Stupid Demon.

Posted in WhatNot on March 17th, 2015 by Diva

Less than 30 minutes after posting that last one, I read this passage from Amy Poehler’s book, Yes Please.

I HATE HOW I LOOK. That is the mantra we repeat over and over again. Sometimes we whisper it quietly and other times we shout it out loud in front of a mirror. I hate how I look. I hate how my face looks my body looks I am too fat or too skinny or too tall or too wide or my legs are too stupid and my face is too smiley or my theeth are dumb and my nose is serious and my stomach is being so lame. Then we think, “I am so ungrateful. I have arms and legs and I can walk and I have strong nail beds and I am alive and I am so selfish and I have to read Man’s Search for Meaning again and call my parents and volunteer more and reduce my carbon footprint and why am I such a self-obsessed ugly asshole no wonder I hate how I look! I hate how I am!”

There have been forty million books and billions of words written on this subject, so I will assume we are all caught up.

That voice that talks badly to you is a demon voice. This very patient and determined demon shows up in your bedroom one day and refuses to leave. You are six or twelve or fifteen and you look in the mirror and you hear a voice so awful and mean that it takes your breath away. It tells you that you are fat and ugly and you don’t deserve love. And the scary part is the demon is your own voice. But it doesn’t sound like you. It sounds like a strangled and seductive version of you. Think Darth Vader or an angry Lauren Bacall. The good news is there are ways to make it stop talking. That bad news it is never goes away. If you are lucky, you can live a life where the demon is generally forgotten, relegated to a back shelf in a closet next to your old field hockey equipment. You may even have days or years when you think the demon is gone. But it is not. It is sitting very quietly, waiting for you.

This motherfucker is patient.

It says, “Take your time.”

It says, “Go fall in love and exercise and surround yourself with people who make you feel beautiful.”

It says, “Don’t worry, I’ll wait.”

And then one day, you go through a breakup or you can’t lose your baby weight or you look at your reflection in a soup spoon and that slimy bugger is back. It moves its sour mouth up to your ear and reminds you that you are fat and guly and don’t deserve love.

This demon is some Stephen King from-the-sewer-devil-level shit.

Ouch.

OUCH.

She’s Like the Wind.

Posted in SoForth on March 17th, 2015 by Diva

I spent a dinner out with friends last night and happily farted up a storm at our table the entire time.

Don’t judge. I was very discreet. Plus, we were with close friends. You know, the kind who would say something if they suspected.

If they had spoken up – and trust me, this crowd would have had to qualms about it – I would have excused myself to take the over-the-counter medicine I keep in my purse.

Have I ever mentioned the medical-related contents of my ultimate bag of holding purse? No?

Ibuprofen. Tissues. Travel-sized roll of toilet paper. Two types of antacid, one for regular use and one for when the heartburn gets really bad. Lotion. Antibiotic wipes. Lip balm. Hand sanitizer. Gas reducer. A pill box with a calcium tablet, a multivitamin, and a few other supplements. I think there’s even still a Valium from my last dentist visit a few weeks ago.

I am just one unwrapped, lint-covered hard candy away from being my grandmother. (Don’t even get me started on the small pharmacy on the night table next to my side of the bed.)

So I had the gas reducer with me last night, but I didn’t take it. I’ve always been of the opinion that short of a major life event – a job interview, wedding, court appearance, meeting the President, etc. – gas should be set free. It’s a natural body function and constantly putting a cork in it is bad for your health.

That got me to thinking that since my chances of being in a situation which requires absolutely zero farting is pretty slim these days, it’s probably time to stop carrying that particular packet of pills. I pulled them out when we got home and …

… it had expired.

Wait … when did I stop caring enough to take it?

Shit. The purse is just a symptom. I’ve turned into THAT old lady.

Don’t say I haven’t. The signs are obvious to anyone looking. I audibly groan when I get in to or out of bed, a chair, or a car. I have a favorite daily talk radio show. I express surprise, disdain, and joy aloud in public, even when I’m alone. I make PB&J sandwiches with a high fiber, seven seed mix and sugar-free jelly … on a low-carb, whole wheat tortilla.

I think Hipsters go to an awful lot of trouble and expense to look bad (or like my Dad circa 1973, when it was actually in fashion to look that kind of bad) and Millennials are spoiled brats who don’t “get” hard work. I don’t understand why a passenger in my car / dinner companion / business associate can’t put their phone down for two minutes, let alone for the duration of the ride / meal / meeting. I use coupons. Coupons.

I chase alley cats out of our yard with whoops and hollers. I read food labels. I go to happy hours and early-bird dinners to save a few bucks. I take advantage of AAA, NPR, and other member discounts. I call out people who are rude, passive-aggressive, or outright annoying, even when they’re not doing it directly to me. I have a pair of reading glasses – sometimes two – in every room of the house. I listen to podcasts or talk radio instead of music and the TV plays news, Discovery ID, or TCM all day.

My last post was about a cranky old lady who confronts a homeless person and this one is about one who farts through a meal. No one knows how to drive, I don’t WANT to upgrade my phone, and holy shit, can you believe kids these days?!

*sigh*

You can lie to my face and say I’m not all that old – it’s appreciated, even – but I won’t kid myself.

And don’t go by my photo here. That “current” photo is from 2008.

“I’ll get around to a site update sooner or later,” said the old lady who does it every 6 years.

Nobody puts Baby in a corner.

Coulda.

Posted in WhatNot on March 5th, 2015 by Diva

You don’t understand. I coulda had class!
I coulda been a contender! I coulda been somebody,
instead of a bum, which is what I am …

~ Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront

I saw him through the glass as I exited the bank. I only had a few minutes to finish my errands and be back in time for a conference call, so I was in a bit of a hurry. My local bank branch is near Colfax and a major bus stop, however, so I had already guessed what would happen moments before he started following me toward my car.

This situation happens a lot and always when I’m alone. No one bothers me at all when The Beast my love is with me. The homeless can be just as sexist as anyone else, of course. It doesn’t help most of the people I’ve seen giving handouts in our neighborhood are women, but I don’t blame them – sometimes you just want to get a strange man away from you in the quickest manner possible. Some homeless men understand this and prey on women walking alone exactly for that reason.

I’m not an easy mark. Oh, I empathize with them; I certainly had a “no money for food in a roach-infested apartment where the utilities were cut off for non-payment” era of my life, but even then I had too much pride to call my own parents for money, let alone bother a complete stranger for a few pennies. I’ll happily flip burgers or take a convenience store job first. Hell, based on my history, there’s evidently not much I won’t do to avoid panhandling.

Nowadays it’s more about knowing where my money goes. Being self-employed means I’ve needed every tax write-off I can get. My 35% tax rate means if I make $10K, $3,500 of it goes to the government. Hence, I’m very financially conservative, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that I don’t care. I merely prefer to donate directly to homeless charities – and get the subsequent tax deduction – than give cash to someone on the street.

But the charities can only do so much because some people out there just don’t want the help. This guy was surely one of them.

“Excuse me, ma’am …” I heard from behind me.

Without turning around I responded over my shoulder, “I don’t have time to talk right now, sorry.”

I smiled when I said it – a smile can be heard in the voice, you know – and I thought it had come out nicely. Polite even. Apparently, I hadn’t been quite clear and firm enough.

“It’ll just take a second …”

By this time I was unlocking the door of my Mercedes, which very often results in a bit of a confrontation in these situations. I’ve been asked all manner of rude questions, most variations on the “you’ve got nothing for me, but you can afford THAT” theme. I once I told a guy in front of another nearby business I couldn’t chit-chat because I had to get my boss’s car back to him, just to avoid the hassle.

I faced this latest harasser – that’s exactly what they become when they follow you after you’ve specifically expressed disinterest – as I opened the car door. I smiled a little less, but still tried. “I’ve already said I don’t have the time right now, sorry …” I placed emphasis on the “sorry” to ensure it got through, which it usually does. No such luck.

He looked me in the eye and said, “Listen, ma’am, I’m a 60 year old man. I ain’t no bum like other people you run into around here.”

I interrupted him, no longer feeling the need to hide my aggravation. “I’ve told you I don’t have time. I even tried to be nice.”

“You’re not nice,” he sneered at me.

“And whose fault is that?” I replied as I turned, slipped into my car, and pointedly locked the doors.

He wandered away making gestures and talking, but I couldn’t hear him, nor did I care. And yes, he could have escalated the encounter – I’ve had that happen with others, in fact – but he was smart enough not to. After all, it was broad daylight in a busy parking lot and he was starting to yell at a well-dressed woman with a luxury car, which any security guard or cop will tell you wouldn’t look good for him. Or maybe he realized I have zero compunction about defending myself.

Menopausal women can be volatile, you know.

Careful, now.

Small.

Posted in SoForth on March 2nd, 2015 by Diva

I don’t ski, but my love does. He doesn’t like long drives, but I do. This makes for a great symbiotic relationship during the winter months.

This morning, I dropped him and a friend off at Vail, then drove a little further west to Edwards. I have an annual tradition, running on four years now, of doing some shopping on the River Walk here. It’s quiet at this French bakery on a weekday mid-morning, where the quiche is marvelous and the coffee is just the right amount of hot.

Next door, there’s an upscale, very haute couture resale shop where I usually find something interesting, if I don’t actually buy. And there is a fantastic local bookstore nearby which carries a lot of alt press items. When I’m done here today, I’m heading to Minturn to check out a couple more resale shops.

All this plus the snow-covered mountain scenery, each direction and as far as the eye can see … I don’t think this L.A. girl will ever get used to (or tired of) the view; short of the Swiss Alps, I’ve never seen a place that comes close to Colorado. Every time I’m up here I get Rocky Mountain High stuck in my head.

What I mean to say is I totally get why people leave entire lives behind to move here. Yet as much as I love these little Colorado mountain towns, I can only visit them once in awhile, just for a few hours, and I certainly couldn’t actually live in any of them. Yes, the scenery is exquisite and there is eclectic shopping, but I’m the furthest anyone can be from “outdoorsy.” I don’t spend my free time out in the open air unless it’s a walk in my own neighborhood. I’ve spent enough time camping, snow mobiling, hiking, dirt bike riding and such to be aware of how miserable, dirty, bug-bitey, and sun-burnt it can get.

There’s a lot of nature out there in nature. I want no part of it.

Then there’s the early sidewalk roll-up. Most not-so-populated areas close up much earlier than urban areas. If you’re a night owl like me, what the hell do you do with yourself after 8pm? Unless there’s a late-night diner or you like to hang out in bars, there’s a whole lot of nothing to do after hours. In Denver, movie theaters are abundant, have late showtimes, and I can go out for midnight sushi afterward. After moving to Denver from Albuquerque, in fact, it took me a couple of years to realize most places were open much later than I thought. I ain’t going back (or backward) now.

The only other negative is the same across the spectrum of small-town America: Everyone knows everyone else and, as a result, everyone is all up in each other’s business. As much as the goth scene complains about drama, there ain’t no drama like small town drama.

First, there is no privacy to speak of, because everyone goes to the same businesses, gas stations, and churches. You have a fight with your spouse at the Conoco, someone you know saw or heard it. The rumor mill, once it’s going, is faster than in big cities, too, because everyone is aware of who you are. It’s “Hey, didja hear what went down with Joe and Jane?” not “That blonde girl that comes in regularly had a fight with some dude.” The latter is something most people let go as ugly rumor, because they don’t know the people involved; the former, well, it’s interesting in those typically human ways: Pity, empathy, and/or Schadenfreude.

Most of all, you have to be somewhat “normal” (in quotes because I think the concept has more grey area than people realize) to live in a small town. Trust me, I’ve seen what small town talk can do to someone who plays quietly and privately in the BDSM realm, and it ain’t pretty. Add my fervent atheism and penchant for speaking my mind and well … I’d be a pariah in no time. Or relegated to hanging out with the drunks, meth heads, and other outcasts. No, thank you.

Notice I’m not saying “never” here. I don’t know where I’ll be in 5 years, let alone decades from now. Until just a few years ago, I had no idea I’d have this yearly tradition of playing hooky from home/work and writing a blog post in a French bakery in small town Colorado. And “never” is like “forever;” I try not to promise either, because both are a very, very long time.

Right now, I’d just settle for getting John Denver’s voice out of my skull.

He was born in the summer of his 27th year …

Yes Ma’am.

Posted in SoForth on February 24th, 2015 by Diva

No one throws a party like one of my closest friends – well, except me of course – and his birthday this past Saturday in Orlando was no exception. One of the highlights was the various performances. Technology has made such things mobile, so a song that started in the kitchen could wend its way through the house and out into the yard and back again.

I love the 21st century. Other highlights:

Pippin.

Good food, excellent company, and adult libations.

Belly laughs.

Your sister sucks. Your mom ROCKS. (So do you, you know.)

Capes.

Introducing the my favorite 50s housewife around.

That redneck hat with the attached wig.

Tiaras.

Surprises.

The Time Warp.

Just drunk enough? Yep … just drunk enough.

Cabaret.

Everything tastes great on a cracker!

The Wooden Throne.

WHACK!

Letting go.

Those shoes. Oh my, those shoes! (And that husband …!)

Wait, that guy talks?!

Crowns.

Put that boy in his place, would ya?

Listening.

Whoopi.

Princesses, queens, and divas, oh my!

If all this seems enigmatic, well, I’m not going to elaborate. If you want to know, you’ll just have to make the trek to Florida and experience it all for yourself, up close and personal.

Just be careful what you wish for.

Whachoo talkin’ ’bout, Willis?

Season’s Greetings.

Posted in WhatNot on February 19th, 2015 by Diva

Since one of my personal mottoes is “Over the top is a good place to start,” I have a hard time knowing when enough is too much.

New Year Cookie Basket (cropped)

I may have gone a tad overboard. As I do … consistently, constantly, and continually.

No sense in stopping now I suppose.

This one’s for the ladies.

A Week in Colorado.

Posted in WhatNot on February 13th, 2015 by Diva

I’ve been in Colorado for 11 years and still haven’t done as much exploration as I did in my first few years in New Mexico. Travel to other states and international destinations, always for good reason, has taken precedence.

I have seen a lot here, just not as much as I’d like. I’ve been through the cities and towns south of Denver quite a bit, due to the move up from Albuquerque and occasional visits. I’ve also seen all of western I-70, as I drive my love up there during ski season and it is the quickest route to take on a road trip to Las Vegas or Los Angeles.

I’ve stayed in Leadville for work purposes (where I found meth-related paraphernalia in the hotel room). I took my BFF to Minturn to browse the annual Eagle County Rummage Sale. There was also the girls-only weekend in Steamboat Springs and I talked my love into a day drive through Rocky Mountain National Park last summer (though he talked me into doing it on a Saturday, which was a HUGE mistake).

I’ve taken visitors up to Estes Park to see the historic Stanley Hotel and we always try to get to Nederland for Frozen Dead Guy Days in early March. There was one afternoon I got a bee in my bonnet and drove through Niwot (great consignment at Rockin Robins) to Lyons (ate and drank at Oskar Blues) and back. I’ve been to Fort Collins, Greeley, and Longmont to pick up items we purchased on eBay, though I need to go back to that last one soon since it’s home to an amazing cheese importer shop.

Yet even with all this, there’s still a lot more of this state to see, so I’ve routed an interesting way to see a lot more of my Rocky Mountain home state. Each destination is about 2-1/2 hours from the previous one, which means I can visit as many as up to three per day depending on how much time I can be gone.

Oh, who am I kidding? I’ll do this, one night at a time, for a week.

Denver to Fairplay – 2 hours

This is South Park. No, really. And they have a thing called Burro Days every July.

Fairplay to Crested Butte – 2-1/2 hours

There are lots of activities in this little mountain burg, but I’ve always just wanted to explore the town. I hear it’s got lots of great little shops and good restaurants.

Crested Butte to Monte Vista – 2-1/2 hours

This spot is pretty much in the middle of nowhere, so why stop? A drive-in movie hotel. Seriously.

Monte Vista to Durango – 2-1/2 hours

I haven’t been to Durango in 20 years, when my traveling companions and I decided to leave our Northern New Mexico motel and drive two hours further north just for the day. It’s a touristy, artsy, outdoorsy kind of place – like what I picture Crested Butte to be – and I’ve always wanted to go back.

Durango to Telluride – 2-1/4 hours

Another beautiful, mountainous spot for another touristy, artsy, outdoorsy town. Colorado has a ton of them.

Telluride to Glenwood Springs – 3-3/4 hours

One could stop in Grand Junction or Clifton, both of which are only 2-1/2 hours away, but on all my treks west I’ve never found a good reason to do so. I’ve enjoyed amazing scenery and food in Glenwood Springs, though, and I want desperately to try their famous hot springs.

Glenwood Springs to Denver – 2-1/2 hours

Since we spend so much time in this region of I-70, there’s no real reason to stop. Except for Holy Toledo consignment in the Vail Valley. And Funky Trunk resale boutique in Frisco. And the food at Modis in Breckenridge. And the Outlets at Silverthorne. And the tiki bar at Pug Ryan’s in Dillon. And Tommyknocker beer in Idaho Springs …

… let’s just say it will take awhile to get home on that final day.

Always does.

Once a Jackass.

Posted in WhatNot on February 11th, 2015 by Diva

I posted the following to The Church of Just Stop It on Facebook and Google+ recently.

JUST STOP IT, Kanye.

Beck doesn’t make the kind of music you like. We get it. Everyone is entitled to their opinion. But who died and made you the arbiter of taste for the rest of us?

No, I don’t care for yours or Beyoncé’s work – or country, or rap, or a whole host of other stuff – but I would never, EVER entertain saying so aloud to your respective faces, let alone on TV or in other media.

To say either of you don’t deserve an award, any award, for what you do is at the very least rude and, at worst, spectacularly arrogant.

And speaking or arrogant, who made you Beyoncé’s savior? Does she need defending because she can’t speak for herself? Does she even share your views on this? Regardless, why do you feel the need to be her knight in shining armor?

Feminist rhetoric aside, what really chaps me is when I compare your words to what Beck said about you and your favorite damsel in distress:

“I was so excited he was coming up! He deserves to be on that stage.”

“Absolutely I thought she was going to win.”

“You can’t please everybody. I still love him and think he’s genius.”

“I aspire to what he does. How many great records has he put out in the last five years right?”

(Source: Daily Mail)

Beck has immense talent and manners.

Kanye proves, once again, that one can be a genius and a jackass simultaneously.

Then, on Twitter today, I saw someone say Kanye’s only being called out because he’s black. More specifically, he’s being harassed because he’s a black man “who won’t behave.”

Um … no. Unequivocally, unashamedly, vehemently and without question, NO.

Doesn’t matter what color a person is, what Kanye did is a dick move. If white people did it in the past – a claim the poster made, which may well be true – then they were dicks, too.

Rude and arrogant is rude and arrogant, no matter what the skin tone. Dick moves shouldn’t be celebrated, they should be knocked around exactly the way Kanye is getting knocked around right now.

If anyone famous, with a shit ton of fans and therefore a huge platform to disseminate such nonsense, attempts to distract attention from an award or – in Kanye’s case and much worse in my opinion – dares to say an award was not deserved, they are a jackass.

An unrepentant, unmitigated, undeniable jackass.

Emily Post is still spinning in that grave.

Charmed, I’m Sure.

Posted in WhatNot on February 5th, 2015 by Diva

So there’s this phenomenon that occurs when I go to my neighborhood nail salon for my mani/pedi: If it’s slow, it suddenly gets busy after I’ve arrived.

I firmly believe in coincidence and that may be a part of it, but I also specifically go when I know it will be slow; I’m rarely organized enough to make an appointment, but after going to the same spot for six years, I’ve learned what days and times business is light. I mean it stands to reason that if I arrive on a Tuesday at 3pm, a few other customers will come in after work at 4 or 5. And I don’t go anywhere near the place on a Saturday in May or June.

Anyway, last time I was in, I received an envelope. The outside says “Bring this in on Thursday, February 19th at 9:30am. Happy New Year!” The lovely lady who runs the place – whose broken English is waaaay better than my total lack of knowledge of Vietnamese – told me in no uncertain terms NOT to open it until then and was emphatic that I show up on time.

This lady also knows I never, EVER come to the shop that early in the morning. So, as my Mom used to say, this got me to wondering. Exactly what does Vietnamese New Year entail? I know it’s called Tết, but I know it for all the wrong reasons. I think it’s on the same calendar as Chinese New Year, but what are the specific, regional differences?

I am SO thankful for Google and Wikipedia right now, guys. I did some intensive reading on the trees, flowers, foods, and gifts of the holiday, but I also discovered a tradition I think may be at work here: The first person to walk through your door on New Year’s Day sets the tone and brings all the luck for the coming year.

I’m a good luck charm!

I’m also a skeptic, but you know what? If it makes the nice folks at my salon happy to think I can bring them health and prosperity in the New Year, so be it.

I don’t even care what’s in the envelope.

Sức khỏe và thịnh vượng trong năm mới

Here We Go Again.

Posted in It's a Conspiracy! on February 4th, 2015 by Diva

Another New Year, another Super Bowl, and another new post about how the Halftime Show is rife with dark ritual and Illuminati symbolism.

Ho-fucking-hum. I actually yawned this time. Maybe I just need more coffee.

By the way, feel free to click on the link above. Doing so won’t add to the site’s profile or numbers, because I used a handy tool called Do Not Link, which changes the URL and keeps a website from getting a higher hit count. Because seriously, the higher a conspiracy theory site’s numbers, the more important the theorists think it is. I prefer not to help them maintain their delusions.

Do Not Link works for any neoconservative, fundamentalist, and other weird/moronic belief sites. Use it today!

The Earth is flat, apparently …