Forget Me Not

Hey!  A blog!  I have a blog!?

I know.  I know.  You thought I forgot.  You thought that my overriding fickleness and keep me interested all the time because I bore easily personality had finally gotten the best of me and this blog had finally gone the way of the dodo because, well, I'd had enough.

FAT CHANCE KIDDOS.

I'm just.  Well.  Uninspired in a fun way.  I loathe (said just like Madonna & her hydrangeas) being a Debbie Downer - don't get me wrong, I like complaining but not necessary complaining about me and my crap.  This is all I really feel like getting into these days and, honestly, who cares.  We've all got crap.  Who gives a shit about this crap.  Heh.  But you know what I mean.  We've all got those things that stress us and make us spastic crazy and cranky and borderline unbearable.   We've all got crap.  We all have to deal with it.  I usually deal with it by compartmentalizing it and trying to forget about it until such time as it rears its ugly head again.  Unfortunately, lately, there is no forget - it's just always there, permeating.  Now, truly, there is no need to worry about me and my crap.  This is - I'm beginning to realize - my new normal.  It's good.  Fine.  Like a social experiment on stress and how much a conscientious person can handle at any given time without going bat shit crazy.  Well, you know me - always up for a challenge so bring it on you crazy motherfucker of a life right now!  Bring it the fuck on!

Hmm.  As you can see, when I'm stressed I'm also a bit incoherent.  And - can you dig this? - I'm posting this without customary editing, warts AT ALL. Don't judge. I have too much to do.  I need to get back to it.  So you get me, just a me as a long winded ramble, typos at all.  Which, come to think of it is me in a nutshell:  a long winded, uncensored rambling fool.

Yeah.  I miss you all too.

xo.

Reprieve

That which does not kill us makes us stronger.

I'm as strong as I want to be.

Enough already.

Bottom's Up

My love affair with shoes is well known and documented.

My hate affair with fashion missteps is too.

To save us all from hazardous eye poison as we, at long last, move into Spring I offer words of caution:

Ladies, ladies, ladies, kindly refrain from the uber elevated platform.  Unless you are auditioning for RuPaul’s Drag Race, there is no room in your closet for these flagrant fouls of fashion – they are tacky and make you look trashy.  Lose/Lose.

Your feet, I will tolerate – I mean, feet, really, EEWW – if you have done your due diligence and maintained them in a way that does not assault modicums of proper hygiene.  Moisturize!  Slough!  Pedicure!  If all that’s too much for you, wear socks.  They were invented to cover your gross feet.  True story.

Toes are best when covered in bright shiny polish.  Or at least pedicured to look like they are covered in bright shiny polish (hello, buff pedicure!).  Toes are not best when suffocated in pantyhose AND open toed shoes.  This is, to me, the worst fashion offence ever, ever.  This is a fashion contradiction akin to the worn-alone sleeveless turtleneck (neck, cold.  arms, warm. ??).   Make a decision – are they in?   Are they out?  Are you going bare legged and open toed OR hosed and pumped.  It’s not a tough choice ladies.  Make one and step forward with confidence. 

I know I must sound like a Shoe Gestapo and overall Fashion Meanie and, really, who am I to talk?  I’m no style maven – I can’t get away with 95% of what’s cool these days and basically wear the same iteration of the same outfit every single day.  This must be why I’m a stickler for things like tailoring and common sense – if I can’t look hip I may as well look put together.  And this put togetherness starts with a solid, sloughed and well soled foundation.  Yours should too.

Blank

Magic happens at the point of darkness.

The nanosecond between black, white and boom.

Go blank.

This & That

When you're feeling like this:



It's best to dance to that:



Kick Drum.

Hands

Eyes are the window to the soul.

Perhaps. 

Better?

Your hands are my window to your soul.

I’m obsessed with hands; Their shape; Their texture; Their size; Their feeling.

The meanings we intuit from these things are often silly and sometimes unfounded.  It’s just a sign or a help along or a wistful thought. 

A lingered touch; a firm shake; a first hand hold complete with nuanced smiles and side glances.

Strong and powerful, gentle and soft.

Hands. 

I am obsessed with hands.

Day of Days

In the extreme, Day of Days is the point in an Improv scene where your so-called shit hits the proverbial fan.  It’s your bomb drop, your ‘this is not your baby’, your ‘I don’t love you anymore’, your ‘I poisoned those cupcakes’.  The audience gasps and you take them on a ride of reaction and managing this heightened relationship as your characters live out their day of days. 

On a more muted level, Day of Days is simply the reason you’re in the scene, the reason people are watching and, most important, the reason someone is supposed to care about what you’re blabbering on and on about.  Last terms’ highly intense, overly enthusiastic, utterly amazing Teach was all over Day of Days.  You’d catch a glimpse of him in the corner of your eye during a scene and just know from the expression on his face what he was almost ready to yell “WHY ARE YOU HERE?!  MAKE A FUCKING CHOICE!”  All in good fun, of course.  When you’re uber talented and ultra passionate yelling is just fine. 

Improv is decidedly not for wimps.

In an age where we are a tad too concerned about being sensitive, politically correct and just too prim proper, Day of Days blows the lid off right.  Can you imagine every interaction in your life boiling down to a muted Day of Days scenario?  Where you could no longer be wishy – washy, on the fence and beige?  Where you weren’t worried about offending or insulting or placating?  Where you raise the stakes by simply being honest and true and you.  Everything – absolutely everything – would be yes / no, black/white, love/hate, stay/go.  Everything would be real because you’ve taken a stand.  You’ve made your choice.  You’re all in.  You are a person with a bona fide opinion and you care.  

Meh-ness is annoying.  It’s annoying because it doesn’t mean anything.  It’s a shrug, a sigh, an I don’t know why.  I am so over this. In truth, I was never much on this but lately, lately I don’t know.  I’ve become a bit meh, a bit beige a bit too blasé and a bit too concerned with being an opinionated person.  I’ve become a bit too careful and, perhaps, a bit insecure of my own overall outward picture. I don’t want to be offensive.  I don’t want to be rude.  I don’t want to be the bitch!  I want to be the nice one!  But living Day of Days isn’t about all that, it’s about being engaged and present and real and honest.  It’s about knowing what’s a don’t so you know what’s do; knowing what you like so you know what you hate.  It’s about killer choices – feeling  them, making them, being them. 

I don’t know about you, but I’m going to stop living on the sidelines and I’m going to get in the game.  I’m going to live my Day of Days every damn day.

Life is decidedly not for wimps either.