Wednesday, January 28, 2015

#28. Flamin' Hot Cheeto Vag

That is a real affliction and not something you want to coat your fried chicken in.

Menopause talk is always in relation to crazy outbursts, lack of libido or the need for lubricants. Great. We've all been there.

It's never, as far as I know, covered an itch so terrible on the OUTSIDE of your labia that you have to excuse yourself from 4th grade basketball practice to go into a bathroom stall and claw at your crotch for five minutes, hoping to abate the invisible fire ants that are crawling around on it.

First I assumed it was an old-lady response to waxing. like maybe it grows so slow back now that it was ingrown hair. Nope.

Next up. IT'S HIS FAULT. I've been watching my husband scratch his balls five times a day for 12 years so I figured that something had jumped over, using the shower scrubbie as a vehicle or possibly that my yeast had mixed with his yeast and was making a very uncomfortable rye loaf in my panties. Uh, uh.

Not so, ladies, so save your 'are you sure this isn't crabs or herpes?' speech at the doctor's office and go straight to 'I think my vagina is atrophying faster than my soul, can I get some ointment?'.

THERE IS ALWAYS OINTMENT.

THANK THE SWEET BABY JESUS FOR THE OINTMENT

*which is apparently also re-lining my vaginal wall in the event I would like to hang paintings in there.
I should have known when I was making fun of some people's career's being in the toilet and having to take spokesperson job's for this very same problem, that it would come back to haunt me and my ladybits. That's how karma works. Be careful with your words or they will inflame your genitals.

Tuesday, January 27, 2015

Monday, January 26, 2015

#26. Lady Like




Once upon a time I went to get a soda and got hit by lightning.

Once upon a time I went to Bumbershoot, which is an Australian word for 'umbrella' and a Seattle word for 'traffic jam on Lower Queen Anne'.

Festival, schmestival. Every city has one. This one happens to have way more literary and visual art than most. It's a way to see James Ellroy, Cambodian stilt-walkers and Bela Fleck all in one afternoon for a bizarrely low amount of cash, which they recoup by selling the usual $5 water, hot dogs, or kettle corn.

Cooks don't make money. I'm all about the love and free food, haven't you heard? I have to leave my friends at Built to Spill and go to QFC to gets snacks at cost, and make plans to meet back at the Coliseum for Soundgarden. No cellphones. NO CELLPHONES. Half an hour. Make it happen or I won't get in.

On the way, I take the path through the back of the Seattle Center where there are clean, empty bathrooms by the conference rooms, so I won't get stuck using the port-a-potties later. There is the stairwell, just ahead, by the reflecting pool. When I get to the top I'm stopped by a small circle of people.

In the middle of this group, I can see a sliver of person and hear a voice. Oh, a busker. Yippee-fucking-doo and move, please, people, so I can go get my can of Coke, because Chris Cornell is about to have leather pants and HURRY..

That voice, though.

10 thoughts happen to my head at once and they go a little something like this:
"That sounds like Patti Smith"
"That can't be Patti Smith, Why would Patti Smith be in a stairwell in Seattle"
"I should look in that circle, that sure sounds like Patti Smith"
"Holy Fucking Shit are you kidding me it's PATTI SMITH"

and so it was.

Silver-haired, dressed in a black leather bomber, black jeans, and Chucks. My hero since age 12 when I heard Pissing in the River and saw her in a suit looking so IDGAF before in music women were allowed to do that, was just standing there, doing a little spoken word for 20 people who had stumbled upon her. Never have I ever, so really, there IS something in the water of Puget Sound.

There isn't anything visibly remarkable about her. She's a crone with a wobbly voice who dresses like Joey Ramone and makes jerky, sharp moves with her body. It's kind of a mess, tbh. That's the gorgeous part.

She is the truth. When you see legit, some part of your subconscious wants to live up to it. Mine does, anyway. Every time a water polo player called me fat in Mr. Cox's class, I thought of that skinny cool-ass rock and roll singer who didn't look like a cheerleader, either. When my mother would tell me to put on lipstick and act like a lady to attract a man, I'd put on my Doc's and think 'uh uh'. You guys see how I am. This isn't anything new or a social media personality I developed for page hits. I'm this way because I never trained myself to care what you called me (thanks for the toughening up, Jamie McCrary and Alex Toland and sorry about that terrible vitiligo thing, that must suck). At the cost of half the people I meet hating me, it's cool. Some of you get it.

So much time is wasted trying to impress people with our collections of stuff and fancy words. What if the rockin-est, most beautiful thing about you is what you do with the ugly?




(Never made it to Soundgarden. Was so psyched about my secret open mic that I went to Belltown instead and got this tattooed on my tummy.)

I make magic from a will of steel, not a wall of make-up.

Get in a room alone where no one can call you out on Twitter and sing this shit LOUD. Al Sharpton won't hear it, but your soul sure will.






Sunday, January 25, 2015

Saturday, January 24, 2015

#24. Times Square





Weird pre-teen from the San Fernando Valley in 1980 stuck in a little hick town where they listened to Kenny Rogers and you were lucky enough to have a mall with enough screens to randomly show it? You may have seen this undiscovered gem featuring Tim Curry being younger than us now.

The soundtrack included:
Pretenders - Talk of the Town
Roxy Music - Same Old Scene
Gary Numan - Down in the Park
Talking Heads - Life During Wartime
Joe Jackson - Pretty Boys
XTC - Take This Town
The Ramones - I Wanna Be Sedated
Lou Reed - Wild Side
The Cure - Grinding Halt
Patti Smith - Pissing in the River

It was a movie for teenagers and it had those songs. Crazy. I remember begging for the double album and thinking my dad would turn me down, but for all the issues I have with my father, our love of music has been shared since always, and he said yes. The sleeves were light blue and white and the letters were printed like they were from a label-maker. And it had that new record smell. There is not a new playlist smell so frowny-faces all over that, Technology:(

San Francisco was an hour and a half away. It may as well have been Mars. I wouldn't have known New Wave existed until Casey Kasem played Private Idaho a year later.

The last time I saw Tim Curry he was being a really creepy killer on Criminal Minds, but he's really doing his thing here (pretty sure Eric Bogosian stole half of this for Talk Radio ) and it's a great movie for a Saturday while you fold laundry.














Friday, January 23, 2015