to Philadelphia.
As promised…the conclusion to this section will come tomorrow or this weekend…
Connect-the-dots handouts were a daily part of kindergarten life. It only seems logical: five-year olds are learning to count and draw straight lines. I loathed this activity. For one, I was troubled by the proper technique for actually connecting the dots. Should I draw straight lines? Because that resulted in an angular, digitized-seeming picture. It seemed that curving arcs were more natural, but sometimes even this seemed wrong. I spent a week using intentionally shaky, squiggly lines, only to be pulled aside by my teacher to be asked “Is everything okay at home?” (A few months later, my poor mother was called in for a conference because I was giving all the people in my coloring books purple hair and green skin. Although I would like to attribute this to a latent punk sensibility, I was really just bored.)
My other issue with the connect-the-dots involved the final stroke: drawing a line from the last number–let’s say 50 for conjecture’s sake–to the very first number, one. This seemed completely ridiculous to me. One never follows 50. I realize that some might argue that all of nature travels in circles. For instance, all of my budding philosopher friends in college liked to argue the irony of beginning life as a baby, only to return to a similarly helpless state in old age. I disagree with this. Sure, maybe both babies and the elderly require help in feeding and dressing themselves (and I won’t even broach the subject of incontinence), but a senior citizen is still the polar opposite of an infant. Tragedies and triumphs, sun damage and surgeries, rejections and embraces, scraped knees and broken bones…all of these shape the original person into something new. There is something to be said for the addition of a life lived to one’s blank slate. No one returns to one after fifty.
But I will agree that one moves to fifty as a result of one addition after another. The simplest action can lead to one result, causing another action and yet another effect.
The simplest choice, from where to eat dinner to the route one uses to drive to work can change everything that comes next.
I offer to you Exhibit A, a night several years ago wherein the seemingly minor choice to go out for a drink began the series of events that lead me here, thousands of miles away from where I began.
I dragged Brazzer to the Rainbo Club by convincing him that going out on St. Patrick’s Day was so uncool, that it had become ironic, and therefore, cool. Somehow this logic swayed him, despite lots of homework piling up on his desk. Sensing that I was on some sort of persuasive roll, I suggested wearing green clothing.
And so, we found ourselves seated at the bar, bored out of our minds, tossing back whiskeys. He was wearing a big moss-colored sweater. I was wearing my Girl Scout uniform, a medley of merry pines and grasses. Despite being surrounded by many people–most lacking festive outfits–no one seemed interesting. We played hangman on a bar napkin. I read him his horoscope from The Reader. I attempted to entertain him with non-amusing stories about cereal theft in the kitchen at work. After two minutes of silence, I realized that only a rousing game of pinball would save this evening.
We pooled our quarters and got down to business. I won the first round. Brazzer attributed this to my barfly status. This may have been somewhat true. After deciding that we should take a “best 2 out of 3” approach, we bought another round of drinks and begged the bartender for quarters. More drinks, more games.
At some point, I realized that I was inarguably drunk. This might send a wise woman home to bed, but it only convinced me that I was charming and lovely. I started talking to an innocent bystander, wearing a straw Amish hat.
“Hey, nice hat,” I slurred.
He smiled. I cannot deny this: he was really cute. Tall-ish, skinny, strawberry blonde hair, and blue eyes. Not my usual type, but he had a lot of boyish charm, which always wins me over.
Of course our actual conversation is a chatty blur. His name was Jacob. He grew up in rural Illinois and he was a librarian. He never explained that hat, but I didn’t care. Soon he was playing pinball with Brazzer and me. We were new best friends!
Before I knew it, it was last call and the bartender was begging us to leave. Brazzer practically carried me out the door. I was completely incapable of unlocking my bike, and so instead, I wobbled in a circle in the center of the street. I yelled after Jacob. “Come over to our house! We have a lot of good board games!” Months of careful study had taught me that luring attractive hipsters back to my house required a quirkier approach. Not that I was versed in the standard seduction techniques, unless you counted everything I learned from decades of Madonna singles.
Jacob twirled me around in the street and then lead me to my bike. Like a gentleman, he asked Brazzer if he really was invited back to our apartment. I snorted at this.
Brazzer was definitely drunk because he raised no objection. Just weeks before, he had awakened me early one morning with a stern admonition. “If you bring one more strange boy over here in the next month, I am going drag him out of the apartment and throw him down the stairs without his pants.” I attributed this to player hating. Then again, I couldn’t deny that there had recently been a steady stream of dark hair indie rockers leading through our front door and into my bedroom. I can close my eyes even now and imagine them as a single-file line of ants crawling up the stairs of our building, all wearing vintage plaid shirts and plastic-framed glasses. Some toted records and existentialist tomes, while others were simply just drunk.
I wasn’t always this way. Then again, I always wanted to sleep with a plethora of earnest hipsters, but my fantasies were foiled by commitment and the fidelity that comes along with it. Six months ago, I had broken up with the boy I had dated for four and a half years. He was my first and only boyfriend. Oh sure, I had a few incredibly disappointing sexual encounters in high school. And in college I asserted my newly acquired adulthood by sleeping with a handful of fine arts majors.
But when I ran into Andrew on my holiday break from my second year of college, I felt as if I had won the lottery. As a super-geeky, extra-weird ninth grader, I had watched him and his senior classmates with awe. I stole secret glances at him during orchestra rehearsal. Even now, I can’t hear “Ode to Joy” without thinking of the 18-year old version of him–skinnier and wearing a Nirvana t-shirt. He was on my mind during my first fumbling attempts at masturbation. If only I could find my barely pubescent self and whisper into my/her ear, “This guy will fuck you no less than 1300 times. Possibly more!” I can’t decided if that would have made the torture of high school more bearable or twice as agonizing.
Apparently he was pretty pleased with the artsy big city girl version of me. Suddenly he was inviting himself to visit me in the city. Next we were squeezing into my tiny twin bed, cleverly wedged into a closet for privacy. We didn’t go beyond third base for months. I was too nervous to actually make the move. And I think he thought I was a lot more innocent than I really was. Finally I drank enough malt liquor to work up the nerve to take off his pants. And the rest became history. We spent most weekends together. Eventually we moved to Chicago. We played house for years and most of our friends thought we were the “perfect couple.” And I have to admit, he was pretty great. We worked through a wide variety of my psychoses together. He always shared the cooking and cleaning evenly. He made me laugh more than anyone else in the world. But the itch to sleep with others began creeping into our relationship, leading to a lot of deceitfulness on his part and finely cultivated martyrdom for me. Ultimately it was my belief that I need to “experience more of the world”–meaning, sleep around, do drugs, and drink myself silly–that ended our extended run.
Janelle abducted me from the Spring Garden train station while brandishing a bottle of “frighteningly realistic” (according to the label) blood. She had already breezed through the Thrift Fair for some nightgowns and slips. We took a break for beer and ChaCha (more on that another time)…and then off to work…
It began with the photo above, from the August “Denim Issue” of Nylon. The rest of the magazine was a bore, but this blue eye shadow blew (or, blue…if you are a fan of puns) my mind!
While Janelle and I were at Target buying an emergency backup of Boggle (mine remains locked in my car, awaiting the arrival of my spare car key from my mother), I bought a fairly comparable color (L’Oreal HIP). I carefully applied it this morning…it looked pretty amazing, but I chickened out, grabbed the cold cream, and started over with my usual “Satin Tutu” eyeshadow.
I’m not going to lie…blue is absolutely my favorite color (even though I also harbor a great deal of affection for red, white, purple, green, black, and grey).
In the 60s, the US Air Force ran a television commercial with this jingle:
They took the blue from the skies,
And the pretty girls’ eyes,
And a touch of Old Glory too;
And gave it to the men who proudly wear the U. S. Air Force Blue!
In Thailand, blue is associated with Friday on the Thai solar calendar. Anyone may wear blue on Fridays and anyone born on a Friday may adopt blue as their colour.
In the bandana code of the gay leather subculture , wearing a medium blue means one is into the fetish of having sex with someone who is wearing a police uniform.
When an anmal’s coat is described as “blue”, it usually refers to a shade of grey that takes on a bluish tint, a diluted variant of a pure black coat.
Lest any of you were worrying that I had abandoned by book, fear not! A new excerpt should be coming tomorrow. The internet access at my house as been dicey at best, preventing me from directly uploading from my laptop. Furthermore, I have been really struggling with the narrative of a particularly linear section.
P.S. Clearly the photo above is not an accurate representation of me at work, since I have grown out my bangs.
One other incredibly important part of my weekend:
Jesus Todd emailed me Friday morning, inviting me to go hiking/swimming at a “sand lake” in an undisclosed location. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, but I decided to go anyway…and bring Janelle along.
Anyway…it turned out to be the coolest thing I have done all summer. Dan (you can call him “Mr. Todd” if you prefer) drove a carful of rowdy girls (okay, there were only three of us…but we were pretty giddy) out to the Pine Barrens. We parked along the road next to a spooky Christian camp with a creepy abandoned religion-themed miniature golf course. (Note: Janelle and I will be returning to this spot for a ye olde photo session). As soon as we got out of the car, we coated ourselves with insect repellant (mosquitoes really, really love me). We walked for about 15 minutes to the entrance to the forest. Along the way, we passed a 90s big screen television that was heaved over the guardrail. It was a pretty impressive piece of litter.
The forest was filled with whippoorwills and buzzing locusts. Of course, we saw a lot of beer bottles for the first 15 minutes. After that, it became more and more apparent that we really were in the middle of nowhere. We came across some railroad tracks…filled with the longest line of seemingly abandoned oil tankers. There was something really creepy about it. JT agreed with me on this.
We emerged from the pine trees into what seemed like a mirage: white sand as far as the eye could see, with a beautiful clear lake in the center. The lake was a lot bigger than I imagined! Dusk was approaching as we made our way to meet up with the others (various friends of Dan and JT). A big fire was built just as the very orange moon began to rise from behind the trees.
The water was surprisingly warm.
The sand felt like powder.
The beer, chips, and vegan cookies that we brought with us tasted better than ever.
The sky was so clear…Janelle and I lamented our lack of in-depth constellation knowledge.
Little frogs hopped around along the water and in the forest. We saw no fish and there were no plants in the lake.
We stayed until 2 am…the hike back out of the forest and to our car was long. Several times I felt very frightened, but I kept it to myself…no need to freak out the girls (Dan was back at the lake camping with the others). At one point, I thought I saw a man hiding in the trees. I couldn’t stop thinking about how cliche horror movie the entire scenario seemed. Three women, somewhat scantily clad, walking through a desolate forest. It was just begging for an axe murderer to emerge from a dark corner. Later JT admitted that she had a few moments of panic, too.
Even though I lost my keys at the sand lake (all easily solved with a few phone calls and a night spent on Janelle’s sofa), I am itching to return as soon as possible. Janelle and I are hoping to go out there in late August. We want to take photos, possibly wear costumes, swim for hours, and watch the stars. Who wants to come with us? Does anyone excel at building fires? Wildlife photography? Carrying heavy supplies? We want you!
P.S. I will never tell you the actual location of this spot.
Despite the excruciating heat/humidity in ye olde Philadelphia this weekend, Janelle I ventured–not so far–to Wissahickon Valley Park for the first in a series of amusing photo shoots. We lugged all of our props and costume changes in suitcases down the Forbidden Road to the creek. Innocent passersby were perplexed by our luggage. Janelle brought her accordion, which weighs 20 pounds. Afterwards, her hands were red and sore from lugging it…but it was well worth it, as you can see from our photos (that accordion is SO photogenic)…
Dragging everything down to the creek (including a superfluous umbrella).
This is my favorite shot of Janelle. I love the look of concentration she gets when she is playing. Oh yes, I should add that she really was playing in all of the pictures. Originally, we were lamenting our lack of a portable record player, as we wanted some olde timey music for inspiration. Janelle’s fine accordion playing skills (improving with each day) created a nice atmosphere. A couple walking by above was confused by the music, because they couldn’t see us.
There was a surprising amount of litter around the creek, including a Doritos bag, a 12 pack of Pepsi (including all 12 cans and the box), two mismatched shoes, and a pair of socks. All photos had to be framed in order to exclude the trash.
A butterfly joined us.
I’m not really sure what “look” I was trying to recreate here, but I must admit that I am always searching for opportunities to wear my head dress. Jonathan noted that my bow is not loaded. We nixed bringing the suction cup arrows, because they are not particularly aesthetically pleasing.
My legs look particularly fetching here.
These boots require eons to lace up, but I changed my mind…deciding to save them for a future cabaret-themed shoot. I should also add that we changed clothes out in the open, by the creek.
Here I told Janelle to imagine that she was a woman who decided to leave her husband and run away to Hollywood to be a movie star. On the way, the car broke down and she was lamenting her decision.
Janelle and her highly authentic water bottle.
The umbrella DID come in handy! Once again, my outfit doesn’t really have a theme…I guess I’m just some sort of wanderer, freshly escaped from the sanitarium.
Further consideration has indicated that we require a gun for our next photo session. Anyone offering?
Also needed for our next ye olde photo outing: a tripod (the kind that can wrap around trees), fully charged battery packs (oops), and an individual with a yearning to take ye olde photos of Janelle and me.
See more photos here
When you get to be an old-timer like me, it’s easy to forget about the magic of summer. I don’t get to take three months off from conjuring hats and scarves. I’m not lucky enough to work for a company with highly coveted “summer hours.”
Well, it’s July now…and there are still many long sunny days remaining.
My declaration: let’s get serious about summer fun! 
Of course, I’ll look for any excuse to consume a tropical-themed drink. “Oh, summer starts in five months. Better buy a bottle of coconut rum in anticipation (and drink it right now).” Nonetheless, a fine “Malibu Bay Breeze” (the official beverage of the Todd-Brill household) is especially delicious while reclining on lawn furniture.
(Vegan) barbecues! My parents bought me a grill, and I still haven’t assembled it. Rats!
Camping. Sure it’s sweaty and showers/indoor bathrooms are difficult to find, but sleeping under the stars has a particular philosophical appeal. For further information, consult The Dharma Bums.
Long hours spent on the beach, preferably reading about astrology and people watching with your bestest friends…my idea of a perfect day. “Browning lotion” is optional.
Picnics. Everything tastes better when eaten in the park.
Swimming is one of my favorite activities! The water is extra-super-refreshing if one is trespassing. Out of respect for the law, I am thinking that Janelle and I will have to buy a kiddie pool for our sweet West Philly mansion (coming soon).
General scantily-clad bad behavior with one’s lady friends.
Let’s hear it for summer fun!
White is the combination of all of the colors of the visible light spectrum.
To “show the white feather” is to display cowardice.
Wearing white shoes after Labor Day is considered a fashion faux pas (although, I disagree).
White is an achromatic color, since it has no hue.
A white elephant is a gift or possession that creates a burden or difficulty for the recipient.
White Day was first celebrated in 1978 in Japan.
I have a new policy regarding smoking: I can only have a cigarette (or two or three…) on days that I am not going to yoga. Essentially, I can only smoke on Tuesdays, because that it is my only definite day of rest. All other without days with yoga arise because of unpredictable circumstances: illness, traffic, heavy work load, etc. This anti-smoking stance has very little to do with the fear of cancer and respiratory illnesses. My motivation is a lot more pragmatic: the first five minutes of class are spent doing breathing exercises; these are infinitely more difficult/less rewarding when I have been smoking.
I have been really good at sticking to this. To make it easier (read: force myself to adhere to this by taking away my options), I have been leaving my cigarettes at home on all days I am planning on yoga. This strategy went downhill yesterday. I was feeling inexplicably stressed (all right, maybe it was easily explained: a lot going on at work, carrying the weight of my friends’ personal problems, the usual). I wanted a cigarette. No, I needed a cigarette. I bummed one from one of my friends in the mailroom. Alex (aka, Nana) gave me grief, as she is both anti-smoking and pro-Bikram. I defended myself, but I have to admit that I felt guilty. It started a snowball effect in my mind…”Oh, now I’m smoking…next I’m getting wasted…and then I’m losing a shoe…and then I’m drunk-dialing my ex-boyfriend…”
Okay…time out! I have been know to get wasted and lose a shoe (it’s easier than you might think)…but I have a strict “NO DRUNK DIALING” policy. Things I would rather do before I would drunkenly call someone: throw my phone in the river, eat broken glass, give up shampoo.
I will admit that I have made intoxicated phone calls to fellows in the distant past. But now I’m over it. For one, if I really have something to say to someone…and I truly, truly mean it…then I should probably call them when I am sober. If I’m nervous about speaking with someone who may/already has hurt me, but I really want to speak to them…I should just do it, without having the escape hatch of “Sorry, I was drunk.”
I guess that’s the thing about drunk dialing that upsets me the most: everyone uses intoxication as an excuse for putting themselves in a vulnerable position. Or as away to explain away the physical manifestation of their actual true feelings. If you feel the need to call someone after ten drinks, it’s because you actually miss them/have something to say. Alcohol does not induce false feelings. It only washes away the carefully constructed facades we create to protect ourselves and our image.
Here’s an example: An ex-boyfriend of mine started calling me in the wee hours some time in February. Usually he did not leave a message. I chalked it up to drunken misdialing, as we hadn’t spoken in months and months…and he had made it very clear that he (inexplicably) hated me. But then one night, he left a message asking me to call him back. “Hooray,” I thought. “He’s finally going to try to be my friend.” I was really happy! I had been missing him for a long time, but my own pride (and my self-induced obligation to respect his feelings) prevented me from contacting him. So I called him back, leaving a message. No response. I sent him an email, saying something like, “Hey, I called you back. What’s going on?” And this was the response I received:
“i apologize for calling you and imagine it won’t happen again.i’m only writing this because i know my call provoked attention, which, truly, i don’t want.i don’t remember calling but my telephone log said it happened and your response confirmed the action.it could have been and hope it was accidental.”
I was enraged by this! For one, I returned his call because he asked me to call him IN THE VOICEMAIL HE LEFT FOR ME. This was no fucking accident! He meant to call me and he wanted to talk to me. Otherwise, why would he bother dialing the phone? Once again, the whole “I was drunk and I didn’t know what I was doing because I was, you know, drunk” defense. Argh!!!!!
I should also mention that he continued to call me about once every week or two, at 2 am. Sometimes he left messages, sometimes he did not. He most frequently called on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. This went on for months.
Let’s all start holding drunk dialers accountable. The same goes for drunken texts. I say we treat all contact, even the late night slurry variety, as actual and legitimate. Who’s in on this with me?
I’ll finish this off by telling you the story that once (and for all) cured me of drunken calls, drop-bys, etc: I was terribly enamored with a boy who lived down the street from me. In fact, he lived exactly half way between a particular bar and my house. I called him from the bar when I was only a little tipsy. “Do you want some company later?” This was obviously a euphemism. No, he was feeling tired/busy/whatever (because I can’t remember). I tossed back about 8 drinks and then decided to go home. Of course, I passed his house on my way. It occurred to me that I should drop by. His house was dark, so I decided that I should just climb through his bedroom window. At this point, my memory is super fuzzy. I know that I was planning on trying to “get sexy” with him, but I was definitely far too drunk to do anything other than pass out. Some words were exchanged…and I’m pretty sure he told me I was wasted and I should go home to bed. I climbed out the window, walked down to the sidewalk, and got on my bike. I was only two blocks from home. I really should have walked, but suddenly I was in a hurry. Everything was going well, until I opened my eyes to discover that I was lying on the sidewalk with my bike on top of me. I staggered home and blacked out without getting undressed. I was so concussed/drunk, that when the boy called a few minutes later to call me, I didn’t hear the phone…even though it was next to my head on the pillow.
This weekend, while lying in my parents’ yard watching dusk fall, I thought about running away to join a commune somewhere in the Pacific Northwest (immediately I assumed that such establishments were plentiful in British Columbia and/or the San Juan Islands). I imagined how surprising it would be to everyone. Perhaps my parents would worry that I had joined a cult. They would automatically blame my ex-boyfriend. Then I realized that I have grown too accustomed to my existence as an island, and living selflessly would be too difficult for me. A girl can dream, right?
One more thing to keep myself awake at night: I read a post on The Coveted about toxic chemicals in beauty products. Truly frightening! This lead me to a website called Skin Deep. It is a large database of common personal care products/cosmetics. Each item is rated based on chemical content, carcinogen content, potential allergy issues, etc. Furthermore, the manufacturer’s use of animal testing is revealed.
I decided to rate some of the products I use on a regular basis.
Neutrogena Healthy Skin Anti-Wrinkle Anti-Blemish Clear Skin Cream
I slather this on my face every morning. I have been using it for approximately 2 years. It’s fairly affordable ($10-12 for one tube…each tube usually lasts me about 4-5 months). Furthermore, it has not irritated my skin like most other anti-blemish products I have used in the past.
This product received a 7 (out of a possible 10) rating…qualifying it as a high hazard product!
Furthermore, this product is tested on animals! So I guess I won’t be purchasing this again. If anybody has any suggestions for a less frightening/animal friendly lotion, I want to hear about it.
Today was my niece’s christening.
A young Seneca dancer.
Brother and sister at a wedding in the 70s. (Janelle and I were discussing the creative possibilities of a “Ye Olde” style wedding).
Breathtaking!
From a U.S. News & World Report article about branding:
“Consider Hello Kitty, which is an example I use in the book at some length. Some three decades ago, this mouthless, cute cat symbol was created by Sanrio. It turned into a megaseller, and while there are a number of theories as to why, the essence of my own theory is that there is no single answer. Hello Kitty benefited from “projectability,” meaning that different consumers projected different ideas on this blank canvas. For some, it was little-girl cute, for others it was kitschy, for others it was nostalgic. And because Hello Kitty has no “official story,” everyone is, in effect, right.”
….or something like that…
More coming from me soon…a crazy week of work ahead of me…
This has only fueled our lust for costumed photography, so anticipate more home grown photo sessions in the future.
Disclaimer: I promise that I don’t plan on devoting too many blogs to the unsavory subject of my ex-boyfriend. I’m still sorting through it all in my head, sifting through the wreckage and rubble of my feelings. Thanks to my ridiculous insomnia this week, I was able to devote many hours to piecing it all together. This exhaustion lead to a bad case of delirious double-vision during the last 15 minutes of my yoga class last night. Kind of frightening! To make matters worse, the girl he cheated on me with is now working at UO world headquarters. I get to see her in the cafeteria, at the coffee shop, and even in my own building. I don’t have any ill will towards her, but there is nothing pleasant about being reminded of his undeniable dishonesty and betrayal.
Since his late-night drunken diatribe last week, I have been struggling with one particular recurring theme of his: he believes that I am controlling. He has repeated several times his conviction that I would have thrown him out of our apartment if he had screwed up in any way while we were together. I told one of my close friends about this and she laughed. And then I had to laugh, too….because really, I am the most ridiculous pushover of all time. I tolerate foolishness and lack of consideration to an almost infinite degree. My friend made the point that I would probably have continued to live with him forever, despite any mistreatment. We would have eventually broken up, and I still would have shared an apartment with him, washing his laundry and sleeping on the sofa when he had other girls over…hating myself the entire time.
Argh. As much as I hate to admit this, my friend is correct. The reality is this: despite his seemingly perpetual state of drunkenness and chaos, I continued to silently tolerate it. Dirty dishes and beer bottles all over the bedroom floor? I cleaned them up silently. He drunkenly peed on the bed? No problem, I was stocked up on Febreze. Awakened by late night phone calls because he was wasted and lost? I would save him. I rationalized it all by reminding myself that he had moved all the way from the west coast to live with me in Philadelphia. His minor sacrifice–I say “minor” because he hated Portland–made me feel as if I deserved nothing else from him ever again.
Now I imagine him telling his friends about his “fear” of me and I just feel disgusted. I suppose if one repeats a lie enough, it starts to seem like the truth.
As for my alleged “controlling” tendency, I can only laugh. If I had been dictating his life while we were together, he would have eaten less food from Wawa. He would have been far less drunk. Certainly he would have found a better job. At the very least, he would have cleaned up after himself.
The idea that my letter to him–in which I declared my love–was an attempt at controlling/manipulating him makes me angry. No, angry is an understatement. It fucking ENRAGES me. Like, if I saw him right now, I would use my magical Bikram muscles to give him a non-surgical vasectomy. Or at least, trip him and then laugh. And then I would say this:
“Seriously, dude. Surely you have noticed that the ocean is filled with fish. I have nothing to gain from ‘tricking’ a bloated bottom feeder into swimming away with me.”
Or then again, maybe I would just say, “Why can’t you accept that I am being truthful when I say that I love you? Who did this to you? Who made you unable to believe that people really can feel this way about you?”
Then again…my feelings for him are gone. I would rather hit him than kiss him. I’m not sure if I can ever be nice to him again. I’m disappointed in myself for giving into the seemingly simple feeling of hatred, but at this point self-preservation is necessary.
I guess the “controlling” issue upsets me because it is so far off course. It is the cliché stupid knee-jerk reaction to female strength. Apparently I must be an evil ball-busting bitch because I am smart and semi-successful. My resilience through a wide variety of tragedies and traumas is seen as a mark of evil. The realization that he, the alleged male feminist, would subscribe to this ridiculous notion disappoints me…even if it is a common mistake. Another letdown.
I would like to celebrate in Atlantic City Saturday night with all of my rad friends. The question is this: who wants to spend the day at the beach, followed by intense rowdiness at the Borgata and a slumber party at some hotel?
Alex, Marlyn, and I have been looking at hotel rooms, but we need to get a head count. Also–I should mention that this party is for GIRLS ONLY!!! No need to catch cooties on my birthday.
The woods around my parents’ house are filled with cats. This wasn’t always the case, but the feline population has been exponentially increasing in the past 2-3 years. Obviously this is the result of abandoned pets and lack of spaying/neutering. We have seen more hungry kittens this year than in the past.
The true extent of the “kitten problem” showed itself a few weeks ago. My parents were getting ready to leave for the grocery store. When they walked out to the car, it was surrounded by kittens. My mom ran back into the house for cat food. After serving plastic containers of dry food moistened with milk to the miniature army, my parents left for the store. When they parked the at Giant (it’s no Wegman’s), a little kitten walked out from underneath the car. This was Lars (he didn’t have a name at this point). They recognized him from earlier, outside the house. He had somehow hitched a ride underneath the car. This was at least a 10 mile ride! Needless to say, he rode inside the car–on my stepfather’s lap–on the return trip.
the hitchhiker, Lars.
One of my parents’ neighbors decided to do what seemed to be the “right” thing: she rounded up a group of kittens and took them to the animal shelter. We assumed that they would immediately be doled out to new homes. No such luck! All of them were euthanized because they suffered from various minor illnesses: eye infections, fleas, malnutrition. These issues are easily assuaged with food, water, and baths/flea treatments. Unfortunately the shelter in Central Pennsylvania does not have the staff or funding to provide these simple services. Even worse, there is a shortage of foster parents–animal lovers providing temporary care to animals until they are healthy enough for adoption.
After learning this, my parents and I decided to care for the kittens ourselves…or at least, the kittens brave enough to come into the yard with four dogs. We’ve been providing food in the woods for all of the other shyer, possible feral cats.
Four kittens decided to move in. The first was Nanette. She is actually living in the house, mostly because she was lucky enough to arrive first. She had the mildest case of fleas, so she also looked healthier. Several weeks later, she looks like a standard chubby kitten.
The next three arrived on the same day. Lars (or Larry, if you prefer) and Clancy are definitely brothers. They were hungry and covered with fleas, but these problems were easily solved. Within a day, they looked better. We gave them baths, flea treatments, and dewormer medicine.
left to right: Clancy, Lars.
The third kitten was in a very sad state. Moe was so skinny; every bone in his body was visible. He had fleas worse than anybody else, resulting in bald patches and countless scabs. He was severely dehydrated–evidenced by his weakness and his highly visible third eyelid. We forced him to drink a lot of water. He ate a little bit, but not nearly as much as his “brothers.” He spent most of the weekend sitting on my lap. I spent hours in the yard Saturday night being eaten by insects while he snuggled up inside my jacket. When I left on Sunday, I made my parents promise to give him a lot of attention.
I didn’t take any “before” photos of him, because I was afraid he might die. My parents were thinking the same thing, but no one said it aloud.
But guess what?! A week later, he is a new cat. His fleas are completely gone, his scabs are beginning to heal, and hair is slowly filling in his bald spots. He has virtually doubled in size. He is playing with his brothers and grooming himself compulsively (my kind of guy!). I have no doubt that he would have been euthanized if we took him to the shelter when he first appeared in the yard.
Moe $$$.
When he was at his sickest, I promised that I would take him to live with me in Philadelphia when he was feeling better. I am sucker for the underdog…undercat in this case, I guess.
When I arrived at my parents’ house last weekend, he immediately ran up to me. One of the ongoing issues was his inability to purr. I was worried that he had some sort of frightening underlying congential defect. But as soon as he settled into my lap, he started to purr! After that, I knew for certain that he would be moving to Philadelphia.
He was born to be a lap cat! Please ignore my bad sleeping clothes.
Moe will be coming to live with me in a few weeks. As for his brothers, we have built them a cathouse in the yard. We realize that the most ideal place for any cat is indoors (and never outdoors), but my parents’ house is already overflowing with cats and dogs. So, we want to do what we can for them in the yard. Nutritious food and flea treatments are just the beginning. We are looking for an affordable way to spay/neuter as many cats as we can. Additionally, we are working on providing vaccinations for all of them. Ideally this will give them all longer, healthier lives…while still attempting to reign in the cat population.
