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In Which I Am Purple

May 28, 2010

Hello, friends.

Yesterday I went with Jason, who is visiting from Portland which fills my heart with light and gladness, to see Haight/Ashbury. We saw many things, including jewelry made of teeth and pig fetuses and huge umbrellas. I impulse purchased a jar of purple hair dye that was not Manic Panic, because it was right there and I didn’t feel like sojourning all the way to Sally’s Beauty Supply, and also it was only 8.50. It smelled like grape, which was novel and amused me since the name of the color was Plum.

Twig and plums.

Unfortunately, the bastard stuff stains like a sonofabitch; behold the aftermath.

Purple and green.

Don’t worry, baby, I scrubbed the whole damn thing right after this picture.

Purple fingernails.

Crappier than Manic Panic.

But any purple is better than none.

~fin~

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Today by my own inestimable lack of foresight I was forced to fashion for myself some impromptu rain protection. I think I look rather fetching.

Today I present to you, not for a limited time only but forever, until computers store files no longer, the Mom & Grandma Intensive View of My Fabulous Kitchen. If this is boring to you, you clearly do not appreciate entertaining anecdotes concerning cabinet door knobs or violent trash disposals, and you are probably jealous of my amazing mug collection. You should be.

This is the dishwasher. The dishwasher is the reason why I may not have door knobs on my sink cabinets. When I moved in there were not door knobs and so I just got used to opening them from the bottom with my toe and thought nothing of it. Then after we’d lived here for a few weeks, the landlord came with little green plastic knobs to put on all the cabinets. I was so pleased. Sadly, the screws he chose to hold the door knobs in are too short for the job, (size does matter, apparently), and the knobs come off in your hand almost every time you use them. As I had already perfected the toe to the bottom of the door technique ere long I was not really upset about it, although I did spend a few flabbergasted moments wandering around my kitchen pulling all the knobs off all the doors to see if I could; if my memory is correct and there are no guarantees on that, only one of them held steadfast. Maybe I will name it The Tin Soldier. All the rest of them have dropped like flies and wound up lolling in the junk drawer. Maybe I will name them Crappy Little Paper Ballerinas Who Burn Up Real Fast.

Anyhow. About the dishwasher. I went to load it for the first time after the knobs were installed, having foolishly decided at first to try and just use them very very gently to open the cabinets (harsh fail), and it dropped about one foot open and came to rest very neatly on top of the new door knobs. You really couldn’t have asked for a more efficient obstacle if you tried for a year. Most impressive. And of course completely uncooperative in the matter of clean dishes. So I took the knobs off, and now the dishwasher opens, and hurrah. I sure am tired of the word knob.

Gaping Maw of Doom:

Sepia toned to demonstrate intrinsic darkness. Also perhaps to disguise the fact that my sink is not exactly polished to a hygienic shine.

This is trash disposal. It has a capacity so ambitious that it swallows small drinking glasses whole, affording you the joyous opportunity to put your hand into its mouth nearly up to your elbow (don’t turn on by yourself don’t turn on my yourself don’t turn on by yourself) and fish around with your precious pink fingers for chunks and shards and evil baby shrapnel of your favorite orange goblet milk glass from the sixties. There is a bereavement in the glass cupboard, and a cautious vendetta in the kitchen. Cautious Vendetta is a good name for a band.

This is my favorite kitchen corner. It holds my bananas, and it houses my crazy pig in trousers and suspenders with big scary teeth and an apple with a worm in it in his mouth pot holder. How’s that for a sentence? How’s that for some nice long accurate to the point of suffering descriptive text?

This is my kitchen goddess. She is unnamed for overly dramatic reasons, and she is my excuse for anything I do in the kitchen. That burner covered in melted and then hardened candle wax had nothing to do with a lack of observational skills or a perversely insistent craving to cook in the dark by candlelight.

Mmm, colors. Sniff, dying laptop. Live more, laptop!

The whole shabang. From one angle.

My fabulous mural. In my mind I step out my window and walk up the curly hill and scramble down the crescent to sit in the little nest created by the extreme of the curlicue. Sometimes an owl sits there too. I know I know I should really get out more.

Grow seedlings grow!

This is the awesome cat corner. Those socks are full of catnip. A cat or two will saunter over, all nonchalant and trim whiskered, and sit in front of a sock without looking at it. Suddenly they pounce on it, and go rolling over and over locked in a brutal battle to the death, and then

SUDDENLY they freeze, drop the sock, and either bolt heels to ears down the hall to the bedroom to look out window or walk slowly and unconcernedly away to lick themselves in some other corner.

Every one a pimp cup:

seriously.

A cup with a chicken on it:

and the twin of the unfortunate milk glass that was devoured by the indiscriminating trash disposal.

This fabulous dining set was given to us by Alain’s dad. It used to be in his crepe shop, and the chairs are the apples of my eyes. One chair for each eye. Appling. The table, however, has its ups and downs. On the one hand, it is perfectly square and gorgeously sized and that tablecloth looks so bomb on it; on the other hand, it weighs a damn ton, I am seriously talking like eighty pounds here, or sixty, I don’t know, and it is almost impossible for me to move it on my own. I am never wholly fond of anything that makes me feel like a weenie.

Paint stuff.

Villains and vinyl. Also my mural paintbrushes, which I have made super long with duct tape and rulers. Painting so far away from your canvas is super zen. And it makes my wrists curl up and cry like babies after only about an hour. Thus the mural progresses slowly.

My little brother Jimmy made this pillow for me in home ec, because he is clever like that. He also makes unbelievably rock your face off fantastic peanut brittle. My girlish waistline shudders at the thought of living in the same home with him and his outrageous candy making aptitude. Anyhow, he made me this pillow and I brought it home and put it on the couch and the cats took immediate possession of it. It has been their exclusive property ever since, and I am hoping to score a picture of both of them sleeping on it at the same time some fine day because it is just sickeningly cute.

This is when Luna woke up and took notice of the fact that pictures were being taken. Luna loooooooves pictures. I am not kidding. Half the pictures I took after this point I had to reframe and retake to get her tail or her ears out of the picture. You watch.

One of those bags says Houghton Dunder Mifflin, and the other says SKULL CLUB. These are both direct and quantifiable results of my awesomeness.

Water and balance: my two main goals in life. Mostly. Sometimes there are those monster truck cravings for sour cream and onion pringles, and those are a force that cannot be denied.

That box is full of what will soon be salad. If the seeds grow. If they don’t it’s just a box full of dirt and slackers.

Those pots are full of future watermelons and cantaloupes and tomatoes and carrots. If the seeds grow. There is a lot of anticipation going on here, you could maybe tell.

Herbs. Future herbs. Etc.

You been told.

Super amazing mail table that I bought for three dollars at the Magic Johnson store. You are so jealous. I can feel it from all the way over here.

Aw.

The couch and the devil:

YAY I HAVE A COUCH A COUCH YAY!

I bought it yesterday at the Magic Johnson store for forty dollars, because ofttimes life rains luck like golden sunshine upon my purple head. MUWAHAHAHA.

Gratuitous picture of my hair. You love it!

you’ve got down

May 5, 2010

My cat is glaring at me like maybe she just saw me burn her food bag and throw her catnip mouse over the roof and give some nice aged Irish cheese to mice. She’s just sitting in the center of the area rug like it was a raft that she’s clinging to for dear life because oh Jesus, that’s a lot of water, glaring at me. I haven’t even done anything. I haven’t even not done anything. These hands are innocent hands.

I know I should write, and I really don’t feel like it. I feel like having some breakfast and planting some seeds. My recent obsession is planting seeds in dirt in pots and seeing if they grow. So far no good, but it’s only been like four days and I am told via the backs of many seed packets to sit quietly and be patient. It’s hard. Even though I know that even the most ambitious of plants won’t start popping up for another two weeks, I check out the window every morning with my first bleary eyed thought on my way to make my coffee. Magic? Magic overnight growth? Oh. Nope. Ok. Coffee.

Yesterday I spent a stupid amount of money on seeds and dirt. Dirt. I bought some. With money, from a store. This confounds me, but there is no getting around the fact that I did it. However, dirt money aside, this whole planting shit process has been a bonafide lovin’ experience for me. Who knew I loved squnching around in dirt up to my elbows so much? Certainly I did not. But the thought of making my own carrots and tomatoes is simply the most tantalizing thing that has happened to me since I realized that sliced bread wasn’t all it was cracked up to be and my flag was planted in the rich, poofy top of a costco poppy seed muffin.

Also I have another interview tomorrow, doing general office crap for a law firm on the Embarcadero, which would rock if for no other reason than that it is directly by the water. I would get to see the water every day, as a side effect of having a job and making money. Score. I don’t really care about law firms, as of yet, but it might be nice to have a lawyer friend somewhere down the twisted road, in case one or all of my many alleged insanities catches up with me some dark and dreadful day involving law enforcement. Nothing like a little legal string pulling, wink wink, to make those nasty parking tickets go away. (I wish. Fervently).

My body is kicking my ass lately. On top of the ritual yoga I’ve been walking all over the damn place seeing stuff and buying seeds and having my purple hair complimented in every part of the city. Yesterday my neighbor Ross and I walked all around the Tenderloin, which is supposedly one of the most sketch places in the city, and it looked and smelled pretty gnarly in certain areas, but really, so does all of SF, as based on my current level of experience. And there is a super cheap discount foods and liquor store in the TenderNob, which is like the merging of the Tenderloin and some portion of Nob Hill, where I bought aged Irish cheese for three dollars and elderberry liqueur from France for two dollars. The cheese was fabulous, we had it on pizza last night with more mushrooms than one would have previously thought possible, back in the day before one was dating Alain, but we had JayPeace over for a wee bit before taking off to go watch Lost and we forgot about the liqueur. However, I am sure that it absolutely kicks ass, and hey, since today is Cinco de Mayo and I have plans to be extraordinarily vibrant and loud in the Mission tonight, maybe it will all work out for the best and the elderberry will be a nice petite piece de resistance de francais in a celebracion grande con las margaritas interminable. And hopefully my legs will stop killing me, so that I can wear amazing shoes. Currently my thighs are involved in the complex and utterly unnecessary project of building muscle, right on the high inside where that little pocket of fat used to be, and they are huge and sore and THAT SUCKS. My thighs touch each other when I walk, is how swollen they are. And where they touch, follows pain and anger. BAH.

~My Fabulous Weekend In Sacramento~

or

~I Am By Horses and Do Not Cry!~

Yes, it flies. Of course it flies.

This is Star. Star is nervous around people he doesn’t know, and so he smiles. Big lip and gum and teeth smiles, big everything is involved here smiles.

Peacock for Holly.

Peacock for Becky.

Peace out, pilgrim.