my first crush

I mean, First Crush. First grade, James Madison Elementary School, in the suburbs west of New Orleans. Mark Mullins was my first-grade crush. I changed schools after first grade and didn't lay eyes on him again until we were both at the same public junior high, where I was in 8th grade and he was in 7th, because I had skipped a grade. I haven't crossed paths with him since, but every so often I remember that he's out there, because he's had a really successful musical career based in NOLA.



Look how cute he is! Awww, little Mark Mullins! He's not 5 years old any more! Neither am I!

liveblogging Battlestar Galactica

So: Tigh and Tyrell want to feel their emotions, despite the pain, but Tory, she says she can just turn it all off. Interesting gender division.

Did Tyrell mean to get himself demoted or not? Did he forget to change out that tube doodad because he's exhausted & distracted, or because his Secret Cylon Programming made him? Boomer never remembered her acts of sabotage before she realized she was a Cylon.

Now that Tigh's using Cylon projection to see Caprica Six as his dead wife, it gives me another piece of evidence for the notion that Baltar IS a Cylon after all, since he is obviously using projection when he sees his own personal Six.

If I ever need chemo, I want Edward James Olmos to come read to me.

Is Baltar really being religious? Is he sincere or just playing the role? "You are perfect, just as you are?" Really? Has he been watching "Bridget Jones' Diary"?

[commercial aside: who the hell is Tony Stewart?]

I was wondering where Kara and Anders were this episode. Looks like we're getting lots of 'em next week.

Icon of 'Oughties Design

I've lately become obsessed with the Apartment Therapy website. They're running a design contest for "Small Cool" spaces that are lived in by actual people - not designed for photographic purposes only. I haven't counted *exactly* but it seems to me that almost half of the people own the Ikea PS cabinet, mainly in white but occasionally in red. And I confess, I kind of covet it, especially now that I've visited the website and see that it's only $99, AND it's made of metal, not particle board. I have vowed to never again buy particle board ANYTHING, so the majority of Ikea products are not coming into my house. The Ikea PS cabinet, though, it's pretty hot. Especially in red.

Unfortunately, I have a feeling the Ikea PS will become a diagnostic of 'Oughties design. So: buy something cheap that will be dated in a few years because it gives you the grins, or pass it by because, really, you don't *need* a new TV cabinet? I just can't decide.

stuff that bugs me

I do not like the new usage of the term "curating" to describe the activity of picking some stuff out and putting it together.

The artful arranging of a mod collection of vintage electric fans on your Ikea bookshelf is not a curatorial task. It's decorating, okay?

Selecting half a dozen bands to perform on a TV special? Also not curating.

A curator selects STUFF, not music. She has a point of view, a thesis, that is explored via the collection of stuff. There is research involved, and design, and a careful planning process. If you open up your iTunes and stick a dozen tracks in your folder, then re-arrange them for twenty minutes and burn a CD, you know what? You're NOT a fucking CURATOR!

Friday Lazy Blogging

I so need a theremin.

I'm sure this comes as no surprise.

I voted for Hillary in the primary. If by some miracle she gets the nomination, I'll be knocking on doors and having bake sales and doing whatever I can to get Hillary elected. I was on the fence for a long time because her politics are more moderate than mine, but then again, so are Obama's. What tipped me off the fence was the unbelievable misogyny, both subtle and outrageous, that got really ramped up over the last six or eight months. I know any number of men who just DO NOT SEE IT. They get their panties in a wad over something ever-so-vaguely possibly racist coming from anyone vaguely associated with Clinton, but the constant stream of misogynistic invective is, it's like it's INVISIBLE to most dudes. Fortunately, this Youtube video brings together many examples of smug be-penised journalists taking swipes at Hillary. Some are subtle, but once you see the smug smirks, hear the tone of voice as the dudes heh-heh-heh together, it's clear what's going on. In newsrooms across the nation, the penis trumps race. You can still make sexist jokes in the "mainstream media"; racist jokes of the same caliber would get you tarred and feathered and thrown out of the newsroom.

organizing my kitchen

New Rule for Kitchen Organization:

It's either Tupperware or Chaos.

That is all.

shooting fish in a barrel

I was taking a detour back to work from lunch via the local "antique" mall which is more like an upscale flea market with maybe 20% actual antiques, and on my way down the stairs, I was stopped in my tracks by this:



Blamers, I ask you: What. The. Fuck? When do you think it was made? Is it a "cute" 70s production from that Bicentennial-related colonial revival phase - remember when everything was gingham and braided rugs and heavy dark "colonial" furniture, except it was covered in hideously itchy modern plaid fabrics? Maybe this revolting little tchotchke was meant to go in the "pub" section of the home, where the men hang out drinking beer and watching football and telling appalling sexist jokes. Like, apparently, this one: How do you get a woman to shut up? Har de har, you cut off her head. Man, that's a real knee-slapper there.

You know what I can't figure out? Who would buy this? Now, every time I go in there, I'm going to look for the damned thing, and one day, it will be gone. And I will have a permanent case of the heebie-jeebies thinking that someone - probably someone who lives here - bought it. And hung it in their house. Because nothing is as entertaining as a hot dead chick.

Another Musical Confession

Whenever I hear the name "Stevie Nicks," I think of Nancy Spungeon in the movie "Sid and Nancy," running down the street in her underwear and a long silky robe flapping in the wind. She stops suddenly, looks down at herself, and says, disgustedly, "I look like fucking Stevie Nicks," on account of the floaty silky robe thing.

And then, second memory: third or fourth grade. Every day after school Kelly and I would go to Paige's house and listen to Fleetwood Mac's Rumours on Paige's record player. We learned all the words. We made up dorky interpretive dances. We had no frackin idea what the hell any of those songs were about. But we loved Rumours. You could probably get me to sing the whole album (poorly, but accurately) if you hypnotized me.

Stevie Nicks is a little bit cheesy, and seems like kind of an airy-fairy lunatic. Which makes her exactly the kind of diva I have to dig. I mean, where does she get those platform boots any more? Who makes them for her? I want to know.

I also have a serious dilemma: should I spend $150 to go see her perform at the Hard Rock in Biloxi in June? Should I spend $200 so I can, you know, actually see her without binoculars at the Hard Rock in Biloxi in June? Do I even have that kind of money? Not really. Plus I'd need to stay overnight because, dude, I'm NOT going to that shit sober, so I'll need a hotel room, you betcha.



Look, I realize it's a nine-minute video, but it's got giant platform boot/legwarmer things and high kicks and what I'm pretty sure is a pyramid-power necklace and people giving her flowers and stuffed animals and paintings and A SHINY WHITE CAPE WITH FRINGE. You can't possibly be doing anything more important for the next nine minutes.

So: Who's in?

Friday Chicken Blogging

This chicken lives in my office:



I bought her at a trading post near Farmington, New Mexico two summers ago. Who can possibly resist a purple chicken, I ask you?

THIS chicken, on the other hand:



I had to leave him behind at an roadside flea market/antique store because I had flown to New Mexico and I'm pretty sure the airport people wouldn't let me carry him on the plane. He's probably happier in sunny and dry New Mexico, as he'd be even rustier and perhaps a tad mildewy if I'd put him in my yard in Mississippi.

ka ja goo goo

Look, I don't know. I just had an urge to look up a Kajagoogoo video on Youtube. It had something to do with an absurd 80s video posted on the Manolo for the Men blog. That film clip is, well, it's got that New Kids on the Block wanna-be thing going on, and it practically embodies the worst of the 80s.

THIS, on the other hand:



I loved this fucking song, and I tell you what: it makes no goddamned sense at all. The plot, the lyrics, the cater-waitress with Dallas hair who would never in a million years date a tiny barefoot boy with giant New Wave hair, the flashbacks to the 1940s. I mean, what the fuckity fuck, right?

I still know all the words, and I'm only slightly embarrassed to admit that.

balance

Apparently this is the year I get my personal shit in order and my professional life is a disaster.

Ooookay, then.

I've quit smoking and quit using credit cards.

I've started the Apartment Therapy "eight step home cure", which is problematic since I no longer use my credit and it's going to cost some money. I'll cross that bridge when I get to it. I also don't have an apartment, but I have a 1200 sq.ft. house, so. This is the easy week: Week One, in which I make a list of all the repairs I haven't done (mainly because of cost), buy myself some flowers, do some reading, vacuum/mop, and give away something. I still need to vacuum & mop, which actually will be more like vacuum/swiff because I fracking HATE to mop. And I'm going by the Domestic Abuse Shelter's office tomorrow to drop off a pile of clothes along with a bag of toiletries I culled from my bathroom a few months ago.

Next up: food and exercise. I'm about ready to return to my yoga practice. I have some spankin' new walking shoes. And, thankfully, it's spring and produce is getting a little better. It's still absurdly expensive (and getting more so) but at least I can get some. There's spinach, strawberries, and tangerines in my kitchen right now. Nom nom. I had a lovely strawberry,tangerine, yogurt,and honey dessert tonight.

Ex Libris: Trinity University

I have a lot of fond memories of libraries and librarians, but for some reason I was thinking today about the library at Trinity University, my undergraduate alma mater.* It was intimate yet well-stocked, and I worked there for a number of years. I started out shelving, then switched to IMS, Instructional Media Services. We provided audio duping, slide production, and what I can only describe as "science fair project production". We'd put together the actual poster presentation for professors' poster sessions. I learned how to use a b/w darkroom, shoot copy slides, dupe audio and video (back then we used the fat videotapes, I think they were 2" wide instead of your more common 3/4" tapes, which I guess are growing less and less common, aren't they?).

***Yes, my youthful digital age readers, once upon a time, in the time before PowerPoint, there was film. And, yea, it would be exposed to light and transformed by a series of chemical processes into a negative. And lain unto the photosensitive paper and exposed to light briefly, and then treated with even more chemical processes, it would then produce a kind of photo without the use of a mechanical printer. No, there was no Adobe Photoshop. Yes, it's true, children. It was a time before cell phones. And, yes, we rode to school on mastodons and wore ragged fur robes in winter. ***

My boss there, Pat, was an Andrew Lloyd Webber fan. She owned a cassette copy of her vinyl collection of every published Webber musical EVER. Both the Broadway cast AND movie soundtracks, to be sure. Whenever she was in the darkroom with me, it was all Webber, all the time. You could probably hypnotize me and get me to sing (albeit terribly) all of the Webber musical tunes up to and including Phantom of the Opera.

I fucking HATE Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals. I'm not a big fan of musical theater, in general. So, yeah, that was fun.

What I actually was thinking about, though, was the reference librarian there. He could find *anything*. Seriously. Invent a term paper topic, with no resources whatsoever, show up at his desk, and he'd have a stack of books for you in no time. My friends and I called him Craig Likness, Reference Man of GOD. You have to say that with a deep movie-trailer voice.

8 Random Things About Me

I've been tagged.

1. I've lived in five cities in four states.

2. I used to have hot pink hair.

3. My first two cars were minty-green 1981 Honda Accords. The five-speed was way more fun to drive than the automatic I replaced it with.

4. My next tattoo will either be a fleur-de-lys or a Hello Kitty.

5. I never plan to get married again, but I like to read Manolo for the Brides anyway.

6. I have a weakness for men in kilts and firemen in turnout gear.

7. I rilly, rilly must never drink Jagermeister again. Rilly.

8. Pink and purple are my favorite colors.

Who shall I tag?

Karen, Jenifer, and Gentaggard. I was totally going to tag Jo, but Cara beat me to it.

Thank a feminist!

Great essay for International Womens Day by Cat at StroppyBlog:

Thank a Feminist

A few of my favorites:

Remember, if you're a woman and...

* you can vote, thank a feminist.

* you went to college / university instead of being expected to quit after school so your brothers could go because "You'll just get married anyway", thank a feminist.

* you can apply for any job, not just "women's work", thank a feminist.

* you can get or give birth control information without going to prison, thank a feminist.

Spring Developments

My miniature Daffodils are thriving:




And, omg, all four cats on the bed:



Note that Bennet and Pippin are monitoring the front yard, while Ferris is monitoring the Nigel-Kitten. At least he's not hissing.

My fashion police deputy sez:

Porch Kitty No Longer

NigelKitty has made the transition from semi-feral porch kitty to Co-Ruler of the House pretty quickly. He still doesn't like it when I actually pick him up, but he does enjoy pettins, scritchins, and lap sittin. He and Pippin get along beautifully, Bennet tolerates him, and Ferris hisses at him if he gets too close. Pretty much standard operating procedure for all three of the older boys. Nigel's about ready for de-testiculation and a new set of shots, and he is the Loudest Cat I've Ever Had. He meows all the time, and enjoys very loud toys. He also likes knocking things off of shelves and counters. I have a cup filled with pens and pencils on a bookshelf in the living room, and he knocks it over every night and I hear writing utensils skittering all over the floor. I'm about to give up and find them a new home.

Nigel has gleefully abandoned the porch for the bed:



And has discovered that the recliner? Yes, indeed, it is rather more comfortable than deck furniture:

I Can Make You Thin!

Yes, yes I can. No need to watch the show of the same name. No boring diets, no tedious exercise, no equipment, no counting calories or carbs or points or fat grams. Follow my quick-and-easy program for Getting Thin and you'll have people complimenting you on your new, trim figure in just weeks.

1. Depending on your budget, go out and buy either crack, methamphetamine, heroin, or powder cocaine. If you like the downs, go heroin; if you like the ups, any of the other three will do.

2. Whenever you feel hungry, pop a needle, light a pipe, or snort a rail.

3. When that pesky hunger comes back, repeat step 2.

There you go! All done! You can be thin! Yes, you can do it!


[Disclaimer: Yo! Redux makes no claims for the health benefits of this reducing program, and declines all legal responsibility for side effects, which may include nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, dizziness, dry mouth, meth mouth, collapsed veins, poverty, addiction, rehab, divorce, loss of child custody, and death.]