VIVA LA FRIDA!

So it's halloween-- and i love any silly excuse to dress up. I already had my first halloween party (dressed up with some friends as the spice girls--i was Ginger-it was a little scandalous but hilarious--anyways--no one needs to see pics of that) but tonight was my ward halloween party, and i was not at all intending to dress up-- but like ten minutes before it started, i decided to venture into my closet and see what i could muster up. As many people know-- i am mildly obsessed with Frida-- and so the choice was fairly simple. I think considering the time constraints I did very well. Viva frida!!!!

Napoleon of the Stump.

Oh politics. Oh this lovely nation. Oh the retardation of certain vice presidential candidates. Here is my reply to the completely frustrating ploy in last night's debate by Palin to distract us from the fact that she does not know what the hell she is talking about.

Palin is just an extension of the Wal-Mart, Nascar fan, ignorant consumer culture (or lack of culture) that is engulfing America today. Environmentally speaking (apparently she loves the arctic--but no where else) she has absolutely no idea what she is talking about.It's called ecological consequences folks. Nothing comes for free and every decision we make will ripple into every other facet of living and the environment. It is sad that after all of these years we are still ignoring Rachel Carson and Aldo Leopold--we are exempt from the rules the rest of the world must live by because we are 'patriotic Americans'. Americans need to suck it up and deal with the fact that we live in a world much bigger than Wal-Mart, our Honor Roll student,and our monthly Book Club. Palin is a classic case of the disease of ignorance that is consuming our nation. I don't care if it changes your behavior, just get a reality check and know what the heck you are talking about when it comes to the world at large. Our poo stinks just like everyone else's and there is nothing more patriotic than the peace that comes from understanding and accepting that. I love America and am blessed to live here--blessed to have the opportunity to make this nation great as a part of the planet on whole. With the blessings of living in this country with so much knowledge,opportunity, and resources at our disposal, it is our duty to utilize all that we can not to lord over the world with a manifest destiny-like zeal for imposing democracy, but to first clean up our act and make our nation an example others will be proud to follow,and to help them do it. Palin needs to get out of her beauty queen Alaskan bubble, learn about the real world, and stop winking at the damn camera.

You Can Write, But You Can't Edit. Or, conversely : 19 year old girl seeking copy editor. Fresh eyes and red pen needed.

My life is a series of writing and editing. Unfortunately I broken record on the writing portion and the editing has a way of never getting done. Some of my new favorite song lyrics drew my attention to this shortcoming.

You don't have no Dr. Robert,
You don't have no Uncle Albert,
You don't even have good credit.
You can write, but you can't edit.

Apart from referencing some of my favorite songs, this brief stanza seems to pinpoint in a painful manner all of the things I struggle with. Number one: I am terrible with money...this is the most excruciatingly obvious to me. But-- I am working on it...and am doing better...if it is anybody's fault it is my fault....well, really it is nobody's fault. Success is relative, let's just say that.
Another similarity to note is that I am in a constant state of apology. Whether warranted or not, I will apologize. I used to have to run laps in tennis every time I would utter a brief "sorry" for missing the ball....which was frequent. Let's just say that my tennis career was brief at best. Yes, We're so sorry. Uncle Albert. Cause we haven't done a single thing all day. My inert state, lack of productivity speaks for itself.
And this brings us to the most important couplet: "you can write, but you can't edit". Anyone who has been around me for even a brief period of time knows that I get carried away in, as my hero Jane would say, 'flights of fancy'. Creation. Creation is the first step, and the first step only. I am a broken record, skipping jarringly over and over the creation step, unable to move forward and finish the track. I need to Edit. I need to edit so many things. This is not a skill that comes naturally to me. I add, add, add, add, add, until all my fruits are a veritable mountain. Subtraction, editing, is a vital and necessary part of life. One must assess and re-asses in order to achieve a mountain worth achieving. I have created a mountain, but not the right one.

Edit.

Spontaneous Park Poetry....or the insomniac

Subtle as the grass

a supine warrior

gaining ground,

losing sleep,

covers unkempt and

twisted. The subtlety

of the resting body,

a deceptive slumbering

ploy, occasional tosses,

turns, dwarfed in the

momentum and

Dreams of self-awareness.

Clenching jaw, mental

jabs at just

Who, Where, What,

Why am I?

find sleep, fight

for answers. Come to

terms and,

Come to bed.

Nothing fantastic, just me.

Wherever you go, there you are. I had many hopes of getting back to the Beev and feeling wonderful and happy-- unlike the slug I was all summer-- but alas, I am me, and me is here instead of there. But I may be okay with that. Apart from the crying fits and the threats to my mom to just pack up and drive home, I am happy to be me, and I am happy to be me here. I know that me is what I'm supposed to be and I think this place is where I am supposed to be it. (for now anyways). Unfortunately for this post, there is nothing fantastic like a midget bar on Cicero Ave, or a giant spectacle wearing pink elephant. Nothing fantastic, just me.

The Long and Winding Road, Or What Happens on Cicero

The smell of Bontex paper mill is oppressive and pungent as I drove over the bridge to face once more my Virginian doom. I am back in Buena Vista. Joy. I have mixed emotions about coming back to this place-- with an evil beauty that lures one into a complacency as the South slowly creeps over your existence. I am ecstatic to see friends and ready to begin my academic pursuits, but the threat of a break down looms in the back of my mind. But at this point, I cannot see what is to come, I can only learn from what I have experienced up to this point.

Lesson #1: guard rails are put on the highway for a reason. And now my passenger door will not open, so if you want a ride, then you are welcome to climb over the stick shift and parking break.

Lesson #2 Never show your driver's liscence if a hotel clerk asks to see ID-- choose a school ID or something without your birthdate on it, because apparently being under 21 is not kosher in the world of hotel check-ins

Lesson #3 if you ever own a hotel, you can call any room a non-smoking room if someone is not currently smoking in it. If you do not belive me stay in the Holiday Inn at Beckly West Virginia.

Here is the story of my journey back to the Beev. It starts on Sunday morning when I load up the car, say goodbye to my confused dog, and then cry a little with my mom. I cant really see as I am driving away because I have been crying too much. I start out with the Spinners to comfort me--nothing will do you better at a trying time than the bass laine of track 8. I drive until I get hungry (mom's cookies can only tide you over for so long) and I stop in Tomah Wisconsin. The chinese buffet there is very very special...I am not sure if they have ever seen a chinese person.... Well, I keep driving and by the time I am doing the potty-dance I am in Deforset, just outside of Madison. Let me tell you, this town's only claim to fame is a giant pink elephant with glasses--and hey, it worked, cause I stopped and took a picture with it.

Well, I pressed on to Chicago, which was a pain on the 294 due to road construction, but when I reached Cicero Ave (a sketchy place to begin with), I saw my first Midget Bar. For a moment I was confused-- but don't worry, the signs clarify everything-- it is the premiere bar for Midgets in the United States (apparently). Well, I started to consider what a midget bar would entail besides midgets and liquor, and then I began to wonder about what kind of shot glasses they used...I mean, do they use thimbles or what? By this time I had plowed through Gary--the armpit of Indiana and I attempted to stay at the Radisson in Merrilville, but being 19 kicked me in the butt, so at the next hotel I tried I turned on the smile and girly flirtatiousness and charmed the concierge into letting me stay. (A handicapped room--so very spacious, but the shower was just mounted on the wall in the bathroom--next to the toilet--no curtain, and the floor flooded a little...how is that handicap friendly?)

Now I was in Indiana and itching for Kentucky-- because there is not much to be said for southern Indiana--except for that crazy McDonald's in Layfayette which is only decorated with VanGogh, mahogany, and gold leaf. The only eventful part about Kentucky involved a guard rail and my passenger side door...I don't really wish to discuss that part. In West Virginia I got the last room at a Holiday Inn-- I fondly refer to it as the ash-tray suite. Well, there is not much else to ne said for WV except they have the audacity to toll you on their dinky highway...seriously guys...you are in the middle of nowhere. I ABBA'd myself clear into Lexington (went straight to my favorite cafe and got the veggie wrap) and then rocked out to Chiquitita all the way to my apartment. Sing a new song Chiquitita...(no sing a new song ABBA)...

My bedroom was my first priority-- because if I am going to live in the south, it is going to be my way-- so I have constructed a lovely shrine in which to house my lovely Frida paraphenalia, and of course the creepy baby head chalkware that hangs above my bed.

Etsy Shop Up and Running!!!

Visit my shop at vintagescrewball.etsy.com to view all of my terrific time wasters! It is up to kind people like you to help stave the craft explosion of my apartment! You can help, you can shop!

Cleaning the Sty.

Anyone who knows me has discovered that I am a complete packrat. I cannot throw things away, partially out of laziness, but mostly because there are too many possibilities. I cannot get rid of something for fear it will be just the thing I will need to complete one of my many "projects" (these projects are often of a dubious nature, including creations such as the 'Birth of Venus' made out of a Cap'n Crunch box pictured above). Often when I finally do throw something away after years of clinging to it, I will finally find a use for it immediately after it is irretrievable. It is a frustrating cycle of binging and purging-- but mostly the hoarding binges. My bedroom this summer has suffered the crossfire of this constant war I have with my need for clean and my need for things. Unfortunately I have fed, and fed, and fed this monster of packratting and pile making, and now the painful purge is necessary if I would like to be able to move freely in my room without breaking my neck on one of the many piles. The one thing about throwing up is that it always sucks while it happens, but afterward you always feel much better. If you have seen my bedroom this summer it looks like it could become a living beast at any moment-- and unfortunately my psyche is just as monstrously disheveled. All year I have been hunkered into survival mode-- packratting to console my exhausted, depression ridden self, and I have finally reached the point where I have the mental facilities to take back the power and begin the purge. Good. It is about time.


here are some recent exploits that have fed the packrat room mess monster

I Moleskine My Life-- Here is my summer in summation

I keep a detailed moleskine which documents my life. I seem unable to journal like a regular person and so it has become a hodge-podge of writing, drawings and poetry. Frida often makes cameos.
This is my entry describing my recently deceased Papa. I miss him and was unable to attend the funeral, so I did some cathartic moleskinning. The next page was a stress induced drawing because I was anxious about being the Girl's Camp director in my ward. I often like to doodle out my anxiety.
This entry documents the family road trip saga to Utah in which we all got the stomach flu. I believe my personal vomit count was up to 15 before the trip was over. Before the nasty flu incident, the trip was lovely-- we had a condo in Park City, arrived a Mount Rushmore right as they turned off the lights (they were on when we parked but by the time we walked up there it was hardly visible), and it was also the last time I got to see my Papa. I got to see him on his last lucid day and say goodbye, which was amazingly lucky, but very sad. I am just grateful that he did not have to suffer long.

An Illustrated Hannah

This is me, stripped of words.