Welcome to Hell

Welcome to hell. Please take a number. Her Evilness will be with you when she damn well feels like it.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

THE CORPORATE JOB starts tomorrow....


high heels
office-appropriate cardigan
espresso maker PRIMED AND READY
intestinal fortitude....
and [ ] <-- that much excitement.

i plan on going to bed tonight by midnight, duly dosed on xanax and other smokables. see, my general plan is to stay up until the sun starts coming up, THEN go to bed. patently, this will not work if i'm trying to drag my ass up at 7:30 am. so.
this is when i duly praise my prescription for, and the wonderful sleepy properties of, xanax.

hail the almighty xanax!

so. since i don't own a brain before noon, i fully plan to lay out EVERY SINGLE THING i might possibly need for tomorrow tonight, since i'll no doubt be running out of the house like a bat outta hell come tomorrow morning.

this whole laying out the outfit the night before thing makes me feel variously like a small child, or completely OCD. especially when i've got my espresso beans already in the grinder, and my undies laid out, as if i am so brain dead i could possibly make an underwear mistake.

problem is, i AM that brain dead in the morning. i don't really do the breakfast thing, as my stomach's still asleep as well. it's all i can do to sleep-walk out of the door, having drunk FAR TOO MUCH CAFFEINE and wearing clothing.
looking awake at work is seriously hard.

so, to in no way conclude this post in a normal manner, these are some pictures of friday night, first night of PIRATE WEEK!

also: i managed to catch one of the members of the Revolving Cat Parade on my Porch!!! one of the six or so...

Saturday, March 27, 2010

me + cats = exploding face

i have two favorite animals: horses, and cats.
both of which i am allergic to. naturally, i think this is vastly unfair.
this is one of my favorite activities:

allergies don't stop me from doing much other than breathing, though. i live with a cat, Roxy. it's not a good idea to let her near my bed or clothing though, so she lives mostly outdoors, and in the kitchen. or the living room, where we block every attempt at snuggling on the couch. i don't want my couch to make me sneeze.

we live in a shotgun style house, as is common in new orleans. thus, our place is basically a long hallway. you have to go through all the rooms in order to get into the kitchen, and our living room is on the opposite end.

naturally the cat (Roxy) knows this, and takes every opportunity to show up on the front porch, which means if we let her in (and she's really fucking persistent and whiny about it) then one of us has to chase/wrangle/carry her to the kitchen and shut the door, so she doesn't immediately make for, say, my closet, where she can rub her allergy-ness all over my clothing.

it's not a joke, it really happens. and sometimes, this happens, too:

she is the Fuzzbutt. and the Fuzzbutt is evil. and a bit confused, too.
she's the Matt's (see previous posts) cat. and she has been moved from Chicago, to Portland, and then all around the whole bloody city of Portland, then Pensacola, and now New Orleans. i think she loves it here, but it's hard to tell, really. she's a gypsy cat.
and evidently that's not just a saying. Roxy was given (note i didn't say chose, here) to the Matt by an ex of his, and he explained to me that she (the ex) was an actual gypsy, heritage-wise. so, by the very definition, Roxy is a gypsy cat. which at least is interesting, if not technically true. (i have no idea if it's true...not my cat).
so Fuzzbutt is somewhat like that kid that your friend ended up pregnant with by accident...not precisely planned (or wanted, up front) but loved, at least.

since we keep her mostly in the kitchen or kick her outside most of the time, i'm starting to think that she believes she's homeless.
this was our first indication that we might have a hobo cat:

i told the Matt we might want to get a cat bed or something, lest she start acting really homeless, and stop bathing herself. he said, "aw, fuck her," which i took to mean generally, "let her have the box, i am poor." or something to that effect.
thus Roxy has a box. probably best anyway or i'd have to start washing a cat bed frequently so as not to be allergic to my fucking kitchen. ridiculous.

during the night and early morning hours (most of which i'm awake for) we have a revolving cat parade on our porch, due to the food we leave out for Roxy so she (presumably and hopefully) won't bug the shit out of us every time she wants to eat three pieces of food and scamper back outdoors. i don't know if it'll make Fuzzbutt stop harassing us, but it does have the entertaining effect of drawing every cat on the street, most of which are vaguely socialized at best. i've tried to get pictures, but they run too damn fast.

naturally, Fuzzbutt protests this stealing of food, so we also get to watch her chase all the other cats. it's either that, or she ends up in the kitchen all night. it's been like that a lot recently, so that now every time i get up out of bed from reading to go to my bathroom, i see this:

ears go up like a periscope, she realizes "oh, it's just you," and she curls back up and ignores you.

either that, or she MUST have all of your attention. ALL OF IT. IMMEDIATELY.
in which case, no matter how badly you have to go, you can't pee until you shake the cat off your leg and sprint into the bathroom quickly, lest she decide she must sit on you while you're trying to shit or something.

to the end of destroying this behavior, i've come up with cat twaddling. goes like this:

walk into kitchen. Fuzzbutt perks up, and gives you THE LOOK which means PET ME NOW DUMB HUMAN, OR ELSE. i walk over, give her a two-handed scratch behind the ears really fast, and while she's basking in this, RUN LIKE HELL to the bathroom.
it seems to be working, so far.
the downside is, if you skip the cat twaddle, you get this look:



evidently, today marks the first of pirate week, in new orleans.

so i put on a corset, pirate pants and a skirt, my "bling" (that would be a matching set of coins for bellydancing, y'all), and a large black cloak. (see post one for picture.) and i went out.

out included many things: the french quarter, much rum (was had by all), and several friends. i brought my phone, and my id. i came back drunk, with $1.25.

definitively, I WIN.

so i'm not sober enough really to bother with the rest of the story (although i did show a drunken scotsman in kilt to pirate's alley - there, details), but long story short:

i (and friends) got LIBRARIAN SHUSHED out of pirate's alley, on a friday night, AT THE BEGINNING OF PIRATE WEEK.

i didn't even know that was possible.

patently, we were made of WIN tonight.

i rest my case.

quote of the night: "well if she's not drunk, can I take her home?????

Friday, March 26, 2010

Liberace's piano

for as long as i've been alive, my dad has been an antiques dealer.
however. after my mom divorced him, he became just a tad more flamboyant.
or a lot.

this was my freshman year of college (that'd be 2003, y'all), and the first time i'd been to his bachelor pad. i was expecting antiques everywhere, as per usual. this was what i wasn't expecting: mannequins. everywhere. mannequins on pedestals, mannequins in the corner. and, the piece de resistance: Mitzie.

Mitzie was the only mannequin with a name. she reclined in a red evening dress and silver heels, on top of the grand piano. Mitzie had a periodically changing hairstyle - from red, to blonde, brunette and back again. she wore Mardi Gras beads, and green for St. Patty's, etcetera. she was also impossible to miss, from the moment you walked in the door.

my not so heterosexual ex-boyfriend took one step into dad's new house, and grabbed my hand, hissing, "omiGOD honey, your daddy's a fag."
"no he isn't," i responded. "he deals in antiques." which might explain some of the naked greek men in the house....but surely not all of them. to be fair, there were quite a few.
"a hundred bucks, he's a homo." ex-boy muttered. the bet was on.

it only took a few days to lose myself a hundred dollars. all the other evidence might have been questionable, but when i found the cosmogirl magazine with ashton kutcher on the cover in his nightstand drawer, next to the technicolor lifestyle condoms and lube, i knew i'd lost this one, and good.
"okay," i conceded. "my dad's a homo. this is going to be AWESOME!!!"

and it was. it was very awesome.

FACT: when coming out to your mother as a young college student, it always helps if your mom has just recently divorced your dad for being gay.
my mom's reaction, instead of being "get out of my house!" was more like, "oh god, not another one!"

it was as smooth as i could reasonably expect.

anyway, things have gone along more or less smoothly ever since, as smooth as a southern family with two non-heteros gets, really. dad's still trying to figure out how to be simultaneously christian and gay, but he's working on it (i know, i don't get it either).
dad has a revolving parade of boyfriends, mom remarried an AWESOME guy, my brother is mostly non-scarred, blah blah blah.
i am still the "black sheep" of the family, eschewing morals, sexual mores, and pretty much everything else. (how else am i supposed to have fun, here?)

heh, try this for fun: come out as gay....two years later, come out as not-quite-as-gay-as-previously-assumed, then come out as poly-amorous. date a married couple, and introduce them to the folks.
throw in a bit of odd paganism, and if your family doesn't spontaneously explode, pat yourself on the back, big time. you win the best family award! (i really do love my family...despite how it may appear in this blog...)

so anyway, back to regularly scheduled plot before side notes....

my personal favorite mannequin OF ALL TIME was this guy:

for the longest time, dad had him stuck into a pedestal with a piece of rebar up his ass. eventually i think one of the neighbors might have complained, and he removed the rebar and moved him into the back yard, as shown in the picture. (the cat is Roxy...more on her later. evil Fuzzbutt.)

since dad is selling that house (see previous post), i think my favorite mannequin man is finally leaving the show.

my dad's not giving up on the fabulous factor, however.
i sincerely apologize for not having a picture of this. it is AMAZING.

my dad now owns Liberace's piano.
the piano in question didn't used to be Liberace's. it used to be a perfectly normal black grand piano.

evidently dad was bored, though, and decided that what he really needed was to get a mirror cut for THE ENTIRE TOP OF THE GRAND PIANO.

see example piano. now imagine the top closed, and the entire damn thing covered in a huge mirrored top.
he then got these fantastic candlesticks that look a lot more like miniature chandeliers, and stuck them on top. the entire half of the living room fucking sparkles.
it's fantastic.
as soon as i get over to his house, i thusly promise to take pictures of this marvel.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

people feel compelled to give me insanely random things.

my awesome house, before i moved in approximately 3 weeks ago:

what happened, after i moved in all of the shit i just hauled ACROSS THE ENTIRE CONTINENTAL U.S.:

to say so mildly, i am a packrat. i also own rats. they are awesome.

i call that one "two rats, one wheel." far more entertaining, believe me.

in spite of the fact that i have WAY MORE STUFF THAN A HUMAN BEING SHOULD REASONABLY OWN, people feel compelled to give me really weird stuff. they must. why else would i have been presented with the following things by one of my best friends the other night? all at THE SAME TIME?

okay, a pocket-size booklet of the Constitution. patently everyone needs one of these. feathery purse...well, it is funny enough to make me smile at my corporate hell-job. stockings, fair enough. but look at the first one. look at it!!!

why would my wonderful best friend, who has known me through a LOT of things, give me something that says "drug-FREE???" (if anything, it should say, "give me free DRUGS.") i can only imagine what was going through her mind. probably something like, "hehehe, the irony.... THE IRONY!!!!!"

my dad is moving from one house to the next. a smaller house, which poses a significant problem. the man is even more of a packrat than i am ( i don't even know how it's possible), and he is an antiques dealer, to boot. which may explain the following things:

that would be a random chunk of marble which i'm currently using on my coffee table as the BIGGEST COASTER IN THE WORLD, an awesome velvet pillbox hat, and...? go ahead, guess.

if you guessed "small bronze of napoleon on a horse," you win a gold star.

there are more things, like six bags of velvet drapes, and also a rockin' lamp to put underneath an art piece, but who knows where the hell all that stuff is.

(by the way, all of the above stuff was given to me IN ONE DAY.)

so my mom's offering was not as strange, certainly:

a plant, for the plant-killing daughter. i don't kill plants on purpose...it just happens. i love them. they evidently don't love me back. this one is a spider plant...we shall see. the last plant i had was a cactus...but my roommate Dave killed that.

the above friend in question, Mirror, is fond of strange presents. she gave me a small cabbage patch doll and an Ursula Le Guin book on tape for christmas, and i neither celebrate christmas, nor have a tape player. she is a strange creature:

she also gave me these:

because everyone needs roller skates you can strap to your converse.

my dad is also prone to strange gifts from different countries. he goes to israel, and brings me this:

an oil lamp, really? what i want to know is, can i find oil to burn in it, and can i use the olive oil in my kitchen? (random experiment for later...check.)

then, there's the random things i buy myself:

the guy who sold it to me said it was African (patently true, as he himself was also African), and it was for waving around to give good luck, for...well, something.

what i thought when i bought it (at a very reasonable price - it is made from horsehair, after all): BOYFRIEND SWATTER!!!!!!!!!!

now the boyfriend (that would be the Matt) lives in perpetual fear - not really - but it is a good threatening tool. see what i accomplished today!

an actual Matt, doing the dishes! that was my productive moment for today. i feel proud.

WTF?!? i'm sure you're wondering...

 who is Satan?
why is Satan going to Sing-Sing, oh prison of notorious repute?

these questions at least, i can answer.

I am Satan. (not to be confused with the devil, that's another bugger entirely.)
you can blame me being known as Satan on the brother of this guy i used to date a million years ago - the brother, who was commonly known as B.J., hated my guts.
(i know, i have no idea why any sentient being would willingly be called B.J., male or female. i'm sure he was a William John or some shit, but STILL.)
anywho, this B.J. fellow really, really hated the fact that i was dating his brother. i still don't know why. but one day i got a phone call at his brother's house, B.J. answered, and turned around, fixed me with the EVIL LOOK OF DOOM and said, and i quote,
"phone for you.....SSSSSAAATAAANNNN," with the most evil hissing voice i have ever heard.

the nickname, to put it mildly, stuck.
so, i am Satan. i'm a red-head. it's not precisely unfounded.

second question: Sing-Sing?
sing-sing. because Satan has a new job.

not at a prison, although i'm sure that would be wildly entertaining. this particular job is far better than some others i've had...such as convenience store clerk, poorly-paid law office gopher, and more recently, Being Unemployed. the job itself, i'm sure, will be all sunshine and rainbows, as it's in Disaster Recovery.
my issue is not with starting a new job...it's the environment. i'll be working in corporate hell. corporate, to me, definitely equals Sing-Sing, if only in my mind. the reality may be wildly different, but every time i get this horrifying cubicle vision.... ::shudder::

i'll be doing something vaguely administrative, i assume, and using my oh-so-handy B.A. in Creative Writing. how, i do not know. part of the job is possibly meeting and schmoozing government officials. (why my boss thinks i can do this is beyond me.) therefore, i must wear office clothes. i imagine they're going to want me to look like this on any particular day:

fair enough. but here is what i looked like, just this afternoon:

you see my quandary? i don't own office clothing. i own things that wouldn't be out of place in renaissance fairs, furry conventions, belly dancing classes, and drugged out hippie festivals. i own clothing gutter punks would wear. my uniform is a ratty band t-shirt and paint-encrusted, jeans with holes.

i went to this job interview in an ACTUAL SKIRT, the only nice heels i own, and ACTUAL MAKEUP. i may have set up some fairly high expectations. whoops.
so i went yesterday to a thrift store, and found some cardigans. cardigans, because i have tattoos on my arms, and i have NO IDEA if mr. bossman would give two shits whether i'm covering them up or not. (i do live in the south, so i err on the side of people being closed-minded and rather prissy about things like tattoos. i assume they won't want them cluttering their office, and i always feel great if i turn out to be wrong.) cardigans, because i imagine if i find some really cute dresses i might conceivably want to wear into the office, i can P.C. them up by wearing a button-up sweater, and sorta, kinda, blend into the cubicle environment. maybe.

i have very low expectations of me actually being able to blend in. but i thought i'd give it a shot. the only two places i've ever blended in IN MY LIFE have been
1. New Orleans, which is convenient, because i live here
2. Portland, OR (and the rest of the NW, really), which is convenient because i lived there for quite some time.