A week or so ago, someone asked me when my "Mother" was due. And was she having twins..? I kind of just laughed it off at first because - in regard to the person in question - She is neither my mother (she's less than ten years older than me) nor is She pregnant. However, it's an honest - and easy - mistake to make. I've seen actual pregnant women who were smaller in size, and lately, time has definitely marched on (and on) across Her face. So I just corrected them, helped them pick their jaw up off the floor, and went about it.
But it has haunted me every since.
It makes me wonder how much of what we think we are projecting about ourselves is actually what is being perceived by the world at large. Do we care? Should we care? I can't fathom being that obese - being aware of it - and yet continuing to constantly shovel food into my face. It's beyond me. Not to mention revolting to watch.
I am, however, the polar opposite. I am, at this point, so dangerously underweight that it is bordering on downright scary. There is not always a lot of food here, and when there is I usually feel like the runt of the litter fighting for scraps. Often times if I don't get to it first and either eat it all, hide it or hoard it, I don't get a whole heck of a lot. I also have a hard time watching Her eat. It's mental, I know...
This week went down on a donkey like a Mexican whore workin' for Pesos, so I don't feel like doing my "This Week..." this week. Instead you get a plethora of useless information. (Stolen from Gina stolen from Vencora.)
1. Never in my life have I been: an Oompa Loompa, professionally.
2. The one person who can drive me nuts is: damn near everyone.
3. High school: In school, I was usually high.
4. When I’m nervous: I laugh inappropriately.
5. The last song I listened to was: "You Belong to Me" by Taylor Swift.
6. If I were to get married right now my best man/maid of honor: would be looking at me like I had lost my God damned mind. But at least my gown is cute.
7. My hair is: a freak of nature.
8. When I was 5: I was a boy.
9. Last Christmas: I gave you my heart. But the very next day, you gave it away.
"To encapsulate the notion of Mardi Gras as nothing more than a big drunk is to take the simple and stupid way out, and I, for one, am getting tired of staying stuck on simple and stupid.
Mardi Gras is not a parade. Mardi Gras is not girls flashing on French Quarter balconies. Mardi Gras is not an alcoholic binge.
Mardi Gras is bars and restaurants changing out all the CD's in their jukeboxes to Professor Longhair and the Neville Brothers, and it is annual front-porch crawfish boils hours before the parades so your stomach and attitude reach a state of grace, and it is returning to the same street corner, year after year, and standing next to the same people, year after year--people whose names you may or may not even know but you've watched their kids grow up in this public tableau and when they're not there, you wonder: Where are those guys this year?
It is dressing your dog in a stupid costume and cheering when the marching bands go crazy and clapping and saluting the military bands when they crisply snap to.
Now that part, more than ever.
It's mad piano professors converging on our city from all over the world and banging the 88's until dawn and laughing at the hairy-shouldered men in dresses too tight and stalking the Indians under Claiborne overpass and thrilling the years you find them and lamenting the years you don't and promising yourself you will next year.
It's wearing frightful color combination in public and rolling your eyes at the guy in your office who--like clockwork, year after year--denies that he got the baby in the king cake and now someone else has to pony up the ten bucks for the next one.
Mardi Gras is the love of life. It is the harmonic convergence of our food, our music, our creativity, our eccentricity, our neighborhoods, and our joy of living. All at once."
-Chris Rose, Times Picayune
If you don't know Chris Rose, seek him out. He is by far one of the best journalists ever. (Even if I am a little biased.)
Who knew VH1 would end up being one of the more progressive channels out there? I'd been seeing commercials for their new make-over show Transform Me - but really didn't give it much thought. I mean, really who needs to see yet another Lemony Snickety Unfortunate Event get a little less ugly than they were 30 minutes ago. Yawn. But, last night it was coming on after RuPaul's Drag Race and I didn't know where the remote was, so...
And I was actually rather impressed. The make-over gurus on this one are trannies. I think it's quite brilliant. Who better to tell the fat girl that got hit in the face with the dodge ball how to get fierce than the gay boy who got hit in the face with the dodge ball and got fierce. It's a cool concept. Last night's show wasn't earth shattering but they took the formerly fat but still ugly girl who was going out for a "girl's night" with her equally fat and/or ugly friends and made her into something a little less publicly frightening. At least children were not running and screaming in abject terror anymore...
But I like the concept. Having been a drag queen for a great many years I know the effort involved - a concept that a LOT of women take for granted. And who better than to relate to someone going through a life changing transformation than a tranny? Kudos to the legendary Laverne Cox (show's creator and main tran) for cooking this one up.
Full episode after the cut - lemme know what you think.
Tracie over at Stir-Fry Awesomeness has given me a great idea for a new (series of) post(s) with her latest today. I have lived in some places - lemme tell you. From the last stop on the 6 in the Bronx, to a closet sized flat in The Village... From the Faubourg Marigny (just this side of the 9th Ward) in New Orleans to the ghettos of Stockton, California. Crack hotels. Laundry Mats. All the way to Speegleville, Texas. (Yee haw!) And back... The list goes on...
Gurrls (and that one dude over there with his hand down his pants - yeah, I know I'm cute, but stop that - it's creepy) I have seen some SHIT. Literally. Most recently at my last apartment complex I went outside to water my plants and there was a very naked crackbaby squatted down taking a dump on the sidewalk. Typical of me, my immediate and unthought out response was:
"Oh HELL no. You better pick that shit up and go take it to yo' mama."
Another favourite was the time I heard a big mess of ruckus outside the door and peeked out all Gladys Kravitzy to see two big ol' ghetto gurls goin' at it by the trash can. One looked straight up out the Amazon - the other a much shorter and much, much rounder version with a big ol' fall o' fake hurh - not even the good fake shit either - the fake shit you get at the supa'markit out the bargain bin. Amazoniqua then proceeded to gank Rotunda's weave up offa her head and starts to whoop her ass with her own yaki. Rotunda - trying to defend herself grabs the trashcan lid and is now using it as a shield like the Spartan 300 (or maybe that was just how much she weighed) and Amazoniqua is STILL spankin' the hell out of her OVER the top of the shield. It was a mother fuckin' riot and a half.
You can't begin to imagine the shit I have seen. Sometimes I have wondered if I really did fall through The Looking Glass and ended up in What-the-Fuck-Land.
Granted, it's no secret that my brain does not quite work like that of everyone else. But sometimes I even have to sit back at my own whackadooery and say "WTF?" Mom blogged recently pondering the psychic abilities of her DHL delivery dude and it got me wondering what DHL stands for. (No, I still don't know. I got distracted and forgot to look it up.) Anacronyms and abbreviations and I are old friends. I get lost for hours making up words to go with said letters. License plates? Forget it. I'm done. If you are over there torturing me by making me ride in a car and yapping ninety-to-nothing and get no response - I am probably creating PSU 937 into Please Shut Up for the 937th time!!! (And drive, damn it.)
Anyway - rambling - DHL. It began as driver/delivery related. That didn't work. I am pretty sure Driving Hookers Left is NOT what that stands for. That was about the extent of driving references...
Then we had Donking Hot Latinos... Probably not.
Dumb Horny Lesbians? Dick Hard Lately???
And then, out of the blue I shouted - literally - DON'T HURT LEON!!!
No, I don't know who the fuck Leon is, either. But, apparently, The Universe thinks it is pretty important seeing as I am blurting it out at the top of my lungs to absolutely no one. It's a good thing I don't have a cat - it would be hanging from the ceiling with a nervous disorder by now (or trying to kill me in my sleep, they do that you know).
So... What do YOU think DHL stands for (in Rabbitese, of course)? No looking it up. I no longer really give two shakes of turdy drawers what it actually means. What can you come up with?
And just for gits and shiggles, how many of you actually know what URL stands for???
Several of y'all have asked if I could make you a No Hoots button in different colours (which I haven't done yet, sorry!) - so I just decided to make the basics and y'all can pick and choose which suits your blog.
If you need me, look for the bunny in the padded room, swinging from the rafters and yodeling about Square One, hex codes and fonts. Please send Pop Tarts, Kool-Aid, Porn, and Jelly Beans. No visitors please.
Whoa Nellie! 'Fore you go all dog slappin' crazy on your coffee cup, lemme tell ya sumthin'. "Beating your mug" does not mean assaulting yo' dishery. No, not at all. Picture an ol' South'n gal puttin' her face on. 'Member Coty Loose Powder with the big poof? Beatin' your mug if slappin' some unscary on your face.
I have a dear friend with whom I have been talkin' that has decided to become a Queen. Yes, Dazey Mayhem has spawned another one. Lawd he'p us. (You know I love you, Boo.)
Anyway, she was askin' me for tips and tricks to uncover her girl the other day and asked me to write all this shit down. Now my lazy ass will blog it, but I aint writing a how-to-be-a-ho list for this trick. So you all win. Having been a make-up artist off and on for years now, I know lotsa shit.
Though I love me some Smashbox Primer - you can get the same stuff at Woolworth's for about six bucks. It's Vagisil Anti-Chafing Gel. NO! Not cooter creme! Put that down. The stuff made for when your chub rubs together and gives you the diaper rash of an unloved baby. That stuff. Read the box. Aint got nuthin' to do with your cho-cha. Chafing gel. Trust. Your makeup will never look better. Put it on after moisturizer and before your spackle.
Speaking of spackle, Liquid Foundation is NOT lotion, dude. Chill the fuck out. The more you smear on the worse you look. Put a blob of it on the back of your hand and use a makeup sponge to stipple (blot) it on. Don't smear it on. Blotting it on you get better coverage and no streaks. Putting it on your hand warms it up a bit, too, for better application. You'll use a snotload less too - and end up with a more even complexion that looks as natural as painting ass coloured goo on your face can get.
Take all those fuckin' sponge applicator things that come with your makeup - pee on them and burn them. They are evil. Go spend the buck fitty for some brushes. You will NEVER get a decent application from those satantic sponge things. Ever.
For liquid to powder foundations, apply them with a brush. Find a rather dense, short bristled brush and blend it on with the brush. It doesn't clump up, streak and setttle in all the wrinkles between botox treatments. You'll trip over how much better it goes on - and again - covers when you are not treating your face like busted ass drywall and sloppin' it on with a trowel.
Baby Formula Orajel Gel is THE BEST goop for tweezing eyebrows. Put it on and let it sit for a minute or so before tweezing or waxing. It's awesome. Do NOT use ice. Ice shrinks everything up and it actually makes it hurt worse when you stop ripping your fur out.
What else, Preparation H is great for under eye poofiness and bags. It's not eternal - but it's great for a night out.
Eyeshadow applied with a wet brush makes the best eyeliner ever. It doesn't smudge. It doesn't bleed. It doesn't go anywhere, actually.
The biggest secret for wearing full face and not looking like a Bourbon Street Whore/Drag Queen/Hot Tranny Mess is BLEND. Blend. Blend. Again, brushes. You need brushes.
One of the best make-up lines out there is Nyx Cosmetics - the stuff is Ahhhhh-mazing. It's MAC quality at Walgreen's prices. Blows me away.
And don't waste your time with Kat Von D's makeup. The tatt concealer is nothing more than foundation and doesn't cover jack dribble. If you need that kind of coverage, go get some Dermanblend. That shit will cover up all your bad marriages and one-night stands. It's pricey, but well worth it.
Oh! And the best facial scrub ever? Take your cream cleanser (Think Ponds or Noxema, etc) and mix a bloob of it with a spoonful of sugar. The sugar is softer than most OTC scrubs but abrasive enough to remove and the dead face. Just be sure to rinse really well. Cheap and easy.
I've tons more - but I am bored with this for now. Will post more laters.
p.s. and probably the most important, Covergirl does NOT cover boy. Don't even try it.
Well, it's really more of a make-under, but I am pleased with the result none the less. Still in the middle of reorganizing the posts - there's only four up now - but about 44 in draft, so it will fill back up again soon.
Anyway - have a look at the new look... I know a lot of you have already read the published posts, but I've gained so many new followers of late that I thought I would (re)introduce the writing I can actually do when I am not ranting and raving and cussing like a drunken drag queen trucker...
Hypothetically speaking, of course, but would you commission, say, a wedding dress, approve the design and then once it's finished, rip out the lining and then proceed to foam at the cooch about it being defective and expect the seamstress to fix your fuck up? Really? And THEN, after all that, ask the seamstress to help you find some poor slob to marry? That's been my week. Fuckin' bride.
A word for the wise from the not very: Be really fuckin' careful what you ask for. You might get it. Last week I was wrappin' up projects and hoping for new ones, and I thought to myself, I would love something a little challenging for whatever my next project is to be. Well... The Universe, undoubtedly, heard me - and has the fucked up sense of humour of a drunken drag queen on Show Me Your Shit night. And it vomited Bob - dripping with last nights corn, bile, and misdirected fecal matter - into my lap. Thaaanks... Didn't like those britches anyway.
Now those of you that I have worked for know that I can generally turn something around - especially Blogger designs - in about 24 to 48 hours. No problems. I am on a week with this holy, fuckin' nightmare. I am so over it that I have done come back up around the other side. Suffice to say that if I would have charged what is listed in the Rabbity Things™ pricing information I would be at more than five-hundred bucks in just revisions alone - and revisions only run $15 each. Tell you anything? And that's not including the reinstalls I have had to do... I won't even tell you how many emails were involved. I received less than the cost of two blogs for this one. Fuckin' crack head insanity.
...fix your e-mails on your profile so I can personally reply to your comments! Dadgummit!
A bunny in your box is a good thing!
But Dear Mister Wise Rabbit the Super Geek, how do we do that?
Well, lemme tell ya...
Go to your Dashboard. Click on Edit Profile. Then under Privacy - three bloops down - click on that little box next to Show My Email Address. Now peek over yonder to the left, you will see something like this: Currently set to email@example.com.This is where, when you comment, people can email you their personal replies rather than replying in the original comment section.
But Dear Mister Wise Rabbit the Super Geek, I don't want my REAL email showing to every Tom, Dick, and Suzy!!! They might crawl through the webbernets and sit inside my monitor, sucking on jelly beans and thinking untoward and lascivious thoughts while watching me from inside there while I peruse Etsy for handmade Granny Panties and listen to Liberace cover-tunes as performed by limbless children...
Not to worry Rabbiteers! A solution is at hand.
Scroll down just a little titch to the Identity section. See just below User Name there's a box for Email Address. You can put whatever creams your Twinkie in there. You can create a new email address just for your blog comments to the licks of BubbaGumpHumpsIt@SquishyShrimp.com (not a real email) if you want to. It matters not! What matters is you have a email there (that you can check, of course) to receive your comment replies.
Then once you have done all that, slide on down to the bottom of the page like Smiley Virus on a stripper pole and slap that Save Profile button!
Voila! (Or "Walla" as Mom says!) You gotcha yourself some faincy-panted high-falutin' place for the folks to holler atcha at!
Today would have been my sister's 32 birthday. Most times, it doesn't bother me. I remember. I reflect. But today, looking back over the last 24 (I think) years and recalling all that has happened in the years since her death - and all that is unfolding - my heart hurts. She would have been gaga over The Twins - and they over her. I can so see her and Gabey being inseparable. We (my siblings and I) are all grown and adults now with our own lives - and she is frozen in a moment in time so, so long ago. I guess it's getting to me more this year because my own life is in such a state of flux and transition that I have to pause to wonder where her own life would have carried her. Who she'd be today... It's almost weird to miss someone you've not seen in over twenty years, and how that longing can bring a tear to your eye even after all this time... So strange to think of the child I was then, who I became... And who I am now.
"It ain't fair you died too young Like a story that had just begun But death tore the pages all away God knows how I miss you All the hell that I've been through Just knowing, no one could take your place Sometimes I wonder, who you'd be today"
There are a lot of 'awards' going around at the moment with all these provisos and rules and you gottas. Now while I love getting awards I rarely never do what I am supposed to with them - other than say thank you, of course. So this little booger-pickin' poo-flinger of an award is nothing more than just that - a thank you to those of you who have stuck around and commented and kept in touch through all my ranting and raving and absences and slingings of shit. I do appreciate you. So just take it and do what you will with it. It need not a list of how many toddlers your tromped in the last 42 days or how much yogurts you smeared across your naked body or which Sesame Street Muppet you'd like to bump of the ugly. It's just spankya for being so Raisin Bran Crunch.
And, without further ado - and postively no doo-doo - the award goes to (in no particular order other than the random haphazardery that is my addled mind):
Thank you so much for all the feedback and consistent comments and just being a part of my blog. It wouldn't be the same without y'all hangin' around and flinging my shit back at me! And by all means, if you have a fellow mental patient special someone to pass the madness along to - feel free!
Good grief what a week or two it's been. I have totally neglected my blog - neglected commenting on y'all even more so. (Sorry!) Lately I don't know which what is up, down, or under - and I keep checking the sky to some if some caterwauling heiffer and her mangey ass dog are fixin' to floop down on my head and steal my shoes...
Between the damned constant migraines, insomnia, Kik's PMS, this damned weather, my claustrophobia from being stuck in this motel, chronic insomnia, crackhead tweakers living nextdoor, nightmare nitpicky clients, gimme gimmes with their hands out - all on top of my usual neurotic madness - it's a wonder I have not climbed up on top of the building and started flinging poo at the passing train... Splat! Splat! Mother fucker! People really don't know how lucky they truly are. Of late, I could chunk a turd hard enough to send your left nut flyin'. Trust.
But all in all, it's progress. The influx of work - not matter how frustrating it may be - is coin in the purse and one step closer to moving this summer. Just have to keep it all in perspective and remember it is for the greater good and soon I will be out of this gawd forsaken infected twat of a state and can bid adieu to the whole graphics world once and for all. It's all steppin' on babies and doin' the fukkit dance to get to the life I will soon be living. Nothing in this world is free (unless I am designing your blog, apparently) and this is just me earning my keep for the world that is about to open up.
And no I am not medicated. Ha ha ha! I am really just trying to keep the positive energy flowing and moving forward - and since my Give a Damn has, in fact, busted, hopefully it won't be too hard a row to hoe. It's much easier with a goal and something to look forward to. When one can say only "X" more months or "X" more jobs, et cetera.
I've got jobs lined up and somewhat organized now, so perhaps I will be able to maintain my presence here a little better. I miss hearing what all is up with all of y'all. I have dozens of unfinished drafts to post, so perhaps I will go back and revisit some of those and try to breathe a little life into this sad little blog again.
I hope all is well in your worlds. Stop in and leave a comment or two.