Category Archives: life

For when I get philosophical about my apartment, job, boyfriend, etc. Big picture stuff.

anime, goodness, humor, life, martial arts, nerd

I am many nerds

I’m a nerd in a lot of ways; I read comics, play computer games, play video games, read Tolkien, read manga, watch anime, watch sci-fi, play table-top games, attend (and dress up for) Renaissance Faires… the list goes on and on.  I pulled out my keys the other day and noticed that some of my nerd-dom was fully on display, and had been for quite some time.

the weighted companion cube was a gift from Diminutive Roommate 🙂

Behold!  My awesome nerd keychain crap!   A Weighted Companion Cube from Portal, a light I got at ComicCon from the Battlestar Galactica booth, and a little carrot icon from the old days when a carrot on a stick was the most valuable item you could pick up at Gadgetzan in Tanaris from that one goblin, and god help you if you actually got those blue goggles instead, because that 3% meant life or death on a PVP server.

I get made fun of (mostly by Sister) for being a nerd, but she can eat shit for all I care.  I’m having a blast.  I’m not shutting myself in my room every weekend, hunched over a comic or my computer, avoiding sunlight and making no attempt at human interaction.  I am not a Gollum-nerd.  I am a modern-day nerd, enjoying my nerd friends and my eclectic interests.  Plus, I have a few anti-nerd weapons I can whip out: I’m female, I’m attractive, do KARATE HAI-YA!, I have many friends, I go out, I have an (attractive) significant other, I socialize easily with strangers, etc.

I am many nerds, and I am happy.

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goodness, humor, life

Highly inappropriate

there was also a stripper pole, fake money, and little spanking paddles

Teacher Roommate had a party yesterday to truly celebrate her birthday.  It was an Inappropriate Party, where everyone is supposed to show up wearing something offensive.  I thought about going in black face, but eventually decided on going naked.  Naturally, I didn’t have the stones (or the blood-alcohol level) to do that, so Diminutive Roommate and I got some nude unitards, colored on some askew nipples, threw on some thongs and fake pubes, and BAM!  We were ready for the party.

Unfortunately, we were not told that the rest of the females invited knew that “inappropriate” meant “excuse to dress whorishly.”  I have to say, I was disappointed.  I expected some creativity.  Instead we had no less than three “sexy school girls,” one “sexy Santa’s helper” (complete with lazy boyfriend in half-costume), one “sexy devil,” one dominatrix, etc.  So sad.  I expected more creativity, and less T&A.

Needless to say, Diminutive Roommate and I did everything we could to make people uncomfortable with our super gross fake pubic hair sticking out of the thongs we wore on the outside of our rather unflattering unitards.  I was pleased with our costumes; we got lots of laughs and had a fun time giving a lap dance to two prudish girls who showed up without costumes (apparently one was staunchly Christian, score!).

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family, goodness, life

Age and itchy powder

worst prank ever

Remember this stuff?!  Itchy powder was such a huge part of my childhood.  I vividly remember watching my elementary school companions put this stuff down the back of each other’s shirts.  It dropped from the trees around the playground which had exactly zero grass, so this was as close to playing in nature as we got.  I saw some at a Home Depot with Dad yesterday, and had to stop to take a photo.

I’m working with Dad on fixing up a small apartment we rent out in Silverlake.  Some long-time tenants just moved out, so we’re taking this chance to improve on the place.  New tile on the kitchen, dining room and bathroom floors, new counters, new cabinets, new sink, new paint, etc.  It’ll be an undertaking, but I don’t have many opportunities like this left.  Dad turned 60 this year, and the days when he does his own construction and carpentry and general handy-stuff are limited.  That’s a big motivator for me.  It makes me kinda cry just thinking about it.

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Roommate burfdah!

Yesterday was Teacher Roommate’s birthday, the first we’ve celebrated since we started living together in September, so I went to some lengths to make it special.  For example, I made a cake.  I haven’t baked a cake in a decade, so this is some serious shit.  It was red velvet with cream cheese flavored icing, and fantastic striped candles.  Delicious.

Diminutive Roommate and I got her a gift certificate to her favorite sandwich place in the Marina, Mendocino Farms (which I call Fancypants Farms, due to the fancy sammiches they make).  They sell them in $10 increments, so we got five of them.  I wrote little limericks on the back of them to guide her on a scavenger hunt for the next one.  So fun!  She was zooming around the apartment figuring them out.  Here they are!

DRINK ME

If this heart could beat,
it would only beat hot,
though in truth it’s been empty
more often than not.

Years ago, Teacher Roommate made a tea pot in the shape of an anatomically correct heart.  It’s a little horrifying, and totally awesome.  It sits on our window sill in the kitchen above the sink.

Churning and spinning
and then with a MEEP!
It acts as a cooler,
our lager to keep.

Our washer/dryer gives off the loudest, most arresting honk… it’s just awful.  We hadn’t yet sold our old washer/dryer by our housewarming, so instead of being embarrassed by it, we hung Xmas lights all over it, threw a trash bag into it, and used it as a cooler for the beer.  When people came in, we would say, “Hey, welcome!  Shoes go over there, beer is in the washing machine, snacks are in the kitchen.”  It was quite the hit.

Ring and book
and skull and spear!
Deliciously spooky,
the gift you find here…

Obviously this was a reference to Betrayal at House on the Hill, our favorite board game of all time.  If you haven’t played it, buy it and make some friends.  It’s the best.

"yes, we're lesbians"

Communist woman are a
hard-working bunch,
measuring food for our
dinner and lunch.

Teacher Roommate has these Russian nesting dolls that are actually white, plastic measuring cups.  They’re super cute; we keep them on a shelf above the stove.

A portal to worlds in the
stars and beyond;
technology belonging to
whom we are fond.

This was the hardest one for her; it was Diminutive Roommate’s laptop, which we have hooked up to the TV.  All we do is watch Star Trek: The Next Generation.  It’s fantastic.

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badness, goodness, life, martial arts

Worth it

It just occurred to me that I started this blog a couple years after Boyfriend and I got together, but I’ve never posted how it all went down.  It was pretty spectacular as “And that’s how I met your father” stories go.  It started innocently enough, snuggling and watching a shitty movie at a friend’s place, followed by drunken violence and, in the end, love.  This is the account I wrote half a year after the fact.  Bear in mind that I must have told this story dozens of times within those six months, so my memory of the events was still crystal clear.

Everything that follows is the truth as it happened, the night I got my first kiss out of my then-crush, now-Boyfriend.

——————————

if only i had given this any serious thought

We were watching a movie (Van Helsing) at our friends’ apartment around 2am.  Boyfriend had finished work on a shoot pretty late, but had promised to bring me milk tea (with no boba) as an excuse to see him, and he did.  One of the girls who lives there (Drunken Acquaintance) came home with a friend of hers from work (Crazypants) who we had never met before.  They had just been out drinking and were completely sloshed, so they went to pee.  Next thing you know, Crazypants is making a beeline for the door, mumbling about going home and “tell Drunken Acquaintance I’m sorry” or something.  Boyfriend said “Wait, is she going to drive?!”  So he ran outside to stop her and I ran up stairs to get Drunken Acquaintance.  Drunken Acquaintance and I got outside to find Boyfriend trying to reason with sloshed Crazypants, to no avail (“Get the fuck out of my way, you fucking asshole,” etc.).  Drunken Acquaintance tried reasoning with Crazypants (which, if you’ve ever seen two drunks having an argument, is actually pretty boring), and 20 minutes later, had made no progress.  In fact, the only change was Crazypants’s sudden and inexplicable hatred for me (“Who is this bitch?  Look at her, she’s a slut, she’s fucked everyone I know,” etc.).

Eventually, she made a break for her car parked just around the corner, and Boyfriend went to stop her.  Drunken Acquaintance in the meantime had a miniature nervous breakdown and started sobbing in the middle of the street.  After reminding her that we needed her help to stop her friend, she got herself together, and we turned the corner toward Crazypants’s car only to find Boyfriend pinned between Crazypants and her car, being physically accosted by her, and dodging her punches as best he could without fighting back.  Well, that wasn’t really ok with me, so I yelled at her to stop.  She didn’t like that one bit, and decided that she would rather attack me than get into her car, so she left Boyfriend alone and started after me.

That’s when I started to get a little worried.  It was clear at this point that she was fuelled by rage.  I liked her better when she was just hell-bent on getting into her car.

With five years worth of martial arts training under my belt, I’m glad to say that when my reflexes took over, they did a pretty good job. She gave me a right hook, which I caught and pinned under my left arm, then a left hook, which I caught and placed in my left hand.  So there we were, facing each other, both her arms pinned to my left, and me with a free right hand.  I should have just pummeled her right then, but I didn’t want to hurt her; I just wanted her keys (mistake!).  In my mind, she was still and friend of a friend, when really she was just an assailant that didn’t deserve the restraint I exercised.  So I went groping behind my back for her keys while Boyfriend came up behind her and held her arms.  That gave me the chance to let go of her hands, turn around, and go for the keys in earnest.

Well, giving her my back was a big mistake.  The next thing I knew she had sunk her teeth into my left shoulder.  And I don’t mean like she bit down and released.  I mean she bit me, and then bit down harder and harder, and refused to let go.  Like a bulldog.  Like a crazy, vicious bulldog (I was wearing a tank top, so she bit straight into the skin).  It was only at that point, when her mouth was full of shoulder, that she stopped screaming obscenities at Boyfriend and me.  Our peace was not to last.

Needless to say, getting her keys went from priority one to priority two, and it was time for my reflexes to take the wheel again.  I reached back with my right hand and pushed my thumb into her left eye.  She did not react.  I pushed harder, and felt my thumb slip into her eye socket.

It’s amazing how many tiny calculations you do in your head during an emergency situation.  At that point I realized that if I went any further, I might seriously injure her, or worse, blind her.  That was not my objective.  I wanted her keys, and I wanted the altercation to end with as low a level of gross damage to all parties as possible.

I had a choice to make: get the bulldog to stop sinking its teeth into my flesh by hurting it (potentially permanently), or take the pain of a wild animal latched onto my soft, fleshy shoulder until I could figure out some other way to get it off.

I chose to not hurt her.  I chose to let her keep biting me while I thought of another plan of attack.  A half second later, I took my thumb out of her eye, put my whole hand against her face, and pushed hard.  That got her off me, but she was still clamped down so I figure that’s when she broke the skin.

Boyfriend, in the meantime, had reached up and was just placing his hand around her throat to choke her enough to get her mouth to release when I gave her face a good shove.  So he got his grip on her arms again, and I twisted her wrist just enough to get the keys from her hand.  I called to Boyfriend “I got ‘em,” we both jumped away from her, and she came after me again.  I have never seen a drunk person walk so quickly, in such a straight line before.  It was pretty impressive.

That’s when Crazypants decided that she would call the police.  She figured that after accosting Boyfriend and chewing on me, she was the victim since we were taking her keys.  Boyfriend and I said “YES, CALL THE POLICE.”  She went for her phone while Boyfriend and I double-timed it back to the apartment.  I hid the keys in a low cabinet in the kitchen, and we got the hell out of there.

We walked the two blocks to Boyfriend’s apartment.  I noticed for the first time that the night was cool for summer, though the pavement was warm under my bare feet.  Boyfriend offered to split a beer to calm us down.  I said we should probably have zero alcohol in our blood if the cops show up, and he agreed.  I sat on his bed and watched my hands shake for a few minutes.  My heart was still pounding.  Boyfriend pulled me into the bathroom to check out my shoulder under better light.  It was ugly.  I glanced at it, but didn’t bother getting a good look.  I knew it wasn’t pretty from the way it was yelling at me.

I laid down with him and watched cartoons for a couple hours.  After a while, he turned out the lights, let the computer sleep and closed his eyes.  He managed to catch two hours sleep before he left for work the next morning.

I slept for about 20 minutes total (I was still wired from the fight, I kept jerking awake to check on Boyfriend), and my shoulder hurt badly for a few days.  But I got a goodnight kiss, and the rest is history.  I spent the night at his place for the next month or so, and we’ve been together ever since.

EPILOGUE:

The next day I called Drunken Acquaintance to discuss the previous night’s events. She apologized about a dozen times (to which I said, “Don’t worry about it, it’s not your fault, you’re not the one who bit me”), then gave me Crazypants’s email address.  I emailed Crazypants, with cc to Drunken Acquaintance and Boyfriend, saying something like “Hey there, I’d like to reintroduce myself, as our last meeting was under some unfortunate circumstances,” and “Let’s sit down and talk about what happened.  This will not be a finger-pointing exercise, I just want to clear up what happened, and make sure it never happens again.”

Her response: “Sorry about the other night, I don’t think it’s necessary to meet.”  The end.

Well that wasn’t exactly the answer I was looking for, so after consulting my parents (who advised me against doing ANYTHING, even contacting Crazypants after the fight), Boyfriend and I went to a nearby police station and pressed charges.  We got a few calls from a nice lady detective, who passed the case on to the City Attorney’s office.  I was called in to tell my side of the story to a very nice man in that office.

He said he would probably offer Crazypants a plea (anger management classes, and attending AA sessions), which she could accept, or the city would prosecute her in court.  I said I hope she takes the plea, I’m not out for blood.  He said, “Don’t worry, they always take the plea.”  I guess she did because I haven’t heard from the City Attorney’s office or from her since (which is fine with me).

The case worker in the city attorney’s office was impressed by my behavior in his office (my candidness and sense of humor about the attack), and my mentality and reactions during the fight.  He asked if I had ever considered being a cop.  “You’re a natural.  You don’t see that in families that don’t have cops in them.  It’s really unusual.  You’re just a natural.”  My dad steered me out of there pretty quick.

That was six months ago, and things are going just fine.  I have a small scar from where she bit me.  It occasionally itches and gives me street cred.

————————————

I wrote the above three years ago.  It was a catalyzing experience; it drew Boyfriend and I together rapidly and inexorably over the next month.  I wasn’t at ease when he wasn’t around.  I worried about him when we were apart.  I spent every night with him, and had so much trouble leaving in the morning I was often late for work.  On the lighter side, I got to come to Boyfriend’s rescue!  I’ve reminded him about that a few times; it usually comes out something like, “I love you, Boyfriend.  I would protect you from anything.  I already did, remember?  Yeah, like that.  I’ll beat her up next time.  Stupid Chompy-face.”  I actually call him Boyfriend instead of by his name all the time, too.  When I tell the story now, I call my attacker Bitey McSnappyPants.  It paints a more accurate picture.

I visited an emergency room not far from my apartment within a couple of days of the fight to get shots.  I wasn’t sure what I needed, so when I walked in and the nurse asked me how she could help me, I said, “I got bitten.  What kind of shots do I need for something like that?”  She asked what kind of dog.  “Human dog,” I said.  She called a few other nurses over while she got a couple hypodermic needles ready to shoot me full of antibiotics or something.  It was a slow night in the ER, so I got a lot of attention, and some pretty good snacks.  My short visit didn’t cost me more than $25 as I recall (I’ve always had health insurance), and the nurses were kind.

What did I get out of it, in the end?  A pretty good story, a scar that faded and eventually went away within a couple of years, and a handsome, funny, smart boyfriend who I love (and loves me back).  Overall, worth it.

UPDATE: October 13, 2012
I was just looking over old emails and found this gem.  Old Buddy is a friend of Boyfriend’s, and was our mutual contact with Drunken Acquaintance.
“On a lighter note, Old Buddy has been enormously helpful on the topic: “She bit, but you eye gouged, neither is a legal move.  The fans demand a rematch.”  Then he sent me a photo of Mike Tyson biting Evander Holyfield’s ear.  Thanks, Old Buddy; let the healing begin.”

Apparently the scar hasn’t completely gone away 😦  But Boyfriend and I are still together, so the whole thing was still worth it in my book.

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goodness, life, manfolk

Where is my puppy

I’ve been feeling like this recently:

I want a pet, and so does Boyfriend.  Boyfriend never had a pet growing up, so he regresses into a child around Calico (Diminutive Roommate’s cat).  It’s pretty precious.  We’ve decided that when we move in together (whenever that is), we’re definitely getting a kitten.  He wants a fluffy one.  He’s going to find the cutest one he can, and get it without telling me.  You just watch.

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badness, life

Armistice Day

Before it was called Veteran’s Day, Armistice Day was celebrated November 11th as the day Germany surrendered in 1918, ending World War I.  Parties in the streets and parades followed for days all across Los Angeles (and the rest of the U.S.).

maybe this photo is romantic, but all I feel is their sense of loss

Very little can break my heart and bring me to tears faster than young men in military uniform.  I just kinda hate it.  I can see them crying and dying on the field, filthy and afraid.  They’re so young, it’s just breaks my heart.  Their families are so proud and so frightened that they won’t come home.  Children without parents, spouses without their companions, and for what?  The lines are so hazy.  The bad guys don’t wear swastikas anymore.

There’s a strange dichotomy that exists within the military world: a sense of honor, defense of country, and fighting the bad guys versus the fuck-the-world attitude, a callous disregard for life, and the fact that impoverished and uneducated folk feel forced to join up as a last resort for survival.  For civilians, it comes down to supporting the troops but disapproving of the war they fight.

A young man in uniform smiles and gives a quick greeting, but his uniform speaks first: “I am a killer.  I will kill for my country without question.”  I don’t hear police uniforms saying that, but they’re not at war.  I thought about being a cop for a while.  I printed out the application to join the LAPD just over a year ago when I was looking for another job before I left Real Estate Job (which I hated).  I’ve never seriously considered joining the military.  It sounds like a torturous job you aren’t allowed to quit.

The above photo was taken by Frank Brown, and was published September 7th, 1950.  Bill Dredge wrote:

Los Angeles’ own — the 160th Infantry Regiment, National Guard –  left for the fourth war of its brief history yesterday morning.

The leave-taking was grimmer than was the push-off in 1941. The tears came more quickly. The embraces were more fiercely given and returned.

And on through the night and early this morning other units of the 40th Infantry Division, of which the 160th is a part, continued the move out. They left from the little towns, as well as the big ones. And the hilarity was not there. Military smartness took its place. Too recently the men learned that was no occasion for jesting and laughter.

The 160th Infantry entrained at Exposition Park after mustering in the echoing, high-raftered armory. The number of departing troops was undisclosed — a matter of military security. But car after car of the troop train extended along Exposition Blvd. between Figueroa St. and Menlo Ave.

And when the cars filled with troops, the pavement was lined three deep with wives, sweethearts, parents and friends. The band was quiet then. The cadence of ringing combat boots was stilled.

The sounds were those of whispered, strained goodbyes. And soft, unashamed weeping.

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goodness, life

Spooky dinner, and my poetic side

ghost children are the WORST

I was invited to a dinner tonight where the guests have to bring one thing: a good ghost story. What a fantastic idea!  Apparently the hosts (a couple) cook a four-course meal for the guests, who, in exchange, provide the entertainment (and spirits).

I had a lot of trouble finding a good ghost story.  It had to have a sense of melancholy and mystery, full of unwitting victims of dark coincidence.  A story about a slasher would simply not suffice.  A jump out of your seat thriller was out of the question.  At the end of the day I realized it would take me hours, days, maybe weeks of searching to find a chilling tale that was up to snuff.

So I wrote my own, and it turned out… wonderfully.  It’s an epic rhyming poem that takes about ten minutes to read when read at the proper pace.  Friends and coworkers who have read it get chills at all the right places in the story.  My favorite part of the poem is that there are no bad guys, only victims to unfortunate circumstance; it’s a sad story, but that’s part of what makes it so good!  It’s not good versus evil, it’s just… spooky.

X is for Xerxes, eaten by mice

And tonight I’m going to read it.  In front of a room full of strangers.  Yikes.  I’m so nervous!  hahaha 🙂 I’m proud of the piece, but it’s fucking nerve-wracking to put my creativity on display.  Scary!

Still, I’m pretty excited.  It’s been really nice to write again.  I used to write poetry all the time (rhyming and non-rhyming).  In particular, I did sonnets.  So much fun!  And it was so easy!  The first seven or so verses for this poem were easy because I knew what I wanted to say, but after that I had no idea where the story was going, so I got stuck and it was a bit of a battle.  But it turned out so well!  I’m the greatest!

UPDATE: November 7, 10:40am
I’ve decided to post my poem (yikes!).  It makes me nervous!  Enjoy!

The Sacrifice

Once, long ago, when I lived by the sea,
when Daniel was young and precious to me,
I told him that we two would soon become three
in our house by the ocean, down by the sea.

We named her Selene for her raven-black hair,
and her dark, shining eyes, and her warm, watchful stare.
She grew and she laughed and knew not a care
as she played by the ocean in the salty sea air.

She was wont to wander, as young children do,
returning just past the hour she was due,
smiling and filthy, her dress all askew,
excitedly babbling of things she now knew.

On a gray, windy evening, the shadows seemed wrong.
From the docks, hunched and starved, a boy came along.
Selene was afraid, but stayed quiet and strong
though she knew by his scent that he did not belong.

It was as though shadows had followed this child
from the dark, from the creep, from the womb, from the wild.
Inside him it hid and it gnashed and it riled,
silent yet noisome, pure yet defiled.

The boy played with Selene as much as she’d let,
and stayed by her side while she whimpered and wept.
The doctor was gentle, the bone quickly set.
He said, “Children are clumsy when smooth stones are wet.”

My mother came down from the Highlands to stay.
Though journeying long, she departed next day.
No gentle prying could coax her to say
why she fled our small house on the sea, by the bay.

Once while out hunting, my Daniel was shot.
The boy returned home, alone and distraught.
Angry and shaken, the village knew not
that the boy in my home was the culprit they sought.

My eyes never left him, once Daniel was healed,
and from what I saw, it was quickly revealed
that there was no defense, no weapon to wield
against this dark beast, clever and concealed.

I watched as the grass seemed to wilt at his feet.
Seldom did he speak, never did he eat,
nor did he smile, for his heart was replete
with solitude; he seemed to be incomplete.

Soon I found he was never far from me;
kitchen or dockside or wood, there he’d be.
But helpful and busy and quiet was he
as we worked at my cottage, down by the sea.

I oft’ mended nets for our men by the shore.
His small hands gripped tight to the wool skirts I wore.
He cried out, and then, with a great rushing roar,
the sea swallowed me; I remember no more.

My sleep was then fitful; of dreams I had one:
Sweet Daniel, though wary, demanded a son.
He whispered that we three would soon fall to none.
That with his arrival, our deaths had begun.

I awoke in our home and sought out this youth,
endless and wakeful, his eyes filled with ruth.
The words came unbidden, unkind and uncouth,
“Speak quickly now, boy, and speak only the truth.”

“I am an ill omen,” he said to me then.
“Sinking stone, aching bone, brackish wind, fallen wren,
hidden blade; all these years no augur could portend
this thing that I carry: your ruinous end.”

I pondered a moment, then whispered, “You lie.”
“You are not so evil,” I said with a sigh.
“But your loneliness sailed you to us, by and by,
though you know that what mortals fear most is to die.

You do not share that fear, do you, young shade?
By water, by fire, by bad luck or blade
your fate was decided, your destiny made
long ago, as a child, and a child you have stayed.

But a child craves a mother, so a mother you sought,
and you’d stay with her family, knowing you should not
for the sense of warmth and belonging it brought,
though false, were never worth the suff’ring you wrought.

With simply your presence, all good will was spent
until, from each home, you were turned out and rent.
But no blood thirsty thought, no malicious intent
motivated this quest to relieve your torment.

Your burden has left you broken and bound.
Though your sorrows ensnare and your ship run aground,
though constantly lost and hunted tooth and hound,
rest now, young spirit, for I declare you found.

We’ll wander together ’til we fade into none,
and leave here tonight, all the living to shun.
My life here is over; my death is begun.
For Selene, for sweet Daniel, I will call you my son.”

As I spoke these words, the night darkened anew,
and whispered its welcome while day said, “Adieu.”
Now silent my steps and my heart’s warm tattoo,
and he smiled as he saw his one then become two.

We drift through the mountains, and pass through the wood
and visit the place where my cottage once stood.
I linger there, dreaming, longer than I should
of a life by the ocean, and a death that was good.

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family, goodness, humor, life

Halloween time is the best time

i love a good haunted house

A graphic designer named Mike Doyle recently caught my eye with his creation of abandoned houses built completely out of Legos.  These things are big enough to cover my desk, and rise about four feet high.  They’re serious business, and super cool.

I love Halloween.  I love everything about it: pumpkins, jack-o-lanterns, costumes, decorations, getting scared, all of it.  I also love having so many random encounters with people because of costumes, and asking for candy from (and trusting) one complete stranger after another.  What other non-religious holiday allows for that?  Everyone loves Halloween!  It’s the best!

JEALOUS

As a kid, I dressed up as a pirate for four or five years in a row.  I wore stockings, a red and white striped skirt with a jagged hem, and a thin white shirt and a pirate hat.  I also had a hook, if memory serves.  My mom would draw a curly mustache on my face at my behest, because apparently, even female pirates had to have Captain Hook mustaches.  Gender confused and full of sugar: needless to say, I was a typical, happy child on Halloween.

Sister dressed up as a candy devil one year, which involved Mom hot gluing candies to her tail, which she then unwrapped and ate before the end of the night.  I dressed as a werewolf one year (black clothing, All Star sneakers, and a mask), and as death another year (complete with armageddon cloak, scary face paint and scythe).  That turned out to be a semi-unfortunate choice, as I was invited to go to my first Halloween party by a 5th grade classmate where I felt forced to decline my first (and only) encounter with spin the bottle due to my awesome and really fucking creepy makeup.  I couldn’t believe we didn’t go trick-or-treating.  “What a waste,” I thought.  Plus, Sister and her friend both decided to dress as hippies, which only encouraged her to reiterate her favorite chant of “Angel, Devil, Angel, Devil” that she enjoyed cackling whenever she (often) wore pastels while I wore darker colors.  That shit went on for years.  I came to refer to her fashion choice as “Mug Me” colors, since I saw them as something that would make her look like a target.

But I digress.  Halloween is the best, even with an annoying Sister and friends trying to ruin my night with their stupid boys.

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humor, life

Incredible edible fashion

i'm diabetic! hooray!

Recently at the Salon du Chocolat in Paris, models trotted along the runway in dresses made of chocolate.

I saw these photos and laughed, but then the old woman part of me yells, “People are starving in the world!  France!  BAH!”  But fashion is nothing if not somewhat absurd.  The day fashion becomes nothing but functional is the day we all join NASA (yes plz!) and give up our aesthetics (no thx!).  I’m torn on whether I like high fashion.  It’s such a huge waste of energy and money, but I love the pure freedom of artistic expression, even if it often slips into the ridiculous and ugly.  But I love the concept of art: a semi-useless exercise of creativity for creativity’s sake.

If you’re not the type to worry about third-worlders, this must have been a seriously entertaining event.  Edible high fashion: What a great idea, in part because it’s so potentially disastrous, but also because it’s so temporary that it basically becomes performance art.  Each dress can only be worn once before it starts to go bad.  One of the dresses literally fell apart on the runway (see below).  What more do you want?  Ridiculous shenanigans are the best!  Too bad there are people starving in the world, France.

onoes! my delectably edible gown!

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