...Not the kind of wheel you fall asleep at...

Dirty Hippie


So this weekend, I think I officially resigned myself to the fact that when people see me, one of their first instincts is to pin me as a hippie.

Why this weekend and why this conclusion? Well, my neighbor across the street (who I've dubbed "the Garage Sale Lady") has taken to calling me "Hippie Girl." This after only having met me once, when I was dressed fairly normal as my clothes go.

I don't know why this is, but it seriously never dawned on me that I seem hippyish to folks. I mean really. I think Peppermint was the first person to ever really point blankedly call it to my attention when she stated that I was "a lot more hippyish (and stone cold foxy, of course) than she had expected after talking to me over email and reading my blog" (to paraphrase a bit ; ). And I really was surprised. Then Organic Mechanic smugly chimed in in agreement over a very wet burrito. Appalled and shocked (I truly hadn't really ever thought that anyone actually saw me this way), I inquired to other friends who sheepishly agreed, but were quick to amend that it was a first reaction and not something that clings to me so much anymore.

Why this is, I'm still not sure.

Perhaps it is the hair-wraps I wore incessantly for a while.
Perhaps it is my penchant for nekkidness.
Perhaps it is the fact that I can't manage to keep my feet clean for more than 20 minutes at a time.
Perhaps it is my (as OM so kindly put it once upon a time) "hippie stench."

I don't know.

I know I can't pull off the corporate whore look. I know I can't pull off the prepster look either, not even if I tried my hardest.

So perhaps I'm just cursed. Cursed with this stinky oblivious hippie gene. But I guess there could be worse stereotypes I could squeezed into, so I'll live.

*Sniffling a little and lighting some patchouli incense to make myself feel better*

* * * * * * * * * * * *


So here I'd like to pause to further demonstrate my point:

Yesterday, I had written this blog up to the asterisks and then saved it to post today. I returned home to find a package from Amazon that my mum had told me she'd ordered and had sent to my house.

What was inside? A copy of The Hippie Handbook. Apparently my mum and I are uncannily psychic.

That and she thinks I'm a dirty hippie just like the rest of you.

Imagine my further dismay when I perused The Hippie Handbook only to realize that I do in fact fit many of the stereotypes inside.

*sob*

Ways in Which I Fit the Hippie Stereotype
(According to The Hippie Handbook)



1. Appearance-wise:

According to the book, hippies...
  • Cut their hair as rarely as possible.

  • Never shave... underarms.

  • Often wear kerchiefs in their hair.


  • 2. Anthropomorphizing Inanimate Objects:

  • Please meet my plants: Guacamole, Magenta II, Basil, and Ralphie II.

  • Please also meet my stuffed animals: Harold, Al, etc.


  • 3. I know how to tie-dye a t-shirt.

    4. I know how to make a skirt out of a pair of old jeans (and have done so)--and I know that this tutorial is a bit more complicated than need be.

    5. I know how to grow an avocado plant from an avocado pit placed in a jar (shout out to Lyndsey on that one).

    6. I amble like a hippie:
  • I walk barefoot;

  • I notice snails, slugs, blossoms, spider webs, etc. while ambling;

  • and I jaywalk.


  • 7. My car has a name--the Great Purple Murple.

    8. I know how to do a sun salutation.

    9. I know how to cook like a hippie:

  • Just this weekend, I made pesto, one of the hippie staples listed in the book.

  • I also consumed peanut-butter and honey bread for breakfast all week at Michfest the past two years.


  • 10. I am guilty of owning the following home decorations:

  • Macrame hangings;

  • Plants;

  • Found furniture;

  • Art I've made;

  • More than 4 candles in any given room;

  • Chopsticks and wooden spoons (the chopsticks which are used frequently for eating canteloupe).


  • 11. I frequently dumpster-dive--I have at least 4 pieces of furniture that I've gotten this way.

    12. And finally, I've seen the following hippie movies and read the following hippie books:

  • Easy Rider;

  • The Last Waltz;

  • Monterey Pop Festival;

  • Woodstock;

  • Yellow Submarine (which I own);


  • The Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley;

  • Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe;

  • The I-Ching;

  • The Moosewood Cookbook;

  • Our Bodies Ourselves;

  • The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran;

  • Siddharta by Herman Hesse;

  • some of Trout Fishing in America by Richard Brautigan.


  • *Sobbing a bit harder and lighting a second round of incense*



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    The Zombies Vs. the Redneck Neighbors


    I wanted to write something today, since my blogging skills seem to be dwindling in a "is there kryptonite somewhere near by?" kinda way...

    But I blame my redneck neighbors for lack of good blogging, at least today.

    Ah, my redneck neighbors.

    Last night, they sat out in their driveway and blasted their radio from about 6:45 to about 1:30 am (though it could've been later but this is when I woke up from some loud burst of sound from downstairs and ventured down to pee). I dealt with this early on in the evening by trekking down to the park to read for about 2 hours, which was fine with me since the park at least had a nice soothing breeze going in this stifling heat. But then I had to return home once the sun had gone down. And the music and loudness was STILL GOING.

    I try to remind myself that they enjoy each others' company in a drunken, talking about having "just gotten out of the hole" kinda way, and that that IS what life's all about--good friends and beer and "finally getting out of the hole."

    It soothes me for maybe 20 minutes. But then they start singing along to the likes of "Have You Forgotten" at the top of their lungs, which has got to be the *LAMEST* country song ever recorded, followed by crappy garbage from the garbagey crapland that is 92.3 music, and the seething just bubbles up to the surface yet again.

    Last night I actually finally shouted out the window for them to shut the hell up. But they couldn't hear it over the blasting radio. This would've been funny were it actually not so unfunny at the time. (This was at 11:30, mind you.) Finally, skinny-dude-who-just-got-out-of-prison seemed to notice that there was some sorta non-pukey non-92.3 foreign noise being emitted from somewhere other than his car radio or their big mouths and turned the stereo down to half-blast. But then he just decided to ignore my shouting.

    I don't know where I'm going with this.

    I am just tired and grouchy and sick of organizing my evening activities around the volume level of neighbors.

    This morning, I was tempted to prop my boombox up in my bathroom window and put it on as loud as possible right before I left. But I didn't.

    If only the world were a B-comedy, things would work out much more happily for me.

    OOH! Or a zombie flick. They woulda been goners within just a couple minutes after the radio started.

    Yeah yeah yeah, let's go with that.



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    More Reasons Why the End is Clearly Nigh


    The guy who does Piglet's voice and the guy who does Tigger's voice in the old Winnie the Pooh have passed away within a day of one another.

    OOOOO WEEEEEE OOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOO.



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    Childhood Phases That My Siblings and I Have Gone Through


  • The "I Love Spaghetti Noodle Sandwiches" Phase;


  • The "Bridges Can Only Be Seen If Driven On Otherwise They are Invisible" Phase;


  • The "Dolls and Stuffed Animals are Really Alive" Phase;


  • The "I'm in Love with Dana Carvey" Phase;


  • My "I Can't Fall Asleep Unless I'm Wearing a Winter Hat and Mittens and Listening to my Earphones" Phase;


  • The "I Will Ingest Things I'm Not Supposed to Ingest" Phase (a half-pack of my father's cigarettes at age 2; an entire tube of Sparkle Crest Toothpaste eaten while hiding behind our garage at age 5);


  • The "I Must Have White Rhinestone Cowboy Boots or I Will Be the Social Outcast of the First Grade" Phase;


  • The "Crocodile Dundee Hat" Phase;


  • The "I Refuse To Walk Through Puddles Barefoot Because Ringworms Will Crawl Up Through the Skin in My Feet If I Do" Phase;


  • The "Flushing Rubber Muppets Toys Down the Toilet" Phase;


  • The "I Refuse to Pull Out My Loose Teeth Even Though They are Turning Purple" Phase.


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    La Facultad*


    Last night M was over and, as always happens when we get together, the finger was taken out of the dam and all KINDS of shit broke loose all over the place in terms of conversation. But at one point, the topic of Michfest came up which evolved into the topic of "gay pride/female pride," and we found ourselves discussing it at length as it's something that is a source of mixed feelings for both of us, I think. It's a subject that I've also come back to time and time again with my sister (shout out to L. Danger!) over Denny's coffee or over a game of pool—she and I have always shared similar viewpoints on the subject, a sort of confusion as to whether to SUPPORT the whole notion of ______ pride and the purpose it clearly serves for these communities, or a disdain for privileging one's self as "more special" based on your gender/sexual orientation/race/class while at the same time shouting out that everyone should be treated and respected in the same way. And we've also talked about privilege often, just the two of us, or the two of us battling it out with my mom in trying to get her to understand the idea of it. But I don't think I've ever really really GOTTEN it, let it all congeal in my brain and plunk out the other side formulated like playdough into some noodle-shape from a playdough machine, until last night when that dam(n) finger got pulled out and I unleashed a splashing rambling tirade of discussion on the topic that was a surprise even to me.

    So here are my post-Mo, 1 am ramblings from my notebook on the topic. Damn you, Mo, for getting my brain chugging away until 1:30 last night (though the caffeine is I'm sure also to blame). ; )

    I shall preface this by saying that I haven't so much reached a conclusion on the topic, figured out what to do about it to fix everything, or for that matter, even decided if my ideas really make sense at all or whether they're just juvenile ramblings, so please do not take this as some sorta diatribe that you are meant to respond heatedly too or respond to at all. It is moreso just me trying to make sense of things in this crazy world, just a bit of rambling from my brain that I share with you to take or leave, to set fire to or eat with some fine wine.

    That being said, so goes the ramblings:

    Lately I find myself getting angry at men. I no longer look forward to going to the Westside Market on Fridays because of men. I find myself breezing through the produce section as quickly as possible because I am tired tired tired of dealing with the catcalls. I'm tired of being referred to as "baby" whenever I purchase something from a guy. I'm tired of being ogled. And I'm tired of being put in a situation where my only choice is between being a) uncomfortable or b) more uncomfortable; a) sucking it up and ignoring it and being on my way as quickly as possible or b) telling each of these assholes to fuck off, and then, when I go back next week, having to be even MORE uncomfortable because of the hostility that hangs like electricity in the air as I walk by each of these same folks, buy fruit and veggies off of them, etc. That's a shitty piss-poor selection of options.

    And for this reason, I find myself getting angry and disgusted with men. *But* it's misguided in a lot of ways, and I always try to take the time to remind myself of this fact, because it's moreso not anger at them for being men (and not anger at ALL men for being men), but anger at the fact that so many folks fail to acknowledge the power and privilege that's been bestowed upon them and who, due to lack of self-awareness, wield this power clumsily and carelessly and without forethought.

    The privileged tend to not RECOGNIZE their privilege. And I say this coming from a place of privilege myself and recognizing that most of the time, it's something I fail to think about or even notice. I am guilty too. It's like recognizing the way your stomach feels on a healthy day—you don't notice it until it's NOT feeling that way. If you've never had a stomach-ache, how can you really be aware of what it feels like when it's "normal" really? It's like an awareness of your eyes—you rarely think about them existing in your head and functioning daily as they do until a big chunk of dust flies into them while you're driving or something. Privilege is like a white noise. You don't really ever realize it's there, even when it's humming loudly all around you.

    But for the folks who DON'T have it, privilege is like a constant jackhammer outside their window; for those folks who can't walk down the street without getting shit shouted at them from passing car windows, from folks who get their faces smashed into the cement by cops for just being in the wrong area at the wrong time and having dark-colored skin, for two people who have to think WAY too long about the safety (the fricking SAFETY) of holding hands out in public before deciding whether to do so, for the person who doesn't have the CHOICE to shop at only independently owned shops because they don't have the financial flexibility to even MAKE that an option for themselves, it's a goddamn motherf-ing marching band stomping through their living room.

    All this is kind of self-apparent. At least I'd like to think.

    So I come back to the question: is it silly and pointless to celebrate my woman-ness? As silly and pointless as, say, celebrating my cuticle or my nostril? Is it also a form of privileging myself (and women) in some sorta way?

    For a long time I would try to undercut myself as "woman" to people. I've never been embarrassed about revealing that I'm a feminist, but I'd shirk out of showing any sort of "pride" in the fact that I'm a woman. I'd shrug off the idea that "woman" is something that defines me, saying, "Fuck gender. If I don't want to privilege males, I shouldn't be privileging myself as female by putting extra weight on the word or the fact or the role that it plays in my life. I shouldn't celebrate something that is just (bad) luck of the draw anyways." But I think last night it really just dawned on me finally.

    I can shrug off the fact that I'm a woman and say, "Well, that shouldn't make any difference in who I am or how I want you to see me or my value as a human being." But the fact is, IT DOES. Outside of my little bubble of a head, people are gonna look at me, and one of the things they're gonna see is a big fat scarlet F hanging around my neck regardless of whether or not I choose to acknowledge it. It is impossible for me to step outside of the system that is already in place. I can say, "I don't want to be looked at as either male or female—I want to be looked at as genderless, because gender shouldn't make any difference to who I am anyways." But I will nonetheless bear a label of some sort, despite my best efforts. So gay pride, women's pride, black pride, etc.—it's starting to finally make sense to me more.

    You can't play the game if you won't acknowledge that you have pieces on the board, acknowledge that there IS a system and that system stamps a label on us whether we like it or not, a label independent of the one we self-impose, and attempt to get others to see this as well.

    The label's there no matter how hard you try to scrub it off, deny it, run from it. You need not embrace it joyfully, but you MUST acknowledge it or you're just one more fool blinded by this whole stupid system of privilege. If you don't RECOGNIZE that you are part of the system whether you want to be or not, if you don't RECOGNIZE that a fucking power system DOES exist, then there ain't jack shit you're ever gonna be able to do to help tear it down, shred it, stomp it with your steel-toed boots, turn it inside out, rebuild.

    It is a good thing to acknowledge that gender, sexuality, race, class, shouldn't make an ounce of difference in how you treat a person, in their worth as a human being, because it SHOULDN'T. It is a good thing to live by these standards and treat people with this respect. But it's NOT a good thing to convince yourself that race/gender/sexuality/class does not in fact make a difference in how people are treated. It's not good to just ignore the labels that are inevitably placed on people in the hopes of wishful-thinking them into non-existence.

    And this white guilt bullshit, this male guilt bullshit, may be a bunch of crap too. No different from blaming a black person for being black. You're born what you're born and that's the chess piece you're stuck with in playing out the game. It's luck of the draw—some luck out, some don't. Thus, it's stupid to blame a person for having drawn the long stick of straight white male privilege, just as it's stupid to judge a person for being born with different colored skin. However, it's NOT stupid to blame and hold a person responsible for not RECOGNIZING this privilege. And goddammit, the straight white males out there SHOULD be held responsible if they fail to exhibit any sort of self-awareness of this fact. And the same can be said for the gay folks, the women, etc. who fail to have any self-awareness of where THEY fall in this power structure as well.

    It's the people who don't acknowledge that they are, whether they like it or not, part of a power structure, part of the system, who don't acknowledge that there is a system of power and privilege currently in place, that are completely impotent in doing anything to fix it. It's like having no arms and trying to climb out of an empty pool—if you don't acknowledge the fact that YOU DON'T HAVE ANY FUCKING ARMS, you're never gonna get out—you're just gonna keep falling back down into it. If you place that knowledge in the foreground of your brain and work from that point, THEN you can begin to think up alternatives and ways to break down the system.

    So where does that leave me? To be all about women's pride? Or to shrug it off as an empty gesture? Lately I find myself leaning more towards the former than I ever have. I find myself being beaten over the head with this power structure again and again and having to remind myself that it's NOT all "straight white males" that are to blame—it's folks THAT FAIL TO ACKNOWLEDGE AND TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR THE PRIVILEGE THEY HAVE, us white folks, us straight folks, us middle-class and wealthy folks. Not pointing the finger at straight white males and shouting Pig! Oppressor! but tying the privileged up and forcing them to notice and assume responsibility for their position in this system of power.

    This is not a "woe is me as a woman" call for pity. It's a "woe is us" call for self-awareness, no matter WHAT role you are playing out in this power structure. If you're gonna fail to recognize your place/power in the system, then I sure the fuck am gonna for you. If you're gonna wield you power obliviously like a caveman's club, then I'm gonna damn well hold up and embrace and utilize myself and my title, "woman," to defend myself.

    You can't play the game from outside of the game. You can't fuck with the rules unless you acknowledge that there are in fact rules to fuck with. You can't work to change the system from OUTSIDE the system. And you can't BE outside the system.

    This should be relevant to ALL of us. Because none of us exists outside the system.

    /End ramblings

    "…I remain who I am, multiple
    and one ___________________________ of the herd, yet not of it"
    – "Cihuatlyotl, Woman Alone" (Gloria Anzaldua)

    ___________

    * "The capacity to see in surface phenomena the meaning of deeper realities, to see the deep structure below the surface… The one possessing this sensitivity is excruciatingly alive to the world… It's a kind of survival tactic that people, caught between the worlds, unknowingly cultivate. It's latent in all of us." – Gloria Anzaldua



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    I think I've gotten bored with reviewing fruit.

    (Though I must note that I had blackberries for the first time this weekend, and they'd definitely receive an A.)

    I have, however, decided I will occasionally review other mundane things under my fruit review standards.

    Today's subject:

    Brief Lunchbreak Out in the Grass




    (Our lunch picnic)

    Uniqueness: Typically, when we convene outside for lunch every once in a while, we sit outside by the cafeteria, underneath large foofy umbrellas with swarms of suits scurrying all around us. Today, however, we instead went and sat out in the grass near an isolated picnic-table that was speckled with berries of some sort and bird-shit (this was our original destination). There was also a clothes hanger hanging nearby. This was the first change of lunch-atmosphere in quite some time--change is good, especially quarters.

    Flavor and consistency: Lunch was slightly juicy with conversation, though it was speckled with the usual self-deprecating and other-people-deprecating banter. I peeled and ate a grapefruit, concluding that I prefer to scoop them out with a spoon since it is less time-consuming and less sticky. Plus, I only had half a napkin. And my fingers kept sticking together and I almost hit E with a chunk of grapefruit that I flicked. Otherwise, the consistency of lunch was smooth, despite a few rough bits of people throwing things at other people and a few ants making their way up the undersides of my thighs. At one point we talked about Kit, the car from Knight Rider. There was laughter. D talked quietly. Somebody repeated what he said accidentally because he had talked so quietly that no one heard it. He clearly was trying not to cry.

    Healthiness: Completely devoid of anything remotely nutritious--like sucking on a hubcap at the side of the road that you just saw a tall man skittishly pee on while his eyes darted from left to right to make sure no one was watching him do so.

    Ease of consumption: Almost came back up again this afternoon, but a few antacids took care of that.

    Complaints: The grass was prickly and occasionally felt like ants crawling up my legs when really it wasn't. Also, I was sitting in a skirt, which doesn't make for comfortable and leisurely sitting (though it DID make for a few Sharon Stone remarks). And my hands were sticky with juices. And I forgot my Triscuits upstairs (and have just now realized that I've been spelling Triscuits wrong ever since I started spelling Triscuits which hasn't been THAT long, but no one has had the balls to tell me apparently; either that or no one ELSE knows how to spell them either).

    Overall: I wasn't stuck inside in the freezing vacuum of my cubicle, so I can't complain too much.

    Grade: B



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    PINK


    Pink bras.

    I bought pink bras this weekend.

    Bras being plural.

    I bought two of them.

    Those of you who know me know HOW DURN MUCH I love pink.

    And I bought two pink bras this weekend.





    The vortex is going to open up and swallow us whole.



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    Danny Masterson Strikes Back


    So, clearly my subconsciousness is absolutely smitten with Danny Masterson. I have no clue why this is, but clearly he's become to MY dreamworld what Ani is to Mo's dreamworld.

    Last night I had my 833rd dream about kissing the boy. (Read about one of the 832 others HERE)

    He was standing in the driveway, and I walked up to him. We had the intimacy of really old friends, or two people who once dated long ago. I was in a happy mood, and when I walked up to him, I threw my arms around his neck lightly, in the way that only two people who are close can do, or in the way you do when you're dancing slowly (with a space separating the two of you) at a prom. He was grinning at me and circled his arms around my lower back. We stood there like that, my arms around his neck, his around my back, chatting comfortably like really good friends who just fricking love the shit outta each other. It was a happy sort of intimate moment.

    And then the conversation ended and there was a heavy pregnant pause.

    Suddenly this energy just loomed up between us like this huge stormcloud, and we both leaned in to each other and began to kiss. It was a FANTASTIC kiss, like a hungry first kiss between two people who have wanted each other for a really long time, and it just went on and on and on. It was so vivid that I can even remember that he had a little dry piece of skin on his lip that my moist bottom lip kept rubbing against every once in a while. We kissed with this fierce hunger, and then he began to kiss my neck as well. And GODDAMN did it feel good, his lips feeling out their way over my muscles and sinews, dancing over the tender flesh of my neck. He sucked a little bit on it too, and I remember thinking, this is maybe not good because he may end up giving me a hickey and then my boyfriend will see. (I became aware at this point in my dream, that I was Jackie from That 70's Show, and I was dating Eric Foreman and, by kissing Hyde again, was cheating on Eric.)

    The kiss ended hastily when one of us noticed that Eric was heading down the street towards us, not noticing us, but all the more reason to quit before he did.

    The kiss was a fantastic one though--when I woke up in the morning, I laid in bed for about 20 minutes just thinking about the dream because it was such a damn good kiss.

    The dream then morphed a bit into fragmented scenes--at one point I am at a Father's Day carnival and I see Hyde (Danny Masterson) walking about 100 yards from me, and I am thinking to myself that he is probably trying to find me. And a warm feeling of happiness washes over me.

    At another point, he and I are suddenly back in medieval times, and I am donning a huge frilly dress, something like a chambermaid's or a servant's. I am now Jackie though, and am no longer experiencing things in the first person--I am instead watching myself (Jackie) interact with Hyde. She crawls over a large medieval chest to get into a quiet room in the house she is in. Hyde presses her up against the wall and lifts her skirts and they begin to kiss again. This time I am not experiencing the kiss, however, just watching it from afar.

    We quickly break up when we realize that all our other friends (Donna, Fes, Kelso) are in the other room. We walk into the room together, looking slightly in disarray. I realize that I also have a light hickey on my neck from the earlier escapades, and I try to make it look as discreet as possible. The three of them start making fun of us and joking that we must have been shagging or making out together. Hyde keeps ignoring the comments, rather than denying them, and this fact causes Donna to suddenly have an epiphany that we WERE in fact making out in the other room otherwise he woulda denied it. She looks shocked and appalled. At this point Eric walks in, and I wake up.

    What the hell is up with my brain's apparent obsession with Danny Masterson??? Somebody, PLEASE help me figure this out!

    Man though. I haven't been kissed like that in quite some time. =)



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    Once Upon a Nipple...


    Monday I sneezed really hard while accidentally pinching my nose with a tissue. My ears went *FOOF* and made a loud popping noise. It hurt, resulting in a few days worth of earaches.

    This for some reason made me think of how, for a brief period of time, I had a third nipple when I was younger.

    My brain, clearly rattled by the ear-shattering sneeze, thought: "Imagine what it would be like if, by sneezing while accidentally pinching your nose, it made a third nipple pop out, sorta like how being pregnant makes your belly button pop out."

    And so we reach the story of my third nipple.

    I emailed my mom to get the gritty truth about the story of my third nipple. Mom, I said, if you write me a nice little email telling me the story of how i started to grow a third nipple when i was younger, i will post it on my blog sometime this week.

    And so came my mother's tale:

    "The only thing I remember is you were somewhere around six or seven years old...and you brought it to my attention that you had this little knob on your midriff...so the next time we went to see my least favorite physican w/suburban pediatrics...Dr.W___...he confirmed it was a third breast that started due to excess hormones in your system (probably from an estrogen surplus found in processed meats and such) but he assured me it would eventually disappear which it did, didn't it? I don't seem to recall you using makeup or wearing a third brazier (M_____'s term) to clothe it...?"

    The down and dirty facts, but I like to remember it like this though:

    Once upon a time, there was a cute little girl named Lindy Loo.

    She lived 6 years of her life like any normal girl. But then on the day of her sixth birthday, she woke up to find that she had sprouted a third nipple, a MIMPLE she began to call it.

    She was afraid at first and tried to hide it. She didn't tell either of her parents about it.

    One day when she was poking at it to see if she could get it to fall off, she happened to be thinking about and wishing for this new Cabbage Patch doll she had seen at K-mart. And there it was.

    She was not a dumb child, and she quickly realized that when she rubbed on her mimple and made a wish, it would emit a beam of light and a high-pitched humming and her wish would be immediately granted. She was a child so she wished for childish things. But the fruits of her wishes quickly piled up, and it didn't take long before her parents became aware that she had in fact grown a third nipple and that this third nipple had "special powers."

    Her parents were pleased initially, asking her to wish them some extra dough so they could pay off the rest of their house and some bills as well. But with all her incessant wishing, her parents started to run out of room for everything. Ponies, live tyrannosaurus rexes that menaced the neighborhood, 10-foot ice cream sundays, flying dogs, robots that shoot marshmallows from their ray guns, the list goes on and on.

    So it had to be done--her parents took her to the doctor to have it removed. She cried and cried the night before and wished and wished. Her room filled up with parrots and clowns and dogs that could make themselves catch fire and trapeze artists and a cake that never ran out of slices.

    But then morning came, and her parents dragged her off to the doctor. But not before wishing for a bit more money to live comfortably off of for the next few years.

    And then it was done.

    She was back to only two nipples. She was again just an ordinary girl.

    But she would prove herself to be extraordinary in many other ways, as you now know. She would become a shark-tamer and learn to play a mean blues guitar.

    And she would, of course, live happily ever after, 3rd-nip free.



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    Such a Bad Neighbor


    Last night, while opening my bedroom window to let the sweet stormy breeze in, I noticed that the trunk of my neighbor's car was open, the little interior light glittering away in the otherwise dark 12:00 hour. What to do? I sat and contemplated this for a while. All the lights were out in their house. I'd assumed they'd gone to bed. But how do you forget to close your trunk? My suspicions were then aroused: perhaps this was one of those instances where someone sees their perfectly normal neighbors dragging a suspiciously body-shaped garbage bag out of their house to throw in their trunk; or perhaps someone had managed to break into the trunk and was attempting to crawl through the front seat and steal the car. I squinted at the car closely. It looked like a small and weathered stuffed animal of some sort was sitting back there, just awaiting the return of my neighbor so it could curl up in the dark of a closed trunk and fall asleep. My thoughts then turned to what I should do about the open trunk: do I go over there and close it myself? But there is the possibility that it is open for a reason (to air it out, for example) or that my neighbors were somewhere outside of my line of view in their backyard and would close it before they headed in. I also was leery of lurking around in someone's backyard, picturing my typically mild-mannered neighbor stepping out onto his porch with a shotgun half-cocked straight at my head. I then contemplated calling the police department so that THEY could at least go over there and shut the trunk for them without my neighbors mistaking them for thieves. But I figured they'd just laugh at me. So instead I laid there on my stomach, staring out the window as the pre-storm breeze tiptoed into the room. The sky was swirled with quickly-moving storm clouds. I could see a television spastically glowing in the upstairs bedroom a few houses down. The trees were whipping in the wind and making the streetlights cast epileptic bursts of shadow and light on my walls. I thought about reading the book I'm working my way through. Then I discarded the idea. I thought about the guy who lives on W. 10th who sits outside in a plastic lawnchair with a newspaper and, every time I pass his house, never fails to ask me what time it is. I thought about what a long and crazy heatwave it's been this past week and a half. I thought and I thought some more.

    And then I fell asleep.



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    A Review of the Banana (The "Forbidden Fruit")



    (Note--The "Bananas in Entertainment" subtopic
    on the website this pic leads to is VERY misleading
    and not quite so racy as one would assume.)


    Uniqueness: What other fruit is long and hooknosed and used in high school sex ed classes to demonstrate how to put on a condom? The lowly dullard called "the apple"? I think not.

    Flavor and consistency: The flavor of the banana is award-winning clearly. Otherwise why would so many people like so many banana-flavored edibles? And I agree--I really enjoy the flavor of bananas as well. *HOWEVER* I do not like the consistency of bananas at all. Eating a banana solo is something I cannot do--or at least I cannot consume a WHOLE banana. About 3 bites in, that little hangy thing in the back of my throat starts doing the rhumba and my gag reflexes start shaking their booties. There is something about the consistency that really freaks out my brain--I can usually consume a whole banana if I cut it up and disguise it in something else (a banana split or some yogurt for example), but even then, if I think about the weirdness of the consistency for too long while chewing it, gag reflex, here I come.

    Healthiness: Nanners are good for you! Read more HERE!

    Ease of consumption: Grab the stalk and pull back the side and you've got yourself a portable snack! Or peel it even cooler like the monkeys do by pinching the bottom of the banana (opposite of the stalk end) so that it pops open and then peel back the sides and voila!

    Complaints: None, other than consistency. You can tell when a banana's ripe and you can tell when a banana's overripe, so the ripeness factor (thank god) is definitely NOT a complaint for this one.

    Other Noteworthy Items: The banana has its own museum. What other fruit can boast THAT? Also, the banana is a good way to get from one place to another without destroying the environment: SEE!

    Overall: I like bananas, in recipes, mixed in ice cream, soup, or yogurt, but the banana on its own wreaks havoc on my weird-foodness factors. Though he sure is great in the sack! (*wink wink*)

    Grade: B



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    Today, I dropped a kiwi, some cheese, and some Trisketts in the street as I walked back from my lunchbreak. I had to scramble back and pick them up one by one where they had scattered along the way, unnoticed by me. E looked at me bemusedly and said, Hole in your bag? Sadly, there wasn't. Apparently I just don't know how to hold a plastic bag correctly, which you'd THINK would be a simple thing.

    This seems to be a metaphor for my life as of late.



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    Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam dream dream drea-eam!


    This morning I dreamt that

    a) Sesame Street had put out a new music album and my sisters were both geeked up about it because they said it was really cute and that one of the songs was introducing kids to the concept of sex. I was like, hrm, that's weird but kinda interesting, so they put the song on for me. It was a remake of some other song that I remembered at the time (some sorta R&B sexy kinda song) and it was pretty much all pornographic. I had thought it was going to be introducing kids to the terms "vagina" and "penis" and stuff but it was all about "rubbing me down with oils" and this and that. I was a bit disturbed.

    b) Giant pieces of fruit were falling from the sky and landing on top of clouds. It was raining, so the rain that was being sent down from the fruit clouds was different colors depending on what fruit had landed on the cloud. I was standing atop a balcony with a co-worker and it kinda looked out over both the clouds and a pool that lay far below. We were watching the rain change the pool different rainbow colors. I leaned too hard against the railing and all the sudden it fell off, crashing into the pool. I wobbled at the edge but thankfully was able to reel myself backwards before I tumbled after the railing. My co-worker looked at me and said, "That always happens" and then picked up a really heavy piece of ironwork as though it weighed nothing at all and started prodding around like you would with a stick, trying to hook the railing over the tip so she could reel it back up there.




    What else should we talk about today?



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    Angelina's Leaving Brad? FOR ME???


    So I'm a bit spooked because I was bored and decided to google my blog name to see if anything interesting came up. I found a couple cool things, one of which is that the books I read (at least the ones that I've linked to from amazon.com) are being kept track of on this nifty little site which I think is kinda cool:


    BOOKWATCH SITE


    However, I'm a bit weirded out but intrigued because the FOLLOWING google entry came up as well:

    angelina jolie nude in taking life - angelina jolie nude in taking ...

    ... http://www.nudeasthenews.com/interviews/26. 75.
    My Defective Life. ... My Defective Life. Ruminations on the randomness of existence. ... ...
    angelinajolie.star-profiles4u.com/ angelinajolienudeintakinglife/ - 72k - Supplemental Result - Cached - Similar pages

    How weird is that?? And yet, my only internet access is at work or at the library, so I'm never gonna know why the hell I'm being mentioned with regard to Angelina Jolie!

    If you haven't figured it out, this is a desperate plea for someone to go check it out and let me know what's up:

    I mean, if Angelina's getting all prepped to dump Brad and run off with my hot ass or something, I SHOULD FRICKING KNOW, you know??



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    Guava


    A review of Fruit #7 on my quest for trying a new fruit every week.



    Uniqueness: The idea of the guava is unique--a cross between a pear and a strawberry in taste. The consistency is grainy like that of a pear and the flavor is also reminscent of a sweet and juicy strawberry. The fruit itself is petite like a kiwi or (in twos) like a nice compact set of testes. And the scent of them as they ripen is the best part--it may actually be worth buying one just to keep it around for the smell until it goes bad.

    Flavor and consistency: Hearkening back to my experience with the papaya, I am not quite sure whether or not the ones I've tried have been ripe enough. I am on my last attempt out of four but am waiting until it's so ripe that it's almost smushy so that I can judge if it's a ripeness factor or not. That being said, the consistency of the meat is much like a pear--if not sufficiently ripe, it is NOT good at all (unripe pears--yuck too). And since I've only had potentially not-quite-ripe ones so far, I'd have to say that both the flavor and consistency haven't been too fantastic thus far. But I DO plan to give them one last shot. I've had fruit drinks with guava in them before, and it SEEMS to be a very yummy flavor.

    Healthiness: Apparently the guava is one of the healthiest fruits you can eat. They have a very high level of antioxidants which is a good thing. The rind contains about 5 times the Vitamin C of your standard orange. The list goes on and on: READ MORE.

    Ease of consumption: Slice it in two, scoop out the seeds, eat it like you would a kiwi or peel off the skin and dice it. Allegedly the seeds are edible as well, but when I bit into some last night, they were VERY hard and I had NO desire to battle with them.

    Complaints: Again, annoyingness of ripening--I always read about my fruit before ripening them so that I get it fairly exact, but yet again, I've followed the ripening directions and they STILL aren't very good. So either I'm not ripening them correctly, or guavas aren't quite so good raw as they are in fruit drinks and jams. Price-wise, I got 4 of them for about $1.60 which isn't too terrible. But quantity-wise, you don't seem to get much out of them--think about how much meat a kiwi would yield if you had to scoop seeds out of the center before consuming it and that's about how much you get out of a guava.

    Overall: Like I said, worth it if for nothing else but the smell which is DELICIOUS. But as for the taste, I could take it or leave it.

    Grade: D (A for scent though)



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    Muumuu-Wearing Heat-Wave


    I have not slept peacefully in about 3 days.

    You see, this past weekend, summer hit like a shovel to the face.

    And normally I'm a masochist and take it with a smile, begging summer to smack me around a bit on the ass too while she's at it.

    But man alive, my apartment gets hot. And man alive is it impossible to exercise, sleep, or even MOVE a few inches when you're in that kind of heat.

    And I have tried the sleeping butt-nekkid thing every night too--the thinking being that the more surface area exposed, the more that can catch and twist on the slightly obese and wheezy muummuu-wearing breeze that waddles through my singular upstairs window every once in a while.

    It doesn't seem to work.

    Last night I caved and went to look for an oscillating fan.

    There are too many fans in the world and too many people who spend too much time searching for the too many fans in the world. And I am one of them.

    But I found one.

    And I tried sleeping last night under the soft tickly hand of the fan.

    And yet THAT didn't help either.

    The fan-fingers freaked me out all night for no clearly apparent reason.

    The end result was a vivid dream I had about showering with border-jumping illegal mexican immigrants (and when the cops came for them, I managed to escape, but only because a friend of mine distracted the cops with magic tricks like the candy that turns your mouth black and the fake fly in an ice cube).

    And now the heat and the lack of sleep and my wobbly, heavy-handed eyelids are making me ramble in a way that is making me more sleepy and that has no clearly discernible pattern to it.

    Perhaps this whole blog entry is a giant metaphor for something heaty and summer-related.

    Perhaps I just need someone who's game to run through some sprinklers with me, or at least come over my apartment and sit with our beer guts stuck out, a beer tightly-pressed to our foreheads, circling ice cubes around any bare parts of our skin that are showing.

    Any takers?



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    Bush Flyers and Mud-Wrestling


    Last night after a full-bellied meal of sushi that M managed to sweet-talk me into, I went to see a friend of a friend play at the Barking Spider. His set was good, though a bit hesitant at times. One song he always plays makes my heart ache and makes me feel like crying... every single time. There is something impressive about that.

    Afterwards, post musician-schmoozing, four of us sat under what was SUPPOSED to be a fiendishly stormy night sky, which was instead seething only with summery heat and a slight breeze, and gabbed over beer. A friend of my friend's friend (friend thrice-removed?) rambled on quite a bit. This was worth the extra time we spent sitting there, and most certainly worth toughing out some free beer.

    Beer tangles thoughts. It also untangles them and makes them coherent again, in an alternate-reality where only unsober folks convene.

    Last evening, we concluded (and tried to explain to M who is NOT a beer-drinker) that the first time you realize that beer tastes good is a magical experience, replete with fairies and rainbows and pegasuses (or pegasii, this was also briefly discussed), like the sudden flicking on of a switch inside you that makes your brain go BEER--GOOD despite having muttered BEER TASTE LIKE CRAP for months and years prior.

    I am not sure whether we convinced her or not.

    I lit up a cigarette in honor of a friend and fellow employee who had recently removed me from his Top-10 list of "[NAME OF MY WORKPLACE] hotties" because I smoke on occasion. Discussion then wandered off and friend thrice-removed and friend twice-removed began to yammer a bit about a faltering relationship of two friends of theirs (friends four-times removed to me). Friend thrice-removed suddenly burst into an analogy of how the love-life and desire of these two friends to head off into the sunset to find adventure was much like that of the bush flyers. He had just watched something recently on the history channel about the bush flyers and was awed by them and could not contain this awe and kept letting it spill over into rambles about relationships and the horror of nearing the age of 30. Clearly he was showing off by flexing his "glistening brain-muscles" for our entertainment--"Oh, friend thrice-removed, what big gray matter you have! Talk to me about bush flyers some more! Yes! OH YES!!!"

    I tried not to laugh.

    M squeezed my leg under the picnic table several times in order to squelch her own.

    Debate ensued over who was in the wrong in this faltering relationship--friend twice-removed suggested the feller, friend thrice-removed said it was clearly the female in the relationship. I suggested mud-wrestling once or twice in order to sort out who was correct on the topic. This was received by awkward half-amused silence and weird sideways glances, though I'm not sure why...

    This was not beer-induced rambling, folks: if we were smart enough and used mud-wrestling to solve ALL our problems, we'd most certainly achieve world peace.



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    Papaya


    A review of Fruit #6 on my quest for trying a new fruit every week.



    Uniqueness: The papaya is a melon-type fruit. It looks melony from the outside, but it's a really beauty when you split it in two. Its interiors range from a sweet orange color to a punchy pink, and it spills over with delicate black seeds that are so cute that it's hard to throw them away. The papaya is one of the Clark Kents of fruit--your normal fella from the outside but throw it into a phonebooth and you've got yourself one vibrant fruit from the inside.

    Flavor and consistency: I really really wanted to like the papaya as it's a really lovely-looking fruit. But again, like the persimmon, I think the flavor may be a bit too rich for my tastes. (Though, as with other fruits I've eaten, maybe at a different stage of ripeness it may taste a little less potent--it's hard to be sure.) It has a lovely aftertaste that rings of honey which is a definite perk. But it has a very potent and none-too-pleasant smell to it when split in two, almost shoe-like in nature. And they say that scent is a large part of taste, so whenever you approach your mouth with a piece, it is hard to disconnect your palate from the shoe-scent. And the initial flavor of the papaya is a bit... off, for lack of a better word. I hit a few pieces in the course of nibbling that were dead on delicious, but they were few and far between, and too many were shoe-like in the course of trying to find the perfect ones that I lost interest in chowing on it. In fact, picking some up again today, I was unable to eat more than a few pieces before I got grossed out again.

    Healthiness: No real extraordinary health-perks--read more HERE.

    Ease of consumption: No more difficult to handle than a canteloupe. Slice it open, scoop out seeds, cut off peel, dice and eat.

    Complaints: Really, it's just the weirdness of flavor. I'd like to try it again sometime when someone ELSE has offered me some (and KNOWS how ripe the perfect papaya need be). Also, the price is a big turn-off. It cost me $4 or so for ONE papaya. Not something I'd WANT to indulge in on a regular basis anyways, simply for cost purposes.

    Overall: I wasn't blown away, which stinks because I wanted to be. The diced up papaya I had sitting out when I had some folks over this past Friday received the same reaction--dislike and also some scrunched-up grossed-out facial expressions. Again, I'd like to give it a second chance in the hopes that perhaps it just wasn't as ripe as it could be. But if this is the way papaya NORMALLY tastes, I'd have to say that I'm not too big a fan.

    Grade: C-



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    PG


    I noticed for the second time in a couple of weeks that apparently "thematic elements" in a movie garners a PG-rating as opposed to a G.

    Is it just me, or does anyone else think that this is weird?



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    Word to the Wise, Ladies


    Never ever fool around with a guy or gal after (s)he's cooked you a fantastic and elaborate pasta dinner that has as a main ingredient FRESHLY DICED JALAPENO PEPPERS.



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    Weird Food Hang-Ups


    (Inspired by Peppermint's blog)


    1. If a PBJ sammich is bruised (where the jelly has started soaking through the bread), it cannot be consumed.

    2. Spices must be ground up as small as possible--biting into a large spice in a piece of food is the equivalent of licking the bottom of someone's shoe.

    3. Soups and chilis are rendered almost inedible if I am unable to discern what each food is composed of. (Any food that is a combination of a ton of different mushed up kinda vegetables and stuff makes me a bit leery because I need to recognize WHAT it is I'm eating BEFORE I start eating it (as a general rule). It is difficult for me to eat something when I cannot clearly differentiate between the ingredients it is composed of. Mixed vegetables weird me out as well, despite the fact that I can clearly differentiate between veggies--they just seem like they shouldn't be mixed. Veggies should stick to their own kind. Also, mixing vegetables with other foods while eating them--corn in your mashed potatoes, for i.e.--creeps me out as well.)

    4. Licking or eating something cold that is typically warmed up before consuming, i.e. spaghetti sauce, soup, etc, is punishable by death.

    5. Eggs can either be cooked scrambled, over-easy, or hard-boiled. If an over-easy easy egg is boogery in the middle, one typically must stop eating it. Each bite of an over-easy egg must be accompanied by a bite of toast to combat the weird egg-texture. Scrambled eggs must also be accompanied by a bite of toast if eaten plain--however, if they are eaten with salsa on them or as omelets or mixed with ketchup, the toast is not necessary.

    6. Only the end-slices of large tomatoes are truly edible. The interiors are rendered relatively inedible because of their boogery seeds--if the seeds are scooped out, only THEN can the interiors of the tomato be comfortably ingested.

    7. Tea and coffee can only be drunk while extremely hot. Once either has turned lukewarm, consumption is no longer feasible.

    8. Only COOKED onions can be ingested. The flavor of raw onions lingers in my mouth for DAYS, I kid you not.

    9. Bananas can only be eaten when mixed with something else (ice cream in a banana- split, yogurt, cereal) because otherwise the consistency will make you gag.

    10. Brownies cannot have nuts in them to interrupt their flow.

    11. Orange juice must be pulp-free or sucked through a tightly-pinched straw so that the pulp does not make it up into your mouth.

    12. Rice is boring and can only be consumed when accompanied with something else.



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    Sliding into Her Heat


    So I started reading a sci-fi book called Dhalgren and, while it is admittedly interesting so far, the first chapter of the book has a sex scene in it that completely made me laugh out loud while I was reading it late last night.

    I vaguely recollect having read somewhere about the difference between sex scenes that WOMEN write and the difference between sex scenes that MEN write (either that or it was the difference between movie/porn sex scenes written/directed by males and females--I can't recollect; nor can I recollect where the hell I was reading this either, but anyways...), and a huge part of what the writer discussed was the focal point of the narrative or storyline: in standard male-written porn, for example, the focus tends to be on the pleasuring of the woman and the male's success at it--picture the gratuitous moaning, her pure delight in spreading the lovely man-juices all over her mouth and face, etc. etc.

    The same is apparent in Dhalgren.

    This first sex scene calls up images of romance novels (it totally has that "man standing with hands on hips while hair and billowy shirt blow in the wind" romance novel quality to it, no question), 'cept this time written by some sci-fi geek fantasizer. Instead of the "handsome and hard-bodied" repair man ravishing the housewife on her kitchen table, a random woman in the middle of nowhere (who ends up turning into a tree) is ravished gloriously by the main character.

    What's so interesting to me is the focus of the passage. (I've excerpted bits below, though I have left out a good chunk of the passage which you can read more fully HERE.) The focus of most of the description in this first chapter is lavished upon the unexpected female character--little to nothing is said describing the main character except for description of his hands and his state of mind.

    And the shagging part is the most interesting--not once is his satisfaction or enjoyment of the event mentioned. The descriptive focus is solely on his apparently amazing capabilities as a man in pleasuring her--an achievement so fantastic that the sex makes her "violent" with pleasure, makes her legs shake, makes her "roar" with it, and results in a "long, surprising come." His satisfaction is never discussed--praise is instead lavished on his own capabilities in making this random woman explode with pleasure.

    Ah, male fantasy. How we do love thee.

    Hee hee.

    For some reason this is way too amusing to me and deserving of some more in-depth analysis which I am failing miserably at right now (but feel free to discuss this more in my comments sections). Either way, here's the passage. Enjoy:

    "She stood up, two dozen feet down and away, wearing only shadows the moon dropped from the viney maple; moved, and the shadows moved on her...

    She whispered something that was all breath, and the wind came for the words and dusted away the meaning...

    She stepped...

    She passed another, nearer tree. The moon flung gold coins at her breasts. Her brown aureoles were wide, her nipples small. "You. . . ?" She said that, softly, three feet away, looking down; and he still could not make out her expression for the leaf dappling; but her cheek bones were Orientally high. She was Oriental, he realized and waited for another word, tuned for accent. (He could sort Chinese from Japanese.) "You've come!" It was a musical Midwestern Standard. "I didn't know if you'd come!"...

    She reached, two fingers extended, pushed back plaid wool, and touched his chest; ran her fingers down. He could hear his own crisp hair...

    He kissed her; she caught his wrists. The joined meat of their mouths came alive. The shape of her breasts, her hand half on his chest and half on wool, was lost with her weight against him.

    Their fingers met and meshed at his belt; a gasp bubbled in their kiss (his heart was stuttering loudly), was blown away; then air on his thigh.

    They lay down.

    With her fingertips she moved his cock head roughly in her rough hair while a muscle in her leg shook under his. Suddenly he slid into her heat. He held her tightly around the shoulders when her movements were violent. One of her fists stayed like a small rock over her breast. And there was a roaring, roaring: at the long, surprising come, leaves hailed his side.

    Later, on their sides, they made a warm place with their mingled breath. She whispered, "You're beautiful, I think.""



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