Dirty

I know I probably have a dirty mind (my reason for liking soap), but who wouldn't take a second more probing look into this craigslist advertisement?

Queen Size Bed-Mattresses, Headboard, and Frame - $300 (Gentilly)

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Reply to: sale-661649881@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-04-29, 9:55PM CDT


Queen Size pillowtop mattress set with frames and nice wooden headboard. I can send pics if you want or you can come see and try it out.

Scents/Sense

Far from the girl who ever finds her signature scent (maybe this time?), I've always been ever-evolving in the world of soaps and perfumes. I realized recently that this is because I'm rather forward-looking. And oh-so-sensitive to smell.

It seems that I just can't find it in me to revisit any past scent no matter how gorgeous it may be. Instead, I've been steadily moving through a series for years now. A waft of any particular odor brings memories, and whether or not they are fond ones, I feel stuck by all those nostril-invading molecules.

Then you can avoid the fact that although the milk soap is divine, all it will ever remind you of is the last time you had your heart broken and spent considerable time in the bath. Or that perfect soap that makes you want to head to the pics d'Europe where you eat tart sheep's cheese with apple slices. Then there's winters in Prague, summers in French castles, and some very memorable long showers. Which leads me to ponder if by eschewing the soaps that bring back bad times, and trying to revisit those that bring back the good - will I get to determine my future strictly based on scent?

It hit me when I was in the market for a new soap today, that sometimes it's just better to stop proving your identity from someone else's handiwork, and instead use it as a supplemental, and not a defining, pleasure.

Like the one scent I thought I could never live without Yet, I find that nearing the end of my bottle only touched on special evenings over a period of three years, I'm ready for something a little different.

Today I found a shea butter soap that smelled like soft spring lambs. New soap, new me. Life rolls on ... and sometime it smells really nice.

As an endnote to this olfactory adventure, read this, although I recommend avoid that particular l'eau.

Addict

If you ever become, like me, a raging insomniac, there is really only one answer. And that, my friends is that darling little oblong Ambien tablet.*

Sure you sleep walk and binge on wierd stuff like chocolate cake and sauerkraut while writing blog entries and e-mails full of unexplainable grammatical and spelling errors. Or you decide to get involved in some housing project like FINALLY potting that orchid, or snaking your drain. That you leave unfinished. And wake up wondering who the hell's been in your apartment acting like the dude in "This Old House".

The best are the conversations. I have had some of my most intense, passionate, and rawly honest late night phone conversations on the stuff. I'm not sure I really remember them, but I am convinced upon waking up in the morning that they might have helped me to turn a corner and to be open to love and life again.

Which leads me to the two final beauties of Ambien. The first is right before you start getting tired, feelings of contentment, joy, and hope begin to crawl through your frame. I call this the "second glass of wine at your best friend's spring outdoor wedding" sensation. All is right, life is beautiful. And apparently it is, since people are now using it as a recreational drug.

But the second beauty is that you, Mr. or Ms. Insomiac, are going to sleep well. Like I'm about to do.

*BTW, I'm not getting any money from the makers of Ambien for my glowing recommendation, but wouldn't mind if they gave me some.

Head

Here are things I can tell you right here and now:

1. The soil in North Carolina is red because it's high in iron. Occasionally a toddler with anemia can be found eating it.

2. People like to be listened to and not to listen. People do not even listen to their own hearts, brains, or souls.

3. Dogs don't mind when you run out of dog food and make them brown rice and tapioca pudding for dinner instead.

4. Owning golashes makes life a whole lot easier in New Orleans when it rains.

5. Rainy days suck for your gay neighbor heading off to a white party.

Things I cannot tell you, but need to be able to very soon:

1. What the rules for Securities Regulation are.

2. What the rules for Secured Transactions are.

My head boxy. And completely checked out.

Vegans

I'm not a vegan. I do have some very good vegan friends who I like because they don't really make a big deal over what they eat. But then, some vegans make me want to strangle them.

For example, when I worked in France I had a "vegan" who shared our lodgings with us. He was this 300 pound hippy with an irritating habit of being very condescending toward us regardless of the fact that he a) had an associate's degree; b) could not climb stairs without gasping; and c) was Canadian. No respect here.

At somee point while working with him we started noticing that all the candy bars we kept around for the kids were disappearing. And then their Halloween candy was gone. And so was my fromage blanc and creme de chatain from the staff fridge. (I don't do too well when I don't have that soothing combination around).

And then there were mealtimes. As if it weren't irritating enough for the French staff to have to cook meals for 150 people, they had to figure out how not to put animal products in any of it. This is very hard for the French because I'm convinced that they are nursed on butter. But no, along with all those beautifully made dishes they had to SOMEHOW come up with SOMETHING that this guy could eat. (My favorite was the day he got a bowl of lettuce.)

And thus, his largest transgression was finally discovered.

Because of the lack of options, our friend was confined to eating mostly lentils. Lentils can pass through the body intact.

And so, when a good friend went into our shower and discovered that her sponge had pieces of lentils all over it ... well, you can draw your own conclusions from that.

Now, after you've been completely grossed out, I'm going to give you a more happy chapter on vegans. And that's if you're like me and usually don't keep too many eggs and milk around, there's always vegan cake recipes for when you get the urge at midnight to bake a cake.

Which leads me to another weird point. I bake a lot, but I don't eat any of it. I've been feeding my neighbors for weeks. Today I finally had a piece of my own creation which was divine, but have packed up the rest for a friend's birthday. There's just something soothing about recipes, because they're the only things that are predictable ... well, as long as unlike me you know the difference between teaspoons and their larger cousins.

Here's my fave so far. It's actually better if you halve the sugar because it's pretty frickin' rich to start with.

Enjoy!

Mexican Chocolate Cake
INGREDIENTS:
• 1 1/2 cups flour
• 1 cup sugar
• 1/4 cup cocoa
• 1 tsp baking soda
• 1 1/2 tsp cinnamon
• 3/4 tsp cayenne pepper
• 1 tsp vanilla
• 1 tbsp white vinegar
• 5 tbsp vegetable oil
• 1 cup cold water
• 2 tbsp powdered (Confectioner's) sugar
PREPARATION:
Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees and lightly grease a 9 inch cake pan.
In a large bowl, combine the flour, sugar, cocoa, baking soda, cunnamon and cayenne. Add the vanilla, vinegar, oil and water and stir until just combined.
Pour into the cake pan and bake for 30 minutes, or until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean.
Remove from oven and sprinkle with the powdered sugar.

Delighted

I am delighted to discover that The Girl on the Bridge, one of my all time favorites is FINALLY coming out on DVD. Here's one of my favorite scenes. Knife throwers are so damned sexy.

Rockin'

So, I got to see Doug Kershaw last Wednesday. It was pretty rockin', mainly because most of the people there were about my dad's age and wanted nothing more in that moment to hear "Louisiana Man" and hit on young pretty girls.

Which gave me an idea about making t-shirts that say "mullet-free" zone. And made me remember that it's been awhile since I visited probably one of the best websites ever.

BTW, "Louisiana Man" was the very first song broadcasted from the moon. In case being in the presence of a Cajun legend wasn't enough.

Love

Is incredibly ridiculous. But not as ridiculous as I am for refusing to stop believing in it.

Thanks for this poem, Jen.

Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting �
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Decisions

You know what I hate? I hate working in groups. Here's why.

You're doing a project, and no one wants to step on anyone else's toes. But a decision has to be made. And I'm more than happy to be the one who cuts the crap and makes it.

Just because my decision happens to also be my own idea does not mean I am bossy.

It just means everyone else is mad that their ideas sucked.

Losers.

Prowler

Ok, I would like to state for the hundredth time that I am not racist.

Last week I was not so thrilled to come out of my apartment (hidden in the back of a rundown apartment building) and find a group of construction workers from the site next door smoking weed under my stairs.

I was not thrilled about this for several very good reasons.

1. I do not like illegal drugs.

2. I do not like smelling illegal drugs.

3. I do not like people smoking illegal drugs on my property.

4. I do not like that of all the places in the world to smoke weed, under my stairs seemed appropriate. This idea probably comes from using illegal drugs.

5. I do not like the fact that people who use illegal drugs pay money for them.

6. I definitely do not like the fact that in order to pay this money, many drug users steal.

7. So, I'm not excited when potential drugged-up thieves are smoking weed under my stairs at 8:30 in the morning watching me lock up and get in my car. It does not make me feel safe.

However, in a conversation with a friend, he accused me of being racist. Er yeah, I forgot to mention they were Hispanic.

That would have been #8: I do not like when I want to tell people to get the fuck away from me with their illegal drugs, but have to settle for giving them a dirty look instead because of the language barrier.

His points were 1) just because they speak Spanish doesn't make them thieves (no objection here) and 2) marijuana doesn't cost a lot. (I don't know if I can object, see #1 under my points).

My points are that they are paid less than minimum wage, and after feeding themselves and paying rent probably can't afford it. Thus, making it highly suspect that they might steal, and who better to steal from than people whose everyday activity they can monitor up close.

And so, last night my theory was proven correct when one was caught climbing in through my neighbor's window. From a ladder. From the construction site.

Racist, my ass.

Dirty Dancing.

That movie has now been officially ruined for me.

And I thought pandas were so darn cute. Another illusion shattered.

ON a more cheerful note, I have decided to start writing for the China Daily, since its staff gets to write about panda pornography and more useless information about Abe Lincoln.

I just feel like I'd fit in really well.

Neighbor (again)

Okay, so maybe that image is a little aggressive.

This entry was actually going to be about something I appreciate about my neighbor which is the fact she never really listens to anything I am saying. Which is awesome because it is so much fun to play with her by saying really horrible and sick things that she agrees to because her mind has already moved on to the next topic.

Her: (While drinking the last of my $80 scotch)It's so horrible, I'm all alone because all my friends are dead.

Me: Yeah, all of my friends are dead too.

Her: Really?

Me: Well, dead to me.

Her: Do you have any ice?

Doug Kershaw

This is probably the best news I've had in a long time. Doug Kershaw is coming to play for the Wednesday on the Square concert series on April 16th. I thought he was dead, but apparently he's alive and pickin'. (That's only funny if you knew it was the title of one of his albums. Or if you read it out loud.)

Okay, for those of you who don't know, or might judge the man by his facial hair, Doug Kershaw is pretty much King of the Cajun fiddlers. He's also one of the reasons I decided to go to school in Louisiana. See, I had a father with a very prodigious and diverse record collection and after wearing all his Doug Kershaw records thin, I pretty much fell in love with the whole idea of Louisiana-ness without having ever been to Louisiana. In fact, the first time I came to New Orleans was to look for an apartment a month before starting at Tulane. Doug Kershaw did that.

It's now become a tradition when I come home to the lakehouse to blast "The Battle of New Orleans" from that now scratchy album while drinking cheap beer.

In other remote music news, I was sitting in Secured Transactions today when out of the blue my professor asked if anyone knew the singer Johnny Paycheck who in his hypo was buying a trailer. The weird coincidence is I met Johnny Paycheck when I was about 6 in Concord, North Carolina. My dad was a radio news man at the time at a country western station (I'm not making this up, I had a really weird childhood) and interviewed him for a show. So, I was able to answer the professor's question about his big hit "Take this job and shove it." (See International Institutions entry for usefulness of stupid information in law classes.)

After class, I mentioned to the professor that I had met Paycheck in his tour trailer when I was six, which he thought was pretty funny.

But I didn't find it funny when I wikipediaed his name later and found he had been convicted of statutory rape.

Ew.

Mawwiage

Recently, (well today), I decided that I need to get married.

I'm actually a pretty happy well-adjusted single girl. I'm getting into grooming and yoga. I have intense friendships with passionate and beautiful people. I've been around and done some wonderful things. I am about to graduate, with a good job, a place I love, and two wonderful dogs.

I know it's probably wrong to think this way, but marriage is sort of the glaring empty box on my checklist. Besides hiking through South America, wrestling an alligator and winning, and getting over my phobia of crowded dance clubs.

The problem is I've passed the point where I love to do things by myself. Okay, there are still some things (eating garlicky middle eastern food, working out to bellydancing videos, and shaving my legs). But sometimes I see a sunrise, a star, or a fat person doing a bellyflop, and I turn around and there's no one there. Or maybe there is, but not someone I get to have sex with.

Or to spend Sunday nights with. I'd buy a groom to spend Sunday nights with.