C'mon, Get Happy!

So, last week was a crack-up, to say the least.  I have been called every name in the book, harassed via Internet and telephone, as well as informed that I need mental help.  I was also told not to call other women cunts.  Watch this: "Cunts, cunts, cunts, cunts, cunts!"  Did an angel lose it's wings?  Can I call parrots cunts, or will they be offended?  What about narwhals, what's the rule on that?  Okay, yeah, I am going to call whomever, whatever I want, especially when they act like one.  It's called free-speech, and it occurs...you guessed it, ON MY BLOG.   

Just an average week for me, really.  Three hundred people email me to tell me they enjoy reading the blog, and some CUNTS make it their mission to tear me down.  Your criticism of me means NOTHING.  I can and will continue to write and expose people for what they really are.  Part of my "pieces of wisdom" I was given by these geniuses (oh, and there were many) was that I "get help, and get happy."  I guess you only read the parts of the blog you think are about you.  Some things never change, oh wait but you said that already... 

I have blogged many times about my struggles with mental health, as well as my drug addiction.  You didn't seem to be interested in me getting out of rehab to give me a phone call (not as important as a resume, I totally get it), but suddenly, when I write something that makes you look like the self-absorbed idiot you are, you want my number, and now you want to call?  Three guesses as to who gave it to you, and the first two don't count.  Probably the same person you used to make fun of behind her back, openly mock her state of being self-absorbed, and would not let borrow your clothes because she made them smell.  Did you mention that to her when you asked for my number?  Didn't think so.

Anyway, I have given this drama (which actually to me, is HILARIOUS) enough of my good time.  You want to see me happy?  I am BEYOND HAPPY.  I have rid myself of all my toxic, self-involved relationships, I am engaged to be married this year, and I just got a house.  I have a new job that is ridiculously lucrative, and I have a super secret project just beginning in November (stemming from stories just like these) that because of legalities, I cannot mention until it's inception.  It rhymes with "rook lubrication."

I decided to make a list of the things/people/events that make me happy, continue to make me happy, and will come to make me happier, in the very near future.  I think a "psycho" would probably not be able to articulate these things in photo collages, but perhaps crayon drawings.  Let me know if anyone prefers those. 

Getting married...barn style!

Learning to crochet...slowly.

Being a fan and friend of these amazing girls, oh yeah and helping them start a blog!

My friends.  Just a few, but some say I have none.  I tend to disagree.

My support system...continued.

Surrounded by hot dudes. Constantly.

Getting Ed to read my tweets (and favorite them), giveaways from the blog, the best TV show ever (except for it's location.)

Photography.  Why didn't I take it in High School?

Shit, I just realized I am so fucking happy, I might burst.  And it all started as soon as I stopped giving a fuck about what anyone else thinks.  Thanks for the mental health advice, I didn't know you were a doctor on top of being a bitch!  I need "professional help?"  You should know better than anyone, you've needed it the most. 

PS:  This is all the time I am going to further waste on this garbage, so for those of you readers ready to get back to our good times, I'm so stoked to announce a giveaway tomorrow...just to say thank you.

 



 

No, I Win

You may have noticed all your lovely comments have been deleted from my blog.  Due to some comments yesterday, I had to remove the Google Plus comment capability from my blog, so I could now have the power to moderate comments.  If you follow me on Facebook, you probably know why.

So this is an apology to my real readers and friends, the ones who support me everyday and send me sweet things like you will read below, because sadly, due to one person's immature behavior, we have lost all the positive, loving comments y'all have left.  When I spoke about this, I was flooded with emails:

"Hey lady! I just wanted to let you know that you're such an inspiration to me and others to be more outspoken and independent! You're so creative and kind!...Anyway, you're wonderful and you shouldn't quit blogging because of some nasty people that are obviously unhappy...BOOM! Head up you're awesome❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️"

"I'm a huge fan of your blog. I just read your last post and I'm really disappointed that people can be such fucking assholes. Your blog is one of, if not my absolute favorite blog to read, you make me laugh so hard and I'm often disappointed when you don't post everyday! I really like hearing about your new place, your job, funny moments from your past and little facts about you, like not being into having kids and liking morrissey better than the smiths! Me too! Well, I won't keep you, but I just wanted to let you know that I love your blog as I'm sure plenty of people do, and I don't care about what a bunch of tools think or have to say. You rule! Keep your head up girl!"

"Blogging is hard and there are SO MANY haters. She's just pissed because now more people know what an idiot she is. I'm glad you decided not to quit."

So if winning is having a great reader base (oh and by the way, thank you for the millions of pageviews...every time you look at my blog it just makes me more money!!! YES!!!) having  awesome REAL friends, (of which we have NO MUTUAL ones so, nice try) and a great job that has nothing to do with being a pretentious hipster snob (checking your Instagram really only shows pictures of you looking beat up, with lots of really mature memes, so congrats on that success...if that's what you're calling it) yeah, I am pretty sure you're not "winning".  Nice try Charlie Sheen.  All those names you called me only apply to yourself.  How could I be obsessed with someone's life when I don't give a fuck if they live or die?  You're the psycho, tell "our friends" whatever the fuck you want.  No, I win.  

This is the Last Song I Will Ever Sing, No, I've Changed My Mind Again

Downtown LB Arts District

You know, a bus and some plants.  We got 'em.

 

Almost all of the electrical boxes in LB are painted by independent artists.  I hope to photograph them all.

Note to self: great background for outfit shoot, but must find way to move huge dumpsters.

They love bikes in LB.  I can't wait to get a new one!

Hell yeah, buddy.

 

The "Cooper Arms", right across the street from my new job.

Today was going to be my last post, indefinitely.  Then Catherine emailed me this morning and it made my whole day.  

"I just caught up on your blog posts and I can't believe how much trouble you are having getting health care! It makes me so sad how insurance is there to help people when they are sick, but they won't cover people who are sick! Makes no sense, and it breaks my heart that you are having so much trouble. I hope you can start getting all the help you need my darling."

Thanks, boo.  It's stuff like this that keeps me going. 

I had been thinking over the past few weeks, after being harassed by bloggers who either felt the need to tell me, "you're not fat enough to be a fatshion blogger, so get out of our community, and stop pretending to be one of us..." or, my favorite: "your blog just isn't COOL, you don't do any giveaways, and you never do any DIYs, and you don't have any kids, so it's kinda boring."  So, I'm not fat enough for the body-positive community (which I thought was ALL ABOUT ACCEPTANCE AND NOT JUDGEMENT), and I'm not "cool" enough for the cool blogs...because I don't want to do a DIY on tye-dye underpants, and I don't have cute kids to dress up in arrow print leggings, so I'm obsolete? What the fuck am I supposed to do?  People are taking time out of their day to tell me this?  These are real emails people.

My favorite is being snubbed on Facebook.  As soon as I post my opinion on something, which I am entitled to do, twenty snarly bitches have to message me and explain why the "language I am using is wrong" or how I am "not a feminist" or just completely snub me.  I get it.  You won your "contest" and now you don't need me to vote for you anymore.  I don't live in the Midwest, THANK GOD.  I never will, I don't want to.  Have fun being cold and icy, probably like your genitals.  Oh and by the way, I LOVE BLURRED LINES.  I CAN'T PLAY THAT SONG ENOUGH, IN FACT I AM GOING TO GET THE LYRICS AS A TATTOO, CHOLO STYLE.

I am going to follow in the footsteps of a blogger I admire, Autumn, of Gypsybee, and just post WHAT I WANT, WHEN I WANT, always making sure it's something of quality and substance.  That's why yesterday I didn't worry about what outfit I was wearing, or bringing my tri-pod with me, or setting my timer.  I just got back to taking pretty pictures of my new home, and I loved it.  I started getting a bunch of new ideas for my "new" blog and it's design, excited to share them with a future designer.

That's a whole other story.
 
I was shocked to find that someone whom I respect an admire, whom I was willing to pay BIG BUCKS to re-design my blog would not follow me on IG, friend me on Facebook, or has even read my blog.  They sure remember to email me about the money though, and to make sure I am going to pay them and when.  

I understand people are busy, but how are you going to glean a design or an aesthetic for a personal blog, and a personal style, without ever having READ OR SEEN THE FUCKING THING.  It takes all of four minutes to peruse a blog.  It could be a blog about collecting trolls, for all this person knows.  In fact, that sounds like a great blog.  I think I will have some kids to make this blog "interesting", eat a box of Krispy Kremes for all meals in order to "bulk-up" so I can legitimately blog about being "plus-size", and start collecting Treasure Trolls, because it's "cool."

    

Let's Just All Sit Around and Cry About Top Gun

 

Let's face it, I had a MULTITUDE of scary roommates in college.  The ones I chose, for the most part, (Sophia, Lauren...thank you for both being hilarious and slightly normal) were great.  However, one roommate I chose turned out to be, well...interesting to say the least.  

Like most of my fellow students, her parents were filthy rich.  Actually, her step-dad was filthy rich.  Her biological father passed away tragically when she was just a baby, so when her mom re-married she decided a software engineer might be an upgrade from a drunken, abusive military man.  This choice benefited her already existing three children, as they moved up from the slums to a new house that didn't have an address, it just had a NAME.

In no way am I making light of the loss of a parent, or the painful troubles it can bring emotionally.  I lost someone very close to me, someone I looked at as a parental figure, so I know what it's like.  It's the worst feeling in the world, so let me make that disclaimer before you all call me a bitch.

This girl needed therapy and lots of it.  She refused counseling.  Her schooling was entirely paid for, yet, she would not go.  She would rather drive her new car to Taco Bell and eat, even though we had a meal program that was built-in to our tuition.  MARRIOTT MADE OUR FOOD FOR GOD'S SAKE.  It's not like the cafeteria from Orange is the New Black, okay?  We had a waffle bar and burgers to order.  Yeah, let's go to Taco Bell.

If we weren't ditching class to eat garbage, I was drug along to watch her spend money.  We lived dangerously close to Santa Monica, so Third Street Promenade's Urban Outfitters saw a lot of us.  Well, they saw a lot of me browsing, and her buying.  She would tear through that plaza, doing some serious damage.  I saved my money for important things, like drugs.  I have no idea how she got so much spending cash.  She did not pay her car insurance, car payment or rent.  Yes, and this was not the first girl at Pepperdine I lived with who had the same hook-up.  In my next life, I will be Princess of Monaco. 

She never understood the concept of me (or anyone) working.  I got her a job at the flower shop where I worked, and I'm pretty sure my boss almost killed me.  They way he looked at her pick up plants made me double over with laughter.  He was appalled by her laziness, and this kid was raised in Malibu, surrounded by laziness.  After he determined she could not even use a broom properly, she never returned.  She got a job at a pet shop, holding kittens.  I did not realize that was a job, but I am still trolling Craigslist to find it locally.

I made the mistake of introducing her to a friend from high-school.  They dated, they got down, they broke up.  It was all my fault.  I let him stay at our place one night (when she was out of town, months after they had broken up) and she had a conniption because she said she could "smell him on the pillows".  Um, okay.  Does that mean you can smell my farts, too?

Then, she proceeded to partake in her favorite activity, which was to watch Top Gun.  Over, and over and over.  Then she would take turns crying in the bathroom, the hallway, her bed and perhaps her car, for all I know.  My friends would call randomly, and as soon as I saw that VHS coming out of it's sleeve, I would tell them it was a "Code TG" and that I'd be crashing on their couch for an extended amount of time.  The one time I tried to help her and talk about it, she almost punched me in the face from under her comforter. 

The "emotional stress" of school proved to be to much for her.  She needed to be off-campus to be able to "think and be in my own space."  Cool, no more fucking Top Gun.  Now I can move off campus too, and finally smoke pot without her breathing down my neck to blow it in some stupid tube filled with dryer sheets. 

The kicker for me was the fact that she once got angry with me because I told a mutual friend I was tired of letting her use my meal points at the cafeteria.  She had moved off-campus, she was rich, and the last time I saw her she was smoking heroin in her new living room, in her brand new apartment, in the heart of Venice Beach.  Get your own meal points.  

This argument of meal points was so important that she decided not to speak to me during the entirety of an Elliott Smith show at the Wiltern in Los Angeles.  We didn't know it at the time, but this was just after Figure Eight was released, and this was one of his last, BIG shows with a full band.  He played an acoustic set at the end, and during some of our FAVORITE songs we had loved for years, she would not even look at me.  Real mature.  I'm sure you can imagine the ride home.

She finally had enough of me when I would not write her resume for her.  I was working full time, she was "working" for some crazy Scientology art house in LA, and (big surprise) hated her job, and wanted my help finding a new one.  Since I was balancing crazy hours at work and a drug addiction, I told her it would have to be some other time.  She never called me again and has never answered any message I have sent her on FB.  

I notice now she lives in New York City, of course in Brooklyn (shocker) and still seems to enjoy taking pictures of herself in various emo filters and re-telling the story about how she made out with Norman Reedus.  That was ten years ago.  I don't think he remembers you. 

Oh yeah, and D said having sex with you was like sleeping with a dead grandma.  Maybe that's why he broke up with you?

Financing Depression

 Yesterday was weird.  I had applied for medical insurance several months ago, and was declined because of my "obesity, anxiety and depression."  I was honest on my application, I told them exactly what I weighed at my last weigh in (which occurred in the comfort of an entirely full room of patients in a very shady clinic) where the number was ingrained into my psyche for months to come.  I wasn't shocked by the number, but actually proud of how well I wore it.  So there.

I also was one-hundred percent honest when filling out their survey.  I told them I had a history of anxiety and depression, and that I take such and such for it and so on.  It was awesome to be told that these are "pre-existing conditions" and therefore, I could not be insured.  I could not believe it.  Here I was, willing to pay out of pocket for insurance, and I could not even qualify for it?  I appealed.

During the chaos of all this moving, I completely forgot about this process, and was tuned into full freak out moving mode.  Yesterday I realized I was running extremely low and the clinic that I use is miles away, in Corona.  I had finally been accepted for the health insurance apparently weeks before, but at this point I needed the money more than I needed the insurance.  I figured, I'll just stop by the clinic on a visit home.  Yeah, I'm not going home anytime soon.

If you have anxiety you will understand that no matter how hard you try to avoid a "trigger" it comes full-force at you, and how you deal with it is basically dependent on how well-equipped you are either emotionally or pharmaceutical wise.  With being alone all the time, knowing absolutely NO ONE and  the fear of starting an entirely new job, I am a wreck.  I only turned into a further wreck when I realized I was going to be without meds in a matter of days.  I was triggered, and about to lose it.

I called my clinic.  They were about as helpful as a monkey on speed.  They could not recommend any clinics, they were willing to fax my records over, but not to call a prescription into a local pharmacy for me.  They could not have gotten me off the phone quickly enough, probably realizing I am no longer another one of their cash cows, so why should they help me?  I'm so glad I signed up for the "Anxiety Program" with them, which now seems like a total joke.

I started looking around locally, but realizing that I have no idea where I am, and the fact that this is an actual CITY with a POPULOUS, there are probably nine million people in line for low-cost mental health care, and it would take week and tons of paperwork in order to even be seen.  Now I am REALLY freaking out.  I make a few random appointments with odd places off the internet, but basically I knew explaining to John how I need lots of money for a doctor's visit would not go over well at this point.

I became so frustrated and angry, I had no idea what to do.  All I am trying to do is take my medicine so I do not kill myself or anyone else.  All I want is to not have to pay eighty dollars just to be seen, and then one hundred on top of that for medicine that I need.  I'm not trying to score Oxy-contin, or steal someone's welfare check, I just need some damn medical care.

Then, a random number from Pennsylvania called me.  I was like, uh...because I have family in PA I thought I should answer it in case it was some sort of Polish emergency.  Nope.  It was the private health insurance company calling to remind me about blah blah blah...then I had another panic attack.  Wait a second, I never paid for this coverage, so why do they keep calling me?  Did they take money out of my account???  I started to further freak out.  I had to speak to a person.

Whoever you are, Cindy, thank you.  When I told her I needed to cancel the coverage because I could not afford it, she started to actually talk to me like a person.  She asked me why.  I told her I needed my meds and would probably end up in an ER somewhere, like a degenerate, beginning for pills.  She talked to me about the insurance available with my company, which I told her was pretty awful, but maybe just easier than all this.  Then she started talking some more.  Cindy was a person.  A person who talks in an awesome, life-saving code.  She said, "Are you sure you want to cancel it NOW?  You are covered until the end of the month, so you could go to the doctor and get those meds you need and if you decide to change companies then, you can just call us and cancel, because if you cancel it now..."  Oh Cindy, I never even thought of that.

So yesterday I bucked the system.  I went to the doctor, paid a forty dollar co-pay and twenty dollars for my medications.  That would have been the cost of one of my meds alone through the clinic.  I felt like a criminal, because everyone was so kind to me, and I was just there to use them as a means to an ends.  I do not like doing that kind of thing.  

When I started to think about it however,  I could not decide if what I was doing was really wrong.  Of course I do not intend on paying for the insurance, shit---I would if I could, especially after the kind way I was treated yesterday.  People were asking me questions, my doctor was kind, and my nurse was sweet as sugar.  I felt like an asshole, just sitting there, when this nice woman was genuinely interested in the fact that I get my period twice a month.  Yeah, I'd like to get that looked at.

However, what choices do I have?  Insurance companies do not recognize domestic partnerships so John cannot put me on his insurance.  I don't make enough money right now to pay for privatized insurance, but I will in a few months.  Then, I will have to re-apply.  In the mean time, I'm stuck going to shady clinics who basically sell prescriptions and don't care about my needs psychologically.  Now, I live in a metropolis filled with people in the same predicament, and will have to either wait ten hours to be seen in some sort of back alley scenario, or end up owing MORE money by going to the emergency room.  

Not to mention the way you are treated at these places.  Most of these "doctors" basically provide drug-seekers with what they need, but are very careful about admitting that is what they do.  They have meds on hand for sale, and they are CHEAP.  However, I needed REAL help and more than just a pacifying Xanax now and then.  I was prescribed Wellbutrin.  I think that was because I could remember taking it in college, not because that's what this guy recommended.  He asked me what I wanted to take.  Well honestly Mister, I'd love to take...nevermind.  

I was specifically told not to try to pick up my prescriptions from CVS or Walgreens, as they will no longer service anyone who goes to the clinic.  I found that odd.  Instead, I was told to go to Wal-Mart or a larger pharmacy.  Hmmmmm, okay.  It's just Wellbutrin, not Methadone for god's sake.

So now I feel like a loser, not only because I took advantage of the system (I feel kind of bad, okay?) but because I felt like I had no other option.  Every "clinic" I called cost a mint and required an appointment, various forms of proof of income and residency, as well as my waiting months to be seen.  If I had all the money and time in the world I would just call up Dr. Johnny McFancypants and have him make a house call.

I graduated with my degree in Political Science from Pepperdine.  I stopped caring about politics as a whole, as soon as I walked across that stage.  All I could think of is how much I hated everyone there, and how Tia and Tamera Mowry were in my graduating class, and they literally brought paparazzi with them.  

I cannot explain to you what Obamacare is, what is going to happen with health care, or how we are all going to deal with it in the future.  All I know is, why isn't there a safe place for people like myself, who need health care but are not in a position to afford it, but are not considered "low-income" enough for assistance?  Must we be reduced to these shady clinics, or paying out the nose, just to be well?  

I'm going to start my own health plan where the members have ID cards with pictures of Morrissey on them, you can eat donuts while you wait, and watch Golden Girls in the lobby, all day, no repeat episodes.  I'll even play the one with Mario Lopez because it has been known to cure cancer.

 

   



           

Stir Crazy

No, not this rad movie.

So, in case you haven't noticed, I have had a lot more time on my hands.  If you follow me in any way, you'll note my online presence has been pretty prevalent lately, as opposed to former months.  The reason is simple: I AM BORED OUT OF MY FUCKING MIND.  

I mean, don't get me wrong, it's been awesome to catch up on things, help friends in need, be able to actually ANSWER comments on the blog from my computer, instead of the sweaty confinements of the employee restroom, but in all fairness, I honestly do not know what to do with myself half the time.

I was unaware my transfer would take so long to "process" so, it has left me with something I am very unfamiliar with: free time, alone.  To add to the fun, I am also in a strange city, by myself all day until John gets home.  Trust me, some areas of this town would not appreciate a tattooed white girl wearing a dress covered in seahorses, prancing through their neighborhood with a DSLR.  So, I stay pretty close to home.  Luckily I have ONE FRIEND who lives in Long Beach.  She doesn't know it yet, but I am going to be bugging the shit out of her.  Sorry Jen. 

I start my orientation on Saturday.  Until then, I have some pretty exciting stuff lined up.  Today I am going to go to the doctor to renew my meds (riveting, I know) and then (I know, this is hard to type) return the fox dress to ModCloth via post.  Everyone's been dying for me to wear it, and I have to be honest.  The eyelet in the front fits EXACTLY over Morrissey's face on my chest.  It looks RIDICULOUS.  Plus, the fit is a bit strange, like wearing a loose cape on top and a pencil skirt on the bottom.  That could also be my sexy beer gut, but who knows.  There will be other fox dresses.  This one is sadly, not for me.

Why don't I clean something?  Oh HELL NO.  I did enough cleaning for twelve people over the past six months and I am not going to spend this forced "vacation" cleaning something.  I would unpack our boxes, but we threw away our bookshelf, so...we have no where to put anything.  Yes, my budget is so tight right now I cannot go to IKEA and get a Durdlestaf or whatever, so shut-up.

Painting sounds fun, but that costs money as well, and with me not bringing in cash everyday, it's been strange having to budget so close to the lines.  I also have an intense feeling of worthlessness, as I have pretty much worked everyday since I was fifteen, so this is really weird.  I don't think it's a good idea I make any color choices while I feel like a total loser, as this place will probably end up looking like my room in tenth grade.

I have learned a few things about myself, and they are not very entertaining.  

One: I think I have ADD.  I am simultaneously watching the Simpsons on HULU while looking on Facebook, and then I also have a movie or let's be honest here, GIRLS episodes rolling on the DVD.  If I can, I will check IG during all this, see a necklace I like and then add it to my favorites on Etsy.  I need help.

Two: I can't stop sleeping.  I don't know if I am tired (I haven't DONE anything) or just relieved, stressed, or depressed.  All I know is, I can sleep like a mofo now, as opposed to before when I was up with the sun and could never relax enough to sleep.  John likes to joke, "Just go to sleep like I know you want to."  It's 10 pm.  WTF. 

Three: I am aware of my surroundings and they include (but are not limited to): mobile soft serve ice-cream trucks (WIN), huge churches handing out food to homeless (creepy when walking the dogs, sorry), a mixture of rad, restored homes and well...I saw two guys smoking a joint on their front porch yesterday.  I didn't know whether to go inside or go make friends.   Being in a new city and knowing NO ONE is so strange after living in one place for so long and getting sick of running into people at Target that you know from work.

Four: My hopes of sleeping past 7 am have quickly been dashed by my upstairs neighbor who apparently conducts a brick toss every night in his apartment, followed by the morning's contest of stomping.  Thanks dude.  My dogs bark at literally every noise, and usually it's right in John's ear, so he's STOKED.

Five: No matter what I do, the fleas are winning.  Our apartment/building is older, and apparently there were some feral cats residing underneath it previously (would have been good to know earlier, thanks).  This led to a bit of a flea infestation, of which the premises has been sprayed for.  I continue the battle from within, spraying crap everywhere, washing the dogs like fourteen times a day, putting drops on my cat that make her look like a crust punk, scratching my ankles until only scars remain, you know, fun stuff like that.  I think that with one more laundry purge and a few flea collars and I've got this! Kill 'em all!

Finally, I've begun my crochet lessons from Stephie's Corner, and I am kicking ass.  However, I have stopped midway through because I also am watching Whisker Wars and The Dark Knight simultaneously.  It might get weird today when I have to leave the house.

             

Hesitation Marks

I LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE the new Nine Inch Nails album, "Hesitation Marks."  I had grown, over time, to expect that Trent (like myself) was aging gracefully, and you know...writing scores for movies and winning Grammys and not expecting him to make much more music under the Nine Inch Nails banner.  

I was extremely disappointed with the prior albums, "With Teeth" was weak at best, and whatever that last thing was with the twenty eight million tracks of noise was awful.  Then, he forms a band with his wife.  Okay, I give up.

Then, this happened.  And by this, I mean my own mother was telling me she LIKED the score from Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, and wasn't this guy someone I liked?  Uh, mom...you grounded me for an ENTIRE SUMMER for sneaking out and going to their concert.  Yes, this is someone I love.  You hate this person.  You told me both Pretty Hate Machine and Broken were NEVER to be played in the house again.  (Something about her being offended by me yelling "FIST FUCK!" probably did it.)  

So, needless to say, I put old Trent up on the shelf with the rest of the bands that I used to LIVE for (see Weezer, Superdrag, Hot Hot Heat) that basically fell off and started making music I either couldn't understand, or (god forbid) became liked by my parents.  I've recently lost Alabama Shakes to them, and I'm not happy about it.  Mumford and Sons you can have but...

This is what I wanted.

This is what I saw.

Okay, so enter my magical John, who knows EVERYTHING about music, telling me that NIN has a new album.  I'm like, "So?  Is it going to be a bunch of noise tracks again because of Mr. I-Write-Scores?"  John shut me up quick.  He played the streaming audio from Pitchfork as well as the tracks that were becoming available on their website.  Hell, Trent streamed the ENTIRE ALBUM for you, if you were willing to listen.  

I died.  I felt like I was thirteen again, drinking a Zima in the back of Brooke's car.  I could not believe the dance-ability, the beats, the lyrics...I thought, "How could I have ever doubted you?"  I felt like I got my angry, teeth-grinding, mud-slinging, black-mesh-wearing, torn-black-everything boyfriend back.

Even John, who was not a diehard NIN nerd like I am, cannot stop listening to the record.  He quotes it regularly, and it is on repeat here in the house.  I love the whole journey this one man band has taken me on, and I am stoked that it's not over or geriatric in nature.  It's as young and pissed off as it ever was.  Thank you, Trent.

Now, I will brave the nightmare that is Ticketmaster and see how much the cheapest/furthest-away-from-chaotic-slam-dancers seats to the tour are.  They are coming to the Staples Center in November and I am too old for that moshing shit. 

Currently Coveting

Brown Bag Vintage

Gnome Enterprises

The Nautical Owl

The Stranger Bird

NY Hop

Okay, so I have had a little bit of free time lately, and with funds running short, it seems like everywhere I turn I see something I want to buy.  I hate that!  I am looking forward to getting my new work schedule, that way I can "schedule" a few purchases for our place, and of course, me.  

My animal fetish seems to know no bounds lately, and my latest fixation is rabbits.  I had one when I was younger, her name was Lupin.  She was mean as a snake.  We built her this elaborate cage, which of course she escaped from, never to be seen again.  Basically, that's the G-Rated version of the story.  That being said (sorry for the Old Yeller moment), I have always wanted to get another rabbit as a pet.  Do not tell John.  Right now I will simply pacify my bunny needs by buying everything that has a rabbit on it.  I'm on one for NY Hop, a sister store of another Etsy shop I love, NY Illustration.  

My dear friend and awesome shop-owner of The Stranger Bird, Jenny, is having a bit of a "car crisis" at the moment, and she is doing something super awesome to raise funds (also making me want to spend even MORE money in her shop), she is offering 35% off with the code CAR35 and if you share this information, she will give you a SPECIAL 50% OFF CODE.  What the AWESOME?!?!  Thanks Jenny!  With such impeccable deals and pieces, that car will be fixed in no time.  I picked just a FEW of my favorites, but with her shop, it's always hard to choose.

It's no secret that The Nautical Owl and I are Eskimo sisters, and her art is absolutely beautiful.  I have yet to see someone do a wood-burned carving of Wilfred, have you?  Her shop, as well as her blog, are mainstays in my life.  After she said she was taking a break from social media yesterday, I emailed and then texted her.  Yes, I am an idiot.  Sorry Megan!

My dress addiction is something that will never be cured, but after the move I realized how few good t-shirts I have left after the "Great Cutting Incident of the Year 2000" where I decided my AMAZING collection of vintage tees all needed to have the neck cut out of them.  It looked so hot on my friend Insu, so I assumed it would look amazing on me.  Turns out, the "boatneck and braless" look was not one that stayed.  Henceforth, I will be visiting Gnome Enterprises for all future t-shirt needs, primarily because they are rad, and also because I am never cutting another shirt again.  These ones are too beautiful/rad to do so, so it won't be hard.

Finally, we all know I am ALWAYS on the lookout for new plus-size vintage stores, whether they be online or not.  I stumbled upon the selection at Brown Bag Vintage and it blew my mind.  Not only do they have an awesome selection for regular sizes, their plus-size section is hearty and beyond cute.  It was hard for me not to favorite everything.

I am hoping to step out today and snap a few pictures and give y'all a little sneak peek into my life lately.  I'll give you a preview: it's going to be a lot of pictures of DVDs and weird churches.

 

No Shirt, No Shoes, No Kids

Wow, that looks SO FUN!

I don't have kids, this you all know.  I decided this year, after many years of debate and some mind-changing epiphanies, I came to one final conclusion: I am not having any.  This seems to be a shock to a lot of people, and one hundred percent of them are parents.  They are always telling me things like: "Oh, you'll feel different when it's yours," or my favorite, "You have plenty of time to change your mind!"

I am not changing my mind, and how would it be different if the child was mine, as opposed to my friend's baby?  What? Why, because I made this crying, stinky mess it means I am going to love it more?  Nope.  I think what I am trying to say is, I have no interest in being a parent.  Some would call this "selfish" or again, one of my many favorite reactions: "Don't you want to use the gifts given to us as women?"

Okay let's talk about said "gifts" here for a second.  We get periods, pay twice as much for clothes, grow random chin hairs, are surrounded by images that may give us low self-esteem, or poor body images, we do the same work for less pay, supposedly men "age better" and we also have to work twice as hard to prove ourselves at ANY task.  

I saw yesterday on Instagram where a guy had left a comment on someones picture saying: "Yeah man, it's such a turn-off when a girl says she's into football."  And that would be because...she has her own interests outside baking and darning socks?  Good luck buddy.  I know there's the perfect wife for you out there who hates sports and just wants to bear your endless moronic children, chained to the stove, barefoot. Early congratulations to you!

By no means am I anti-children.  I am just not one of those girls who coos over babies, who was a babysitter all her life, who can muster that sing-song voice when talking to a youngster, or get down on one knee and call someone "princess" or "little man".  I hate those stickers with the family breakdown on the rear window.  I hate personalized license plates like LVMYKID or RYSMOM.  Please get a life.  Part of the reason I love my new job: there will be very FEW if ANY kids in my restaurant.  I just do not know how to deal with them.

I held a baby ONE TIME.  It was because my friend Pam LITERALLY tossed her child into my arms, and for a split second I had no idea what to do.  So, according to her, I caught her daughter "like a football, and then proceeded to carry her like a puppy."  Well?  You threw your kid at me.  What the hell else am I supposed to do?

I do find kids cute, but in small doses.  If your IG feed is nothing but your kid, either standing there (riveting), smiling (no one does that), or the old-oh look he walked over to the corner, let's take another picture, oh look he turned around, let's take another picture!  Shit.  I get it okay, you think he's cute.  It is this same marvelous parent who allows their child to stay up until three in the morning, and then cannot come to work the next day because they are "exhausted" or my personal favorite, "my kid is sick."  Would that work if one of my dogs was sick?  "Sorry, I can't come in today, Piddle ate some old pizza on her walk this morning and now she has the squirts."  HELL NO.   

One of my favorite blogs, Life With Roozle, is basically about just that, life with an adorable child.  The best part of the blog (to me) is the fact that the photography of this beautiful girl is so well done, so poignant that she is part of the art she is photographed near, she is captured doing random things, she is gorgeous in her natural habitat, and the spontaneity of the photography makes me love this little bug.  See?  I'm not pure evil.

I think that perhaps it is a very responsible and intelligent decision I am making.  I am not going to run a marathon, so why sign up for a 5K?  I don't have to do something just because everyone else is, or because society places this pressure on we early thirties ladies, telling us time is running out to make those babies!  I just don't think I have the skills to be a parent.  I don't have the skills to be a doctor either, that's why I'm not one.

In my life, and in my line of work, I have seen a lot of pain through the eyes of kids.  Whether it be an argument at the table, something that was said to a child, or just my co-worker's tales of this dad, or that partner or boyfriend and sometimes, girlfriends and moms too.  You need a license to drive a car, own a dog, basically everything in this whole world requires some kind of clearance before proceeding.  Maybe it is more responsible to recognize that I could serve youth better as a volunteer, or a Big Sister, or a counselor?  I see a lot of people making babies, and most of them can't even tie their own shoes.  

I don't want any of my "mom" friends to take this the wrong way.  I love you guys, and I especially love the way my pal Jess Elaine takes pictures of her little dudes.  They are usually wearing underwear on their heads and that entertains me.  I just don't have that feeling, that urge to be a mother.  I just realize I am not equipped, and it is not something that I see in my future.  

I have grown up with TWO excellent sets of role models in this department.  I watched my godmother travel the world in style, as a tour-guide and with her fantastic husband, as tourists.  I see them enjoying their lives, and being very active participants in the lives of their nieces and nephews and so on.  I think if you were to ask, they are pretty damn fulfilled.     

It was my cousin, Jan, who once said something to me in a car ride somewhere in the suburbs of Philadelphia, that has stuck with me forever.  I was asking her about her students (she is a Special Education teacher) and so on, and I wondered if any of her students' parents ever asked her if she had any children of her own.  She and her husband had elected not to have children many years prior.  She told me she gets that question a lot, especially from new parents or strangers they meet in their travels (oh, I think they have been to AT LEAST every continent), and she told me she had developed the perfect answer.

"Vic and I are child-free by choice," she said.  Well, so am I. 

The New Place: The Beginning

My front entryway, right now very welcoming if you are a crackhead.

This is our built-in "Murphy Bed" (the kind that comes out of the wall) which we will NOT be using for several different reasons: size, creepy factor, we could die in it, it's 60 years old...need I go on?  Sure looks cool though and so far, make an excellent purse and hat rack.

This is our X-Files style heater that probably contains either the dude who eats livers or the guy who eats people's hearts.  Needless to say, we're covering it.  Neither John nor I want ANYTHING to do with it.

From the windows, to the walls!

Captain Clean begins his OCD freakout on the kitchen sink.

It's much better now, I swear.  We have hot water...I think.

Care packages and housewarming gifts go right here, thanks!

I have a lot of cobweb work to do.  I ain't afraid of no ghost!

Our entire backyard is nothing but banana trees and salt air.  We are exactly ONE MILE from da beach...boi!

Eat your heart out fatshion bloggers, my closet is going to kick your closet's ass when I'm done decorating.  Oh yeah, that and mine could either hide a grow room or a human body as well---so beat that.

So here I sit, on my dusty hardwood floor, coming to you live from John's ancient computer, which I have propped up on a storage box and am using my left leg to hold the keyboard.  You guys should really see this shit.  

Honestly, I'm stoked.  The apartment is great, and it's more like a house for us, especially with the studio space in front for me.  I am so excited to create new things and write here.  I am giving myself a BIG blog re-design around my birthday time (ahem...next month), as well as painting, decorating and manifesting the place of my dreams.  

There are so many young people, all walking dogs, all riding bikes, all smiles... of which the latter is rare here in Southern California.  So far everyone has been very kind, and it seems like I will really be at home here, especially since I just got some fantastic news yesterday.

Not to go into too much detail, but I have been crossing my fingers ever since I decided to do this move.  I was thinking of a "lateral transfer" within my company, but one of my managers reminded me that we own a rather expensive steakhouse in the area, and why didn't I shoot for that?  Honestly, I thought I would NEVER get the job, and after my interview I was almost positive I wouldn't.

It's not that I did not interview well, it's just that damn self-esteem of mine and that awesome capacity that I have to sell myself short that came peeking through, post-interview.  I do not know why I was so freaked out.  Everyone kept assuring me things would be fine, but I kept seeing molehills and turned them all into mountains.

I have a ton of work to do on getting this place to where I want it to be, but I am excited by the completely blank slate and the awesome vintage decor.  I am going to finally invest in a beach cruiser with a basket, and tear these streets up, Yard Sale style.
 
Those that helped me, you know who you are.  Des, Brad, Mom, Dad and my John...you guys rule.  Even though he will NEVER read this I want you to know that I have one of the most supportive, kind, intelligent and most importantly, hilarious bosses in all the world.  If it hadn't been for "The Coyote", I would have never had the confidence to do this.  So, the next time you're out in a vacant parking lot and you see a coyote, offer him some sourdough bread.  Just do it, for me.