the great white out
ok m'loves. i need your help. i finally got the nod to paint my brown walls.
they're actually benjamin moore decorator's white, but in my opinion, they have always looked brown, dirty dishwater brown to be specific.
can you brilliant minds suggest equally brilliant, bright, find-your-sunglasses, put your spf-30 on, whites?
here are some photos of whites i like:
although our home is nowhere near jonathan alder's funky-fresh vibe, his pop white is right up my alley.
i definitely want a cool, parisian tone. i can smell creamy and warm a mile away. pretty, but i've done it, smoked it, free-based on it, it's no longer welcome in my waterpipe.
this last picture here closest resembles my current brown white walls: dingy, sooty, drab, tan.
i need to pop a prozac just looking at them.
any suggestions would be much appreciated.
thank you darlings.
take that june!
if you continue with your doom and gloom...
i'll bring the sunshine here myself!!
les chanteuses de 60's
as the weather gets warmer my music taste definitely brightens with the california sunshine.
lately i've been diving back into my sixties french pop.
10th grade, madame jester's french class: i was a goner with just one play of françoise hardy's "tous les garçons et les filles du mon age."
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1Y_7XjkJ0g]
since then i've been in deep smit with the french lassies of the yė yė movement: a musical style lead by females {yee-haw}, mostly in europe, during the 1960's. heavily influenced by the french radio show "salut les copains" where each week a new sweetheart would debut her new song, these girls typically sang sweet lullabies to love lost, love longed for, and all with the innocence of pigtails. these debutantes typically soared straight to number 1.
christine delaroche {this entire video needs to be a 10-page, glossy, fall editorial}.
chantal kelly {love this song: watch it buddy!!: fragile heart here.}
mireille mathieu {less pop, more piaf, but packs a punch nonetheless...great for sunday morning coffee}.
even if you don't fancy the music, the style alone of these damsels françaiseis enough to get lost in you-tube land and google-image country.
wednesday happy m'loves
my twelve stages of grief
shock.
tears.
depression.
rage.
insanity.
a bakery visit. or two.
public display of insanity.
a brief 'loss of time'.
more sweet and safe.
taking to bed.
finding the perfect anti-depressant.
beauty school dropout
if you looked in my bathroom drawers, you'd think i'd be a wizard at the sun-kissed face, the glossy lip and the come hither eye.
but i have neither the skills nor time to keep a post hotel du cap summer flush, or nights in black satin stare.
i could open a mini-sephora with the potions and lotions and serums i possess. parabens and free radicals be gone...if only i remembered to apply.
and for the locks? oh my.
such the sucker for fancy, if it smells like catalina and promises to take the japanese straight and stubborn out of my hair, i'm slammin' that amex down.
but to be honest my home hair products {shampoo included} haven't been touched in over a year.
i've come to rely on my gym for my hair needs. their locker room product is kiehls. which is probably higher brow than the stuff i have under the sink anyway.
hunkiest, sweet as he is, is always encouraging me to take an hour or two to lady it up at a spa; get pretty and pampered.
i'd take him up on it:
a) if i had the time
b) if i didn't get so antsy pantsy
the last time i had a spa day i became so anxious {with all the calm and quiet} i got sick from emotionally eating all the dried apricots in the meditation room.
i always forget: a dried apricot is AN apricot; just because they're tiny doesn't mean too many won't make you vomit.
my nails are shorty short, like a nervous 3rd grader's. when i paint them using colors from my paint box of acquired polishes, it looks like i let my beast priscilla hold the brush.
{actually i may let her, she is quite deft when i comes to certain things: reeses peanut butter cups, pillows, pink sweaters}
i go to the nail salon where i am always taken to task for my lack of length. i have girlish shaped hands, but apparently mannish sized nail beds.
i don't bite my nails, i just prefer them super short. less room for dirt, germs, or hurt.
my town is brim full of just blown out, peaches & cream complected, coral lipped, matching coral nailed beauties.
most of them, at the gym, looking like this, on stairmasters, as i type.
not overdone, not cartoon-bravo tv types either.
these lovelies are A+ students in the everyday school of beauty.
always doing their homework, never missing a class or chance for extra credit {bright lips for spring}, they are always flawless faced, hair'd, fingered and toe'd.
as for me, i enroll every new semester, buy my books and syllabi creams and lipsticks, but then drop the class two weeks in.
i'm a lazy student. i have the melasma and short nail beds for proof. i wear my silly hats and sunscreen and giant tom ford's which practically cover me down to my chin. that's where it ends.
tell me m'loves which category do you fall into?
thank you
i can't thank you enough for the messages, comments, calls and gifts. losing truman was such a shock.
he went to bed last saturday night with {what we thought} was the health of a pup. he definitely had the demeanor and show of dog with at least 3 or 4 years left. he woke up sunday morning, riddled with cancer, ready to die.
my o.c.d., my need to plan and prepare for everything, has been knocked out of alignment. like a disc that's been herniated, i crave to put everything back in its perfect, scheduled, peaceful, non-heartbreaking order.
bitch twitch, who had disappeared, is back with full vengeance. if i knew where and what my chakras were, i'm supposing they're scattered in different counties, hamlets and cays getting their spring break on on my dollar and peace of mind.
i will emerge from my blue. i always do. usually i just had truman to help me.
and the sleaze goes on....
i'd like to preface this post by saying i truly, sincerely wished friday's confession would be a purge of my somewhat sooty ways.
a press of the publish button and i had hoped class and sophistication to magically fairy godmother themselves into my manners and circumstance.
i so badly want to be that girl: nary a hiccup in dress nor a stumble in decorum. i want to trombone out beautiful, tasteful soliloquies of peace and love, all the while wearing pretty dresses and sparkly headbands.
well, as an ex of mine used to say to me, with the warmth of nurse ratched, {typically when my face was streaming with tears},
"it's good to want things."
so here goes my sojourn back into smut-ville:
it began with a text. not from me. to me. and to my friend alison*, FROM our mutual friend rachel*.
a photo text actually.
a banana.
with the caption "miss me"? underneath.
ok, we've all seen bridemaids by now; the cat is out the bag:
ladies can be just as salty as the gents....
obviously rachel wasn't asking for banana recipes from dee-jay burnt toast and sergeant take-out 7 days a week.
so we, the wilson phillips of harmonic obscenity, proceeded with our typical "reply all" racy text banter.
i think there was mention of lubricant.
and maybe a graphic reference or two to anatomy.
{my readership is dwindling by the sentence i know}
typical friday banter, mind you alison kept all of this up while volunteering in her youngest's first grade classroom;
talk about supermom.
thinking the filth-fest had run its course, all of us returned to our afternoon duties: carpools, work, errands, etc;
when suddenly an unidentified number rings up alison:
a man, fury in his voice, rage in his belly, demanding to know the source of the inappropriate texts to his wife!!!!!
as alison gets lectured on text tact, the same unidentified number pops up on our conversation chain reading:
"so nice to see what the wives do during the day."
in her eager-beaver desire for bawdy banter, rachel had accidentally included her HUSBAND'S!!! number in our girl's only chat.
obviously mr. rachel wasn't too keen on midday texts to his wife involving astroglide and i'm pretty sure the word vag {soft g}.
luckily it was all straightened out....and yes!! another lesson learned.
i think.
i hope.
there's always tuesday.
*names have been changed to protect the not so innocent
pull my finger
lately i've had the brain and {cringe} mouth of a twelve-year-old boy.
pair those up with my mild case of turret's and i'm a walking, talking bah-dum-bum-CHING poster for crude.
the silliest, most inane, immature, off-color, quips kindle in my brain, and then WORSE!....escape from my mouth.
maybe it's the fact that hunkiest and i are childless.
there are no precious, impressionable ears around keeping us mannerly and genteel.
we've turned the household into a full-fledged judd apatow movie.
instead of our usual mushy texts and romantic phone calls to each other, we quote john c. reilly and now melissa mccarthy.
flirty and tender has taken a hiatus into frat-house hee-haw.
this vacation into vulgarity often snags me into the stickiest of predicaments.
tuesday at the market, my sweet friend edward, who has checked and bagged my groceries since he was 14 {i'm praying he's now 18}, was making his typical, polite conversation to me, captain foot in her mouth.
"did you see how big the zucchini is in that box?" he innocently asked.
scareeeeeeeeeeeeeech!!! my pen stops mid signature, my laundry list of have to's ceases to nag me for the first time in 48 hours, and my inner hamster of anxiety and worry halts on a dime.
it feels as if the whole market has come to a whisper halt.
oh no he didn't.
i could just let this go; ignore the easy set up.
but that would be like ignoring trash on the sidewalk; or a lost dog in the street.
it's a moral imperative that i follow through on the funny, right? at least that's what i told myself.
ugh!!!!!
head cocked, gaze fixed, edward locked in my crosshairs, i ask, á la anne bancroft,:
"what was that edward"? {knowing exactly what he had just said}
"the zucchini, in that box, it's HUGE." he repeats
more silence.
lot's of it.
and my stare.
i know exactly where i'm about to go and that i should stop it.
i call on buddhas, saints, wild horses. i conjure images of dead, mutilated, distracting kittens and i still can't rein it in.
i am powerless against my raunch.
"edward, this box doesn't settle for small zucchini."
{thumb to chest in best oc/cougar housewife impersonation}
yep. word for filthy word.
and poor sweet edward, eyes the size of airplanes, mouth wider than the nile; no ability to respond to my borderline pedophilia banter.
we silently finished the transaction; save for an eye contact avoiding thank you, and i was on my merry, lewd, humiliated way.
don't let the upturned collar and string of pearls fool you.
twirling skirts, peonies in pink, hugs not hate; they're all just micro bits in the batter of this freckled fruitcake.
deep down i have the mouth of a dirty whore and the impulsivity of a labrador puppy.
and you'd think i'd learn my lesson.
yesterday i was subbing a spin class. my regular crew is somewhat accustom to my tart tongue, but when going into a new class i try to keep on my toes: say very little, ease up on the hip-hop, and watch my verbage.
but there i go, three minutes into class, Jay Z ripping his mf'ers, and rather than saying "go faster" like a proper teacher, andrew dice clay here told everyone to, "spank it."
waiting for my termination notice.
happy weekend bitches m'loves.
peace and love
i destroy my enemies when i make them my friends.~abraham lincoln
hostility is such a bad color on me.
kindness brings out the green in my eyes, the broad of my shoulders, the glossy of my lashes.
in 5th grade kristy holdburg told me i was fat.
i retaliated by buying her the prettiest barbie i could find on her birthday.
at said birthday party, krystal des los reyes ratted to kristy's mom i'd been looking at a dirty magazine.
i wasn't.
krystal had been the one perving it up in the back bathroom with a playgirl.
but i made sure to give her the skittles from my goody bag.
my beasts and i may not speak the same language, but we understand each other precisely.
i love them fierce, they worship me without strings.
different creatures bringing our own messes and art into the world.
where others see dangerous drinking holes and snarly fangs,
i see nooks of opportunity and a sibling in the school of suffer.
go ahead bite. i'll just hug back.
twin sister! paging my twin sister!
come out, come out wherever you are!
alas billy goats, i don't really have a genetic duplicate....
can you imagine the world cheese shortage?
although i love the maggie q suggestions...
{well maybe not TWIN....more like distant, thinner, vietnamese cousin}
but if such genetic duplicate existed,
today i'd mortar and pestle my double into a fine, spreadable pesto, as we'd divide and conquer my whacked, over-committed day.
8 different places to be, two different counties, luggage to pack, beasts to feed and tangle with, and peeps who need to be squeezed and tucked.
i have another stab session with dr. sugar lips, and one big audition this morning.
fingers, legs, toes, eyes crossed that all goes well.
wednesday happy to you m'loves.
you'll poke yer EYE out!
twitchy is now going six weeks strong.
botox is out. a paralysis of the 24hr palpitate can't be guaranteed, and the risks of an imbalance in the face are high.
my chemical asymmetry and emotional incongruity are the rice and beans to my family of origin enchilada.
i don't need anymore imbalances on my plate.
yesterday i gave acupuncture a whirl.
contrary to what others say, those needles are sharp, they do hurt, and i bled.
the soothing sounds of pachebel piped over ocean waves, a sugary sweet gardenia candle, and the honey purr of my doctor's voice were the only things saving her {doctor} from an open palm smack each time she pricked me with one of those tiny, chinese voodoo pins.
diaphragmatically breathing in through the nose, and out through the mouth....i went to my happy place:
it's amazing what visualization can do for anxiety.
alas, bitch twitch still here.
she's actually a little amp'd up post STAB session, but dr. sugar-lips warned me that may happen.
perhaps twitchy likes chocolate candy bars.
more to follow.
tuesday happy to you m'loves.
no room for cream please.
it's my belief that some of the most interesting people in my life are those that serve me my coffee.
of late, my tea.
jefferey a born-again, post-pubescent, recently out of the closet starbucks manager, who fiercely insists my skirts are too too long and my make-up too too natural, has wrapped my heart around his spray-tanned, blonde highlighted, keith urban crushin soul.
allison, his co-worker, snuggled her way into my affection with her behind-the-counter bambi, shy sweetness, rainbow colored fingernails, and off-the-clock salty tongue.
down the street at peet's, i have tony. his piercings rival the mursi for inspiration and content.
i shudder with anticipation at what new plate, hoop or stud i'm going to meet at the front of the line.
tony mates his scary holes with a charming, genuine, southern gentility.
always a wordsmith, tony's answers to my "how are you?" tickle my roget bone daily.
yesterday tony was "unparalleled."
{big smile}
at my afternoon peet's {location #2} a completely different cast of characters lurks: younger, angst-ridden, pseudo depraved, totally loveable.
benjamen: an actor, a writer, an anarchist, a teddy bear.
somehow we actually became facebook friends.
his latest status updates were:
"shut up juice newton" and "i'm barefaced and look absolutely disgusting! i don't recognize myself."
rumor was he got fired. i like to believe he's off scribing his masterpiece, minus the madness, drink and drugs.
a girl can only hope.
boy made fine tasting lattés though.
yesterday i ambled into peet's #1 for an afternoon jasmine fancy green tea.
{4 days and counting coffee free}
as my fragrant, spring buds steeped, i struck up cashier conversation with the new, "barista in training", as she learned the ins and outs of register and customer care.
furthering my belief in the richness of coffee bar patron/server relationships i showed her my 5-year-old peet's 40th anniversary debit card; my intention was to point out my loyalty....seeing as how peet's is now having its 45th anniversary, and also my inane ability to waste plastic gift cards. merely a breezy, light chat as we waited for my tea to brew {one of the MANY downfalls of tea}.
apparently my words were too S.A.T. or my math too algebraic for baby trainee. rather than going along with her allegiant, coffee-deprived customer's story, or at least saying she didn't understand.....dumbass newbie said to me....
"oh...well you don't look like you're in your 40's."
??????????????????????????
nothing against the 40's. in fact, i'm more excited to get there than i am 35. but all in good time.
and i don't need to look younger than my age, but i definitely don't want to look a decade older!!!!
especially from some twit telling me the simpsons began before she was born.
i hereby recount all barista love.
they can suck it. they're always crapping up my order and sneaking in non-fat milk. are you trying to tell me i NEED non-fat?
and i mean, really? you KNOW large means venti!!!
i also kind of blame all this on tea.
mop chop
taming the bonsai plant that has become my head of hair.
color blocking so popular this spring.
thinking of translating that fun into my tresses.
bitch twitch
so give or take two weeks ago i became the proud owner of a twitch.
lower, right eyelid, 1 second intervals. 24 hours a day.
i felt the moment she {again like my cat i sense my twitch is a lass} commandeered my orbital socket.
a stressful telephone conversation; one better served me had i ranted and kicked rather than sweetly smiled and acquiesced.
a common coulda-woulda-shoulda jingle in my life.
*twitch*twitch*twitch*twitch*twitch*twitch*
my peeper beeper isn't overtly obvious, but a casting director did send me skidaddle after picking it up on camera.
what's going on with your eye?
ummmmmmmmmmm.....
my enigmatic sparkle? my fetching twinkle? my star quality?
couldn't i fill a niche like little people do? like heavily tattooed guy? super tan, wrinkled, old lady? i could be girl with fucked up, quivering eye.
the good wife should be calling any minute, right?
google {or as my mother calls it 'goggle'} says i need to relax and exercise.
yeah let me get right on that exercise.
for yesterday i was only able to get six hours of pilates and spin class in.
for now i'll make do with my quasi-quiet computer time; meditate into fields of dandelion peace and stillness.
om........
{lotus position, padma mudrā fingers, ujjayi breath, brain quiet, jaw soft}
dance party in my right eyelid.
scat
for the last week i've been the proud owner of a cat.
mint grey in color, pillow fluffy in make.
she won't tell me her name, but without invading her person i sense she's a she.
you know that sense?
you feel it when you choose your first summer peach, discerning the sweetest, juiciest of the crop.
or when you just KNOW your barista is going to mess up your order.
my brother and i made this assumption years before with a cat, bridgette.
found at the stables we raised that baby kitten into a grown lady, nuturing her to her first adult vet appointment.
whereupon dr. watson showed me first, and i pray last, cat testical.
alas, bridgette became "hans".
but back to my minty grey feline. our escapades are harrowing and white-knuckled;
mostly involving me saving her from calamity and harm.
last night my cat dangled herself between two spindles of a staircase, whose height kept getting higher off the ground the longer it took for me to save her.
her sweet little head would just about wedge free, until she'd kick up her leg, start to fall again, and the staircase would grow steeper away from the cold, tiled, kitten-splatting floor.
where is the mad hatter when i need him.
the night before my crazy cat leashed herself to me and we went for a stroll on the highway.
the 80's atari game FROGGER is still embedded in my brain.
as always with our adventures i am able to save my furry friend.
and thank god, i wake up.
i rarely have repetitive dreams, and frankly i'm not a fan.
especially with a cat. no offense to my kitten-caring friends;
i'm just an all dog kind of girl.
so scat cat!
go chase someone else's mice.
i much prefer my ohshitmyeconfinalistodayineverwenttoclassandiamnotgoingtograduatefromcollegenow nightmare instead.
weekend happy
wishing you a weekend filled with spring's finest pomp.
eggs sunnyside.
a back country road.
the breath of a puppy.
a bath of sweat pea-scented bubble.
and sandy toes.
capping the night off with laughs in the belly, impromptu jitterbugs in the kitchen, and a restful, replenishing slumber.
weekend happy to you m'loves.