Saturday, January 30, 2010
Hi, I'm dot matrix. This quiz was rather fun & enjoyable.
Brings back vivid memories of:
hearing that high pitched printer sound
fashioning necklaces and bracelets out of scraps
feeling panic stricken and helpless when you dropped a ream of paper
p.s I love the middle finger in the background.
Yipes stripes! Someone in Gothenburg, Sweden is looking for "monstercook in smal boy." Trying to scour the net for the next culinary wunderkind, I see.
HOW did someone end up here through that search, you ask? Well, besides being on the NAMBLA blogroll, the comment section of this post about pet pet names is a real perve magnet.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Here's something that I've been stewing about for a while. Until just recently, I didn't really have the framework to adequately articulate my thoughts.
Art and creativity is a luxury. Ever feel so run ragged that you can barely maintain bodily function to stay alive? So drained and devoid of any ounce of creativity? Yeah, me too. A lot of the time. But I, like many of you, are fortunate enough to have the luxury of self expression.
If you are struggling to stay alive and put food on the table for your kids, then it's probably not a far cry to say you are not crocheting rocks, ripping 3,000 phone books to shreds, nor making dumb approximations of reality tv stars. (I am not immune)
I mean no disrespect to those who do such things. I think we need those things. However, those things and people who can do those things make me feel a little bitter. A vineyard of sour grapes. I want to wear diamond encrusted lobsters in my baby pink hair, but, alas, I can't.
However, though my life may not be as charmed as some, I have it pretty fucking good. I can make glittery "FUCK OFF" signs and have the resources/means to write a blog. I'm not trapped under a pile of mortar or living atop a coal pile in Haiti. It really is all relative. I often straddle the line between, why me? and why not me?
I've been taking this marketing management course (hello, privileged little twatwaffle!) that has, in addition to making me feel like a subhuman commodity, distilled my thoughts to a tee. There's actually a theory and practice based on Maslow's hierarchy of needs that backs my weirdo ruminations! Fancy that!
"The segment at the very bottom of the typology—survivors—are resource poor people who are focused on a struggle for the essentials of life. The struggle for survival gives them little money or time to be innovative, at least with respect to their consumption habits. Survivors often feel swept aside by economic and social change. Survivors are not a high value target for most marketers, but they are loyal to the brands and services they prefer."
VALS survey, if you're so inclined.
Nest, 2007 by Dash Snow
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
I find this photo to be particularly stirring. It's steamy, sneaky, and tragic all at the same time. I guess I've never seen the two of them touching before.
Remember on Mad Men when they pitched that every woman was either a Jackie or a Marilyn? I'm undoubtedly a Jackie. Which one would you be? Would anyone actually say they were a Marilyn?
UPDATE: It ain't them. Thanks, FK.
Monday, January 25, 2010
TO: THOSE WITH LADYPARTS; THOSE WHO ARE FANS OF LADYPARTS; THOSE WHO KNOW THOSE WITH LADYPARTS (but don't necssarily have to be fans of)
FROM: THE CEO OF LAST TO KNOW, INC.
SUBJECT: CERVICES SERVICES
This may be the most important thing I've ever posted on this little ramshackle piece of the internets. Please forgive me if you already knew about this, but I, and a random sampling of women I know, did not!
After having two too many gin martinis with a brilliant and hilar cancer researcher that I work with, I spilled about my recent pussy scare. She asked me if my doctor examined the back of my cervix, by way of the rectal wall, during well woman exams/pap schmears.
The answer was a resounding, "NO! WTF! NO! No one ever has!" A middle aged colleague with 3 kids mirrored my sentiment. I felt so cheated! Duped! I didn't even know that was part of the exam! Knowledge is power. Turns out most cervical cancers start from the back. Also turns out that some doctors are either poorly trained or lazy.
PLEASE SPREAD THE WORD (AND YOUR CHEEKS)!
p.s. just out of curiosity, how many of you knew this?
I've always wondered about what kind of woman I'd grow up to be. So far, I can't even wrap my head around it. I don't think I'm anywhere close yet. It's difficult to extract any realistic comparison from such an amorphous abstraction. How do you know when you're getting warmer? Do you ever know?
Sunday, January 24, 2010
"Your dad almost died last night," my mother told me in the same sort of tone as if she was asking me to pick up a loaf of bread for her.
"What? What happened?!?" I whisper-shouted, eyes widened.
"Yeah, he thought he was having a heart attack, but wouldn't let me call an ambulance. It went on for 22 minutes. He said he'd rather die here," she said coolly, as she ushered me toward the door.
"No, wait, I want to say bye to dad real quick," I blustered by up the stairs.
"Nah, you don't have to do that," she yelled up the stairwell.
I hugged him and kissed his prickly, smoky face. I told him that I loved him and gave him another firm squeeze. Then, it dawned on me...
My last words to my dad could have very well been "YOU HAVE ARMS, DON'T YOU?!?" I think the guilt alone would've crushed me if that were the case.
R always says, "Preeeetty*, be nice" when I get irritated or my voice hardens in their direction. I really need to watch it.
*sweet, but embarrassing pet name
Friday, January 22, 2010
Life's been feeling rather surreal lately. I think the rain storms have a lot to do with it. My biorhythms are not used to being damp and soggy. Like I said before, the entire landscape looks completely alien. A goddamned tornado touched down in Scottsdale late last evening.
I also changed my first adult diaper last night. My poor old mom was out in the storm picking up my (THIRTY-EIGHT YEAR OLD) brother from school last night. He can't drive because he's hopped up on pain pills. He's hopped up on pain pills because he has a PERI-ANAL ABSCESS.
My aunt, who is crippled by dementia, lives with my elderly parents. I felt the need to be a good daughter and help mom out. She does so much for everyone and gets nothing in return. I washed all of her dishes and then got adventurous. I was going to put my aunt to bed so she wouldn't have to when she got home.
My dad yelled at me from the couch, scotch in hand, sneakers squealing on the court in the background, and told me not to meddle and that I didn't know what I was doing. "I'M HELPING! YOU SHOULD TRY IT SOMETIME! YOU HAVE ARMS, DON'T YOU?!?" R shot me a glance and I immediately felt guilty for getting testy.
There she was, tiny, sunken into the recliner, bony legs flailing in an involuntary pattern. I pried her frail body out of the chair and made her stand up. We shuffled to the bathroom and I pulled down her diaper, revealing a sad, saggy bottom. I was floored by the stench of stewing, hot, adult urine.
I also discovered that within the diaper is a big maxi pad like thing. I only had the shell. I pulled the diaper back up and we shuffled back to the bedroom to look for the missing piece. Found it.
Shuffled again. Down again. Floored again. Pulled up fresh diaper only to realize that it was on backwards. Down again. Up again. There. Done. My first adult diaper changed. I had an eerie feeling it woudn't be the last.
p.s. Oops! I totally didn't mean to write about diapers! What I meant to write about was a) the rain & b) how I dreamed about cheeseburgers last night. Three distinct dreams, three distinct burgers.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
Finding substitutes and making the most of what you have is an essential life lesson. When I was six, like many kids, I used to play "house." We'd take turns being the baby, the daddy, the mommy. Invariably, the mommy would rotate to me. I didn't know much about women at the time, but I knew one thing: moms = boobs. Mine would lay dormant for the next half decade, so I knew I'd better make do.
Stuffing hadn't occurred to me yet. It'd be years before I'd discover that my mom's spongy shoulder pads were prehistoric cutlets in disguise. Instead, I'd suck in my stomach and fashion (rather low hanging) breasts out of the bottoms of my ribcage. I'd mash stoic plastic baby faces up into my costae fluiantes. I'd strut around sultrily until my face turned blue. Good times.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
So much loss, tragedy, & pain these past few days. Here's some visual xanax & a retarded story for some levity:
It's the first thing I look at bleary, crusty eyed. It's the last thing I look at droopy, dozy eyed. I'm addicted to my phone. R is trying to help rid me of this debilitating (at times) dependency. Last night, he suggested that I stop co-sleeping with the phone (stupid, right?) and move the phone/charger out of the bedroom.
"But... but, it's my alarm clock, too," I stammered, making excuses, as addicts do.
"Then we'll get you another alarm clock for your side," he said in his best reasonable dad-like voice.
I knew it had to do it in order to get well again. I unplugged the charger from behind the headboard and brought it to the kitchen. Proceeded to lay the little guy on our ridiculously bourgie charger the way a teenaged mom lays her bastard infant in the drop drawer at the hospital. And then I said goodbye.
courtney love's flowers
photographed by hedi slimane
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
"Sometimes when I look at you, I feel I'm gazing at a distant star.
It's dazzling, but the light is from tens of thousands of years ago.
Maybe the star doesn't even exist any more. Yet sometimes that light seems more real to me than anything."
— Haruki Murakami (South of the Border, West of the Sun)
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
It was still dark out when I nearly peed myself en route to work this morning. Culprit: NPR did a story on the unintended complications of LASIK surgery, but Patti Neighmond (not the greatest name ever) kept pronouncing it, "LASIG" !!! Small pleasures, people! Minuscule.
Sidebar: I had Lasik a few years back and now suffer from cotton eye. Now I'm wondering if they used a genuine Lasig machine.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Saturday, January 09, 2010
Friday, January 08, 2010
Ever since my best friend Whitney told me about her grandmother's handwritten recipe book from the 1930's, I cannot get brains off of my mind. Here's an excerpt:
1 cup white sauce
Would also love to get my hands on the recipe for Jim Crows.
UPDATE from Whit:
"If I remember correctly, the recipe for "Jim Crows" was sent in by a housewife from Minnesota. It was something to the tune of marshmallows dipped in chocolate. Perhaps this was her scathing culinary critique of unjust racial politics?"
Thursday, January 07, 2010
She taught me how to fold paper boats. We'd sit cross legged for hours on the scratchy carpet until our thighs were imprinted and we couldn't feel our feet anymore. She was fast, experienced. Her soft hands were nimble and could produce crisp boats at breakneck speed. I was clumsy, unsure. My clammy hands were like little raccoon paws folding and refolding, while watching her intently, trying to follow along. We'd lose all notion of time and space. I'd finally lift my head to discover that we were surrounded by a fragile armada of all different sizes. I'd proceed to drown in undistilled joy.
photo by yours truly
boat making skills courtesy of mom
quote from one of my favorite books
recycled CDG wrapping paper, old show flyers, typewriter
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
"Lottery tickets are a surtax on desperation."
"...take Powerball for example. Your chances of winning the jackpot is one in 195,249,054. Let's say you buy 50 Powerball tickets a week, you'll win the jackpot about once every 75,000 years."
by yours truly
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Monday, January 04, 2010
I hate captchas with a passion. Mainly because I usually can't make heads or tails out of them and because I'm an incredibly impatient twatwaffle. I'd rather my comments section be drowned in a choppy ocean of Chinese and/or Russian spam than resort to a captcha. That said, this "Dream Captcha" is preeetty clever, eh? Oh, how I love a good pun.
Sunday, January 03, 2010
Unfortunately (or fortunately, for my wallet), my deep-seeded ornithophobia won't allow me to enjoy the highly coveted Pamela Love claw cuff.
The mere thought of sharp talons wrapped around my wrist makes it feel as though the underside of my skin is sweating. Just typing that last sentence made my hands go numb. Eeks!