To tell you the truth, am a sexual woman that enjoys games. Dominating, sensual, games. Those explosive moments of intimacy that are satisfying in their unburdened simplicity. The ones that take you into a realm of discovery and yet? You’re doing nothing but letting your body call to you, call to your mate. The type that make you shudder with delight. That’s me, am a sexual woman, without a doubt.

So, it’s no surprise that as a hedonist, not a twisted growth, but a lover of sensuality, I enjoyed viewing a show. Not pornography in it’s unpeeled, raw sense, but yet so much more intimate. A whipping. That’s right. I on occasion have viewed and thought sensual, the use of whips, chains, leather, feathers, lace. No surprise, I think I’ve given myself away. I desire the experience of the flesh, in the flesh. Meaning, I enjoy the sensations, the brush of a feather, the whisper of a stirring bit of air, the grace of lips against my skin. Even that soft, but stiff sensation your fingertips feel when you touch a newly dry, but stiff towel. Yes, even that, it’s a pleasure to the senses. Hedonist.

Going to a goth club is nothing new. I’ve being to them in the past, but I had not witnessed a live show before. A whipping. A dominant male, I truly don’t know the name of such, because well I’ve only considered my own fantasies. Dominatrix. But that night, a male, dressed in old fashioned wear put on a show. First. Oh, goodness that was interesting, first, he tied and helped a girl wearing the sexiest outfit, I wish I had, he tied her and helped her hang in the air. Interesting.

I don’t know that I would allow that though. Why? Control. Dominatrix. Never the less, interesting. So. There I sat, with knee high boots, a crushed velvet gown, very Goth and fiery red hair. Control. I lounged, my legs showing, perhaps a peek of dark silky secrets cast out briefly here and there, but it was dark. Where they visible? Hmmm. I, I don’t think so. Nobody saw, perhaps, the thought, the idea, exciting, and tantalizing in it’s scandalous possibilities.

Without a care I continued to lounge there, and watched the show. He brought out his next disciple, a sensual sub beauty, a woman that enjoys being part of the show, and enjoys the raw sensuality of pleasure pain. Placing her in manacles covered in faux fur, he traced the contour of her back, soft hiss, the whip hit. A shudder. A caress, a small nudge over her buttocks, a soft hiss, the whip hit. Her body trembled. On, and on it went for several minutes. Pleasure, pain.

It was a very sensual scene. For those of you that have no darker fantasies than sex on your couch, well, sorry to disturb you. This was erotica. My booted foot was on the floor, while the short hem of dress flirted with riding up, showing a bit, a wee bit more. Meanwhile, I watched, I drank from the frigid bottle of a beer not cold enough to assuage the warm air conditioned room. I kept watching. I looked and I watched thinking, that should be me, and she should be him.

I laughed internally, as he applied that whip, caressing, building up the sense of expectation, letting the woman breathe for a second, the stinging kiss would hit. Soft buttery leather tresses coursing down her back, her stomach, her chest, her buttocks. I laughed even more, because the dom thought to play with me a bit, I know, I absolutely believe he knew I found it erotic. He brushed my boot with the whip. If only he knew, I wanted to reach out the three feet that separated us, and rip that whip from his hand.

The desire in me wasn’t to feel the sting, but to give it to him. I wanted to spank him. Use that whip and bring it crashing with intense sensuality against his back. As he bent down, straining to give a whipping, I saw corded muscle expand, contract, I wanted to spank him. Am sure am mistaken, don’t mind me, perhaps it was a beer induced, dream state, a wettish sort of dream perhaps. I looked at him and wanted to feel my hand hitting his butt. Spank, spank. I would visualize myself walking up to him, making him sit by me, and reach with dry strong fingers, around my booted ankle, up my leg. A rap on his hand from my whip. It was a fantasy. Me making him beg. Yum.

So sensual. I know. The rest of the night was tame in comparison, dancing, gyrating to the beat of the music as the hours slipped by and the night turned to the wee hours of the morning. I went home. Somewhere, there’s a whip waiting for me to pick up. Who knows, I may be a greater freak yet, because I know I enjoy dom, but for a bit of a thrill before I spring…I let myself be sub. Interesting my shrink would say.

If I had one that is. Penis envy Freud would say. Yum.

Wedding bells are ringing and a happy couple is about to walk out arm in arm. They are husband and wife. Vows have being exchanged, they are so happy! Well except for the look of nervousness that they will get once the wedding bills start coming in. Stop the music.

Reality check time

Every wedding is special and there are no two the same. Most of humanity can’t afford lavish nuptials. Instead we make ourselves go into debt to buy the privilege of that “gift”. By and large it can feel worth it, but for large mountain of bills.

One way to bypass the money issues is to have a budget. It’s so simple and easy to do, so why not give it a try? The most expensive ticket items are usually the dresses for both the bride and her bridesmaids, the photographer, the reception (which includes food, music and site), the church or justice of the peace, decorations and party favors. (The bridesmaid needs will be addressed. Seeing how you’ve come to the conclusion that you need to do cutbacks perhaps the best is to skip expensive designer options. Be realistic in the number of people that will participate. Now comes the tricky part, you have 2 options in regards to the clothes chain. Like Ross, Marshalls, Kohls, and any other department store that is big in your area. You’re likely going to find good options that might fit your needs there. The risks of a department store purchase are few, plus you’re supposed to be the focus point anyway.

Play with the rules if they get to choose

Give your budget a limit and stick to it! This is a matter of survival. If you overspend here, where will you cut back? The flowers? The food? Not a good idea. If you don’t mind that the dresses are different, you can also request that the bridesmaids purchase their own gowns. It’s notAdvertisement tacky and it is smart. Your bridesmaids will appreciate having a say on how they will dress (How many bridesmaid dress horror stories have we heard over the years? Many, so what happens if you break that pattern? Great!). Just because you’re giving up control in general doesn’t mean you can put in some ground rules. (It’s your wedding after all.)

1. Choose the color. To avoid confusion, go to a place like Home Depot and pick up some of those color paint chip samples. You have given them a basic idea of what to look out for. Make sure you’re open to a bit of variation in the color otherwise: you’re going to make the search impossible for them.

2. General style and length. You decide what type of dress they should look for: if strapless, if with spaghetti straps, if long sleeved, the length, etc. That way, again, they know what to look out for.

That’s it. By doing this you’ve just made sure they are happy with the style they use, while still maintaining some control even though they get to buy. All the while your bridesmaids will be more comfortable with what they choose. (And you won’t be footing the bill)

There’s another option

You have reviewed tow other ideas. Here’s a last one to chew on. If it’s the case that you want to control the complete look, you can always ask your bridesmaids to purchase a specific gown, from a designated store.

Seeing how you’re on a budget, it shouldn’t be too hard for you to afford your bridesmaids the courtesy of choosing not too expensive dresses. They will in turn be happier to spend the money. There’s even the possibility of finding out if dresses can be rented. Hey…you never know until you ask.

Your dress

That is entirely up to you, but again department stores have nice options and you can always have it fitted by a tailor. The wedding dress though should be all about you. So give yourself a budget and shop around. Still make sure it fits the person you are. Settling for just anything less will not do.

You’re on a budget, but are still in the process of enjoying your dream event made reality. Don’t be frustrated. Do price comparisons, go online, and check out the trends, looks and suggestions you may want to know about. That way, when you enter the stores? You have an idea of what you’re looking for. When you’re planning, usually the euphoria of the upcoming wedding makes you lose sight of the bottom line that has to be kept. Keeping a budget, checking that list, and staying firm will assure you have a happy wedding and a happier thereafter. Congratulations.

Back when I was young(er) I learned why I couldn’t become a doctor. It’s a tragedy of enormous proportions am sure, since my bedside manner is great. Sigh. Ok, am not a good candidate for an award in the order of Florence Nightingale. But still, what a waste am sure more than one person would have benefited from some “take it like a man” straight talking words of wisdom. If you need a love tap to wake you up, I’d love to be the one to boom, slap you with my foot, smell it, smell it, now kiss it. Ok, that wouldn’t work either, although am extremely flexible, am not as good as the Zohan. But I can try.

Although if we’re honest, it’s not “taken as a man” that you need to worry about, it’s take it as a woman. That’s tough. I know of a first person (now second with me) account of a woman that underwent major surgery (bullet issues, ouch) without being knocked out. (double ouch) It was war time, and supplies were on the short side. she was a rebel fighter, and all the while ruling party soldiers roamed the very area where she was getting her midsection split open. Yep. tough.

Anywho. I knew from an early age I wasn’t destined for a scapel (apart from the fact that I was always craving the use of a brush that is). Ahh, those beautiful days of our youth, when we give priority to eating, sleeping and avoiding any and all rules. You remember your own biology classes? I do. I went to a ghetto school, with teachers that did what they could and didn’t tax themselves with the “lost” causes. Their caring stopped sometimes at the toll of the last bell. (Not all, after all this is a very self-sacrificing sort of career)

Now that I think about it, that’s the worst kind of boredom, poor saps, but I feel more sorry for the kids. The teachers were facing an unending line of kids coming and going over the years. So many, that they became ghosts…or perhaps cattle to be herded through their rooms. Give them the requisite knowledge, hope it sticks, paste a pass or fail grade…moooo…and on to the next station. Very automated. Robotic.

Biology though? that has special meaning in my book. I hated it, with a passion. There was the octopus (I think it was, other wise it was a squid) class, where we had to cut open one of those slimy multi-tentacled bulbous headed (yummy in ceviche though) creatures. Our mission: the ink. We had to “fish” around and find the ink sac. Next with a brush or stick (faulty memory chip) and perhaps one of the few cool parts we had to do (non-too-sick) was write our names with it.

That’s not such a big issue, but for the fact that it was a nasty smelling mess. There’s two other times we played doctor with cutting tools. Yah, hand over those cutting implements to the kids please. The first I recollect, was the grasshoppers. (Yes, yes, a friend once mentioned to me that they are cousins of the roach. I don’t care Jiminy Cricket, and Mulans little friend certainly don’t resemble the monsters from the Men in Black flick.) Those little suckers didn’t stand a chance. We had them pinned with long thin needles while carefully we did our best to learn and “explore” the little boogers (I was going to say buggers, but I hear it’s a bad word in England. These creatures gave their lives to science, some respect please.)

Crunch, crunch there went the exoskeletons. (Am building you up here let me know if it’s working) They were actually kind’a flaky (literally) guess they’d being dead for some time. I don’t think I was as grossed out by the insects though, as I was by the larvae state. We had this (one of the few cool teachers that I remember, and had a chance to meet again many years later, he’d turned counselor at that point.) this lesson were we learned about the maturing process of butterflies, flies, insects that start as larvae (maggots) get in the cocoon, and come out as a winged beaut or not. (The housefly, Daniel Goldblum sure made a career of mixing his DNA with one…in the movie “The Fly”)

There we were, learning about maggots. Let’s be real here. They were maggots (I may have vomited a bit in my mouth, hold on I need to rinse it out. Ok. Am back.) and I don’t particularly care for them. Reason why I don’t mind the idea of squashing them. Anyway on that particular springy sort of spring day, our teacher made an offer, that to this day I shudder to remember it. (ewwww) He offered class points, yes, points for those that dare to eat one, or two, or three…of the alive and squirming little BUGGERS in his bowl. You see? It seems that maggots are just another commodity in the world of science, and they are bred in “clean” environments, fed only high grade grains, etc.

That’s the kind these were. They were clean, ready for consumption, or use. They were squirming. Nuff said. To prove that he meant it, and to make sure everyone in the class believed him that he MEANT it, and would give out class points? He reached in grabbed a couple, and like popcorn (wriggling, segmented, disgusting, type of popcorn) he well popped them into his mouth, chewed a bit, yes, f%^&*r chewed a bit, and swallowed. He didn’t require the chewing part, but the brave point seekers had to swallow.

Now, you know we gals? We dare, and do things that can be brave, but we’re not stupid (plus we usually have the better grades because we’re supposed to be good…if you’re a nerd like me at least) so we don’t follow…the leader. A few guys (2 dumbasses) chose to take the dare, and for 5 measly points (that couldn’t make you or break you) they went ahead (after much deep breathing, to psyche themselves up am sure) they swallowed maggots. (nasty) That’s another strike in the doctoral career.

But. Wait. I have one more. (And this one, just clinched it for me.) All those dissections are in my opinion, required scholastic torture. We passed the invertebrates, went into the exoskeleton members of society (yeah, there’s some of us that are so thick skinned they might as well be insects, MIB) did the larvae and went into the warm blooded section of nature. The pig. The dreaded BABY pig. I think that’s when I got a phobia of, and hated for YEARS bacon. I could not eat the stuff, even though it smells great. How about that. The pig organs are supposed to have very similar characteristics to the human organs so we were given some of the porcine young to cut open.

I don’t know about you, but having one of the little (and I mean little, about 6 inches long) suckers spread-eagled on a tray. Skin peeled back, muscles cut according to instructions, and soon organs “explored” and taken out to watch shape, color, and texture. (yuckkkkkkkk) Dr. G. Medical Examiner, AM NOT.

Although I have this fascination now with “who done it” (Law and Order, CSI, NCIS, etc) shows that show you all kinds of shots of the morgue and it’s denizens…lying in gurneys or walking around. BTW, have you ever seen that show Dexter? That is one sick MoFo, but fascinating. Go figure. Human nature.

Yah. That piglet sure did the trick. I was done in that particular field of knowledge. My Pops at one time even managed to wrest a promise from me that I would look into perhaps doing something medical related. I couldn’t move past those memories, and take a look at the University’s course catalog. That poor, poor baby pig it was given it’s wings before it’s time. I would not be doing any exorcist stuff (like projectile vomiting) on the sight of my first cadaver. Heck no. Why put myself through that? Plus, I’ve got a sensitive nose that would not like the formaldehyde and whatever other “preservatives are used.

My hearing? That’s faulty, but the nose? That works pretty well. (Reason why I LOVE that my man doesn’t wear cologne. Just natural body scent which is SEXY and just fine by me. Thank goodness.) I’ll stick to paints, pencils, clay, and doing my sculptures. That’s worked rather well, and no, I won’t be doing any human body research like the artists of old used to do. How do you think the “ancients” learned what muscles went where and how to depict them accurately? They invested in body snatchers, and “explored” the dead to know how to create their perfectly aligned limbs. That’s another tradition of the medical field. It’s ghoulish need for bodies, to learn the insides of humanity.

I am thankful for the knowledge the doc’s have. I don’t envy or want to know ANYTHING of how they went about learning it. I’ll inquire more on the subject? When pigs fly.

Am not actually. I know how to navigate the shark infested waters of social interaction, but reality is? I would rather not deal with people as much as I have to sometimes. Sigh. I do like my solitude, a lot, and knowing there’s a place where I can go in, and hear nothing but the freaking (replace with the other word, am trying to be pc here) buzzing in my ears that in itself could drive some a little nuts (related to hearing damage stemming from an early childhood injury of some sort). Ironic seeing how am considered a great people oriented person. Right.

I am actually. I treat people great, get them happy, they’re out of my hair. Simple. Ha. Sigh.

Tonight is Halloween. A witches brew activity all around me, people dressed in costumes begging for the cavity inducers, and hoping for bloody sights, ghoulish and morbid get-ups. Humanity is twisted. They celebrate in a way, the darkness of the world. Anyway, it’s also a fun time for the kids to play dress up. Ok. I understand that many see it as that, and truth is? I really don’t care much.

Hey, who am I to talk? I dressed up as a renaissance maiden 2 years ago..today gees time flies. Long hair curling down my back, big boobs almost falling out, and walked around grinning like an idiot. Am sure you’ve heard of the North Hollywood Halloween parade? As close to a gay parade as you can get. I went to that. There were more queens of the gay kind than queens of the crowned kind. It was fun.

Truth is, not all people would be able to deal with it. I do know a couple of homophobes, and find it funny…rubbing it in their faces sometimes. Me? It’s live and let live. I don’t care if it’s Adam and Steve, or Annie and Eve, rather than Dan and Ivy. Live and let live (ya know?). For that night, I got into the spirit of seeing costumes of an intensely interesting variety. After that, I thought of dressing up as a wall flower.

Sigh. That would’ve been a cooool costume. I was going to get a full body green leotard, make a petal crown (for the flower head), put on some kind of skirt to resemble a pot and then the crowning touch…a brick wall. Some kind of a cape that I could stretch out and show people…wall and flower…wall-flower (cue in cheesy comic relief drum). I never got around to it. Sigh. Next year maybe.

That was then, this is now. This year? I really didn’t feel like being surrounded by revelers, dancing around from store to store, or home to home, hoping for candy from strangers. Right. So I traveled to see family.

Back to Halloween: I wonder at that. We teach our children NEVER talk to strangers. Don’t take candy from strangers. But one night a year, we revoke that and turn that dictate around. Parents carry a plastic bag, a purse, a pumpkin bucket, whatever works, and they walk their children around town, asking for candy…from strangers. It’s a strange night, it’s a strange custom, it’s a strange world.

Anyway. The whole point of this convoluted story is that I was feeling anti social. And so it’s hard to deal with people. Arrgg. Hot soak in the tub, head partially under water, ears even if they get plugged…under water too. Taddaaaa. Instant quiet. Aaaah. I needed that. I am a creature of solitude. I love people, am there for them, but dang if I don’t like to have my space. I can take 1 or 2 people around…if they can shut up for a while. I don’t require noise, chatter, conversation. Company is company and sometimes, just being there should be enough  (I think).

Am turning into a curmudgeon (oooh, that is so cool, I found a means of putting that one in a blog) sigh. Hehe. I still prefer peace and quiet. Must be that I can’t hear well anyway, so loud noise bothers, constant chatter irritates, an already irritable sort of woman, and people that can’t get a hint and keep coming at you when you’ve set yourself aside on purpose (not right now, am just saying in general)…are annoying.

See? Curmudgeon. Now my turn to shut up and say good night (sweet dreams) to y’all. It’s a night of witches, so don’t look under the bed…there might actually be a monster waiting for you. Buaahahahha (takes me back to my childhood pranks. haaa). Really though. G’night.

Hmmmm. Let’s see. I think I’ll start with relish. Since am a Hotttt Dog lover (I do love my dog). That particular group of condiments that go with it, will be featured in this blog. Ok.

Relish it is. That sweet(ish) veggie confection made out of cucumbers. Are they pickled first I wonder? Or simple put in a vat of sugar, left to steep and acquire that taste? Hmmm. I think there’s a bit of the tart in there too. Right? In that case, maybe some lemon juice or vinegar. Ok. Now, who do I know reminds me of relish? Hmmm.

There’s this chick that used to work at the PhotoLab that was definitely relish. She was seemingly sweet, but dang if she didn’t come up with “sweet” tart moments. Cool chick. Makes me laugh when I remember. She recently married a photographer that used to come to the lab. Now she has him walking around held by the gonads. Ha. Where he goes, she goes. And don’t get her started. What tickles me? Is that they ride around on a scooter.

The guy I think is like 6′-0″ and she’s about my height or maybe an inch taller. Big guy, and well, she’s not petite. She’s got a booty going like nobody’s business. Funny part is the scooter though. I had a chance to see them coming on their toy two wheeled vehicle. (that is not a bike) and it was just too much. Cracked me up seeing them coming. Ok. She’s relish definitely. Has the sweet down to a science, and then there’s a tart undertone to her. Hmm. Yep. Relish.

When I eat a hot dog, I open my mouth wide, and take a bite with gusto. There’s nothing like the complimentary blend of relish, mustard, and ketchup. For me, if you’re a freak there’s also mayo, but I wouldn’t. That’s just sick. And I don’t care how high “brow” the ball park cuisine is, I do not like onions on my dog. I also got to try Grey’s Papaya in New York a few years back when I visited. It was alright. Nothing outstanding really. Seeing how it was such a big thing on that show Friends… Ok I didn’t think the show was all that, so I am being a bitch about it. Whatever. Back to hot dogs.

Taking the time to savor the flavors is great. There’s a place in Hollywood Blvd. in LA, called Scooby Dogs. I love that place. And it’s not the dogs, but the sauce they offer for their weird blend of chips(French fries for the less discerning, “pomme frits” for the snobbish that think they taste better if you call it in French, Papitas for the Spanish speaking and English impaired). That sauce is a blend of gasp, I think mayo, ketchup, garlic, pepper and I don’t know if a wee bit of mustard or not. Tastes good, that’s all I know and care.

But you don’t like mayo you say. I don’t MIND mayo on other foods, just not squirted on top of my hot dog. So my next condiment will be…uhmmm, Mayo (to get it out of the way.) You have to have a love hate relationship with that one. You like the taste of it, until it hits your palate and it becomes a greasy coating there that doesn’t want to let go. No wait, it’s the arteries that are getting coated. Right. It’s a heart a attack waiting to happen.

I knew a guy that was definetely mayo. He seemed bland and without much character. Poor dude had a crush on me, and I couldn’t stand him. Once I even snapped at him he was getting on my nerves so bad. (I can be so insensitive sometimes, I think he almost cried. haaa. Just kidding.) No really though, he did not seem to have the kick that other condiments have. Even though he’s a black belt in martial arts, he wasn’t too much for standing up for himself. Walking around life head bowed to those that he’d being taught where owed respect out of “age” or a job. Right.

I felt sorry for him. Am not very subservient. I don’t lower my head for anyone, and the day that someone tried to make me do anything I didn’t want to do, they heard me. Period. Even if afterward I was told I needed to be more “humble”. Whatever. He seemed willing to go on all fours and wag his tail if the fuckers demanded it of him. Man, there was more than one time that I wanted to smack him behind the head and tell him to wake up, stand up for yourself and put them in their place. He got used, and canned without a second’s thought. See? It’s a dog eat dog world, and doing doggie tricks, playing fetch, rolling over, and “beggin” is not cutting it (for me at least).

Truth is, I consider him a heart attack waiting to happen. Or maybe, he’s one of those that will go “postal” one of these days. I could just see that. We went out once (big group of people, nothing romantic before your sordid mind starts to wander) and we ALL had some Soji? Sake? (Korean alcohol) I don’t remember. Stuff was nasty. Am not much for drinking anyway. He drank the stuff like it was water, and since it was a karaoke bar (don’t ask me how the hell we ended up in a place of that nature, certainly not my idea. Though seeing others make asses of themselves was fun.) he would start belting out the music. Anything went. Anywho, there you have it. Bland I tell you, coats your palate and clogs your arteries, and then it doesn’t do much against being overpowered by other condiments. MMhhhmmm. Mayo.

So, I can’t stand Mayo on my hot dog. You already knew that. I do love ketchup and right behind that is mustard. Ok. Ketchup. Who do I know that is ketchup? Hmmm. Hmmm. I don’t know, I’ll come back to that one. I know a mustard though. The properties of mustard: Yellow (Sickly looking, stains your perfectly nice white top, and makes you look like a sloppy eater. Right.), What’s a description for mustard? It has body, it’s spicy (it is a spice itself afterall).

Ok. My mustard friend is one of those people that likes to go out and enjoys life. His body is out the door every chance he gets. At work though? He plays weak one moment …he can’t handle facing telling the cold hard truth to the others…so he whimpers like a bitch behind my shoulders and asks me to be the tough one. (Right. sickly) and the next he’s being super efficient, making you…(my work desk always looks like my mind works, full of pending things to do stacked on the side, things I am doing, in the middle, and things I’ve done…”filed into a bin for future filing” on the floor. haaa.)…look messy. He leaves you with all kinds of yellow shit to stain your top. Right. Mustard. But he comes in handy when you want to spice up life.

Ketchup? Ok. That’s me I guess (I do put it in just about everything you can think of). Am bloody sweet I tell you. I couldn’t even try or begin to break a single bone in the bitch’s face that insulted my mother when we were in a bus (possibly because I got pulled out bodily by said Mother. Didn’t want the Popo coming. Funny.) No really. I go well with almost anything. I can mix well with some cream to make me a really (oooh, you’re being nasty, I didn’t mean that kind of “cream” ewwww) good batch of Arroz and Frijoles (rice and beans) yes with cream and ketchup. Don’t knock it ’til you try it. And if you don’t like it, watch me spoon some into my mouth as I stare at you and ask: Yeah? So? Try me, I mean ketchup with some jelly now, and cream…with Arroz and Frijoles. Haa. I’ve being eating that for years. Haa.

Ok. Maybe, am BBQ instead. A smoky, tangy, spicy, sharper, full bodied, and deeper version of: Ketchup.  Sharp me? Yah. You can’t begin to know how much I pick up sometimes when people think I don’t understand. There’s things that are said and I just open my eyes wide, look like a lost little lamb and let them hang themselves. Tangy? Yeah. Am not exactly cloyingly sweet. There’s that touch that makes me want to put some lemon in your cut and tell you it’s good to clean it up. Ok. I wouldn’t do that. Really, I wouldn’t. Full bodied? Ask my boyfriend. Deep? Uhmm. Beware of calm waters they say. Smoky? Yeah. I’ve being told my phone voice sounds like the 976 ads of the 90′s.

Ok. That does it. I don’t feel like bothering with other condiments. If I feel like confessing, maybe I’ll touch up on pepper (the asshole you need to spice up your wallet, give you money but sure makes you sneeze you’re so allergic to his not so winning ways.) Darn. I just did another condiment. Ok. Salt. Hmmm. That one is all about the water retention. A little bit makes the food taste better, and a touch too much, ruins the meal. Hmmm. I don’t know. Another time. I don’t know of anyone that has those properties. But wait…how about a group of people?

I’ve got a group of controllers that have the wrongheaded idea that they can “retain” me by force. You don’t know how annoying it is trying to stay calm, when you’ve got jerks pontificating at you for your “fuck ups” when there’s not many at ALL to nag about. So. Yeah. They’re definitely salt. A tad too much lately. Sigh. There you have it. The properties of some condiments.

Artist: Jezli Pacheco

Van Gogh. One of my favorite artists, if not my all time favorite. He along with Gauguin is one of the major influencing forces in my work. The colors, the strokes. Golly. I love the colors. The genius was in the strokes, but also the unapologetic (though he was well known for being insecure and needing his peers…and family’s reassurance) explosion of colors. I loved and still love his work. (Both artists.)

That’s me too! I need the sales to show me that my work is appreciated though. Sigh. Ok. Am one those special people that will wear (no patterns please, I prefer solids) platform heels, a sarong, braid the hair, and flounce around with only that. One moment am ready to do a Hawaiin dance, the next the Harley is waiting for a ride. That’s me. Eccentric. The way artists are in their quest to experience the nuances of life, in all it’s beautiful, sometimes ugly detail.

With regards to my painting? Who is the greater influence? I guess in look? Perhaps Gauguin, but I don’t have and don’t desire to have illicit sexual relations with Polynesian beauties (I have enough with the crazy looking at me in the mirror..not me…my boyfriend…ok, the other crazy ). In a sense of wonder though? In randomness? You have to love Van Gogh. His work is self-centered, but do you blame him? He was doing a bit of psychotherapy on himself. No one can deny, or wonder if he was on some kind of “trip” to come up with some of those images (judge not lest you be judged). It’s widely known he likely “dabbled” or should I say nibbled his paints, drank heavily (including absinthe), smoked with the gusto of a hungry man before a feast. Can you imagine? At the time there must have being all kinds of chemicals mixed in (lead), unlike the strictly monitored contents of art materials today. Art. It has always being a highly gratifying pursuit, but dangerous in some of it’s rawer forms.

Van Gogh painted, obsessed and displayed what he knew. Himself, and the surroundings he lived in, while he fought the nature of his prison (his mind). He was a master in communicating great light outwards and perhaps neglected to shine it back on himself. Do you think he might have lasted much longer if he had being a sick man in our modern times instead? I wonder. Why is it that there is such a surplus of young genius gone to ashes? River Phoenix, James Dean, Marilyn Monroe and so many more.

Artist: Jezli Pacheco

Gauguin and Van Gogh are known for having had a great relationship (friendship) through the years. Some say that Van Gogh cut off (not his whole ear) his earlobe, and some assert that Gauguin did the deed. I don’t know what’s true, and I don’t care to know who did the mutilation. I just care about the works each produced. Well, and the all consuming mind trip that he (Van Gogh) went through in life. Not with a need to know his personal life, but in general, because it follows his work as well. Seems that the more he struggled? The more he created. Sometimes? Sometimes, they say that some of the greatest minds/artists through the ages are the most tormented by their inner landscape. So true. But perhaps it’s also related to the fact that being creatives? They also were, we are, wired to live and feel life with a razors sharp need for vibrant, mind blowing, intensesity.

There’s many more samples of artists that went ahead and made themselves figures of notoriety. They broke the rules. They were for their peers? Insane. They could not possibly be right in the head. After all? What woman in her right mind wears pants in an age of skirts? Talk to George Sands. What artist was a controversial PARTNER not sidekick PARTNER to Diego Rivera? A woman that in her own right is still famously remembered? Frida Kahlo, perhaps more so now than Rivera himself. She went through strife, anger, pain (check out the Salma Hayek movie, in regards to car accidents etc., etc.) She was in that case…also not quite in her mind. I wish I could have met all of them. They were giving a breath of fresh air and pushing aside social constrictions, and renaming the game to fit their needs. That simple.

When we look at history, artists have being walking a mighty fine line between being called the insane entertainment of a bored society and genius. They got away with having their eccentricities chalked up to their artistic bend. Am perhaps being a bit on the jaded side, but there’s no doubt that if I were famous and made a habit of dressing as if every day was a costume party (Lady Gaga, Bjork, Mr. T, Dog something or other…there’s too many these days…), acted in volatile and incoherent ways? Dressed and displayed myself beyond the socially “appropriate” standards? It would be fine. Why? Am famous of course, I have the eccentric ticket ready to be whipped out. But I also understand that all these people? They first had to suffer the “insane” innuendo before hitting a home run.

Artist: Jezli Pacheco

I can’t even begin to compare myself because I’ve yet to manage the heights of famous Artists “insanity”, but I don’t consider myself less. They have left a mark in history. I haven’t managed as much. That’s fine. Why bother lowering my head though? My work satisfies me, and I don’t apologize for that. I lament I’ve being slow to make it known to the right eyes. Am working on it though. And it seems that it’s true. The “crazier” we seem? The more attention you get. Sigh. In art circles? That’s how it is. Though I wish the work alone spoke for itself.

For the world they lived in and the same rock I now walk? Insanity? Goes hand in hand with genius.

Thus? I have decided to become a lucid nut. I think, I rationalize, and act as if am well, but will have my moments of “irrational” genius (I hope, it’s an imperfect science after all). All kidding aside, beyond those that were and are believed to actually suffer from mental issues, there’s entirely too many that are confused for crazy, when they are eccentric. Yours truly among them. Nice to know, am in good company. Tata for now, I need to go paint.

Since it’s my intent to be sure and spread my name (repeatable mantra: reason why it’s…repeated…often.) to sell my art…I also make a point of reading other blogs. Why? Well. How boring would it be if I only managed to rant about how long it takes my nails to grow? (boring…nothing new to julianne…there a cooking term…see? I do know…something…Rachel Ray teaches well) Hmmm? Yeah, it would be very boring. And truth be known? I almost never manage to keep those long anyway (what was I talking about? ohh, yea, growing nails type of blogs). No I don’t bite them…I tear them off, just kidding, I find the nearest cutting tool and I proceed to hack them off. It’s a throwback to my clay days (and soon to come back…when I manage to get the kiln that’s gathering dust in my garage…to work.) and hating that wonderful dirt (usually the dark stuff that made you look like you weren’t only the mechanic’s wife…you also dabbled in the trade as well.) that caked under my nails. So I cut them. Often.

But I digress. The idea here is that having your interest “whetted” (the reader) is great and needing to respond…fantastic for the writer. You think we write for the sake of only writing? It’s in a way…a very self-centered type of world. As is the arts world at large. (See? I managed to get myself a double whammy.) Being that am an artist? Stands to reason that my attitude toward my writing, is as ambitious as my painting expectations. “AM the queen of the worlddddd” There you have it. Straight from the horses (not so horsey looking though, more on the nice and lively woman kind of look) mouth.

Writing and art alike are a very self-gratifying (as weird as it sounds… no I don’t want to even start saying it’s akin to a mental kind of masturbation…buttttt…) you give yourself pleasure. You create and explore subjects, and activities that are a pleasure. (thus the “flying solo” analogy…somehow fits) And turn around and hope that what you have created will bring that kind of pleasure, or stimulate (Geez, for a blog that is supposed to be entirely non-sexual…this sounds more and more like it.) a reaction from your viewers…or readers alike.

That’s where in writing: the comment comes in handy. It’s the validation that your effort struck a chord. So, when I read a blog about what’s important to be succesful in this process is keeping in mind that who counts is the reader…not the writer (understandably I was upset, here I thought the world revolved around me). Well fine and good (Raspberry to you all…ok..not really, xoxoxo, don’t cry). But what happens if you have a situation like I do? Where I have readers (don’t deny it boys and girls, the numbers don’t lie) that come read my work…daily (thank you, thank you very much), but I don’t know who? I dunno, I guess I keep talking, and they will eventually…dare. Duh.

Guess you could say that in the end? It’s all about the process (ya know? the trip) not the final product (the destination). Darn it, am still fine tuning my words though. Comes back to that old saying we artists still debate about: art for art’s sake (a reference to the purity of creation for the sake of creating something meaningful versus creating for a market…that actually buys…and gives you money…I’d take the market…but don’t tell anyone…this is a war that goes on) or in this case: writing for writing’s sake. We’ll leave it at that, because when it comes to readers: sometimes it seems that some are just too embarrassed to leave a note…but they sure do love to come back for seconds…and thirds…and home runs. Love them all.

Just knowing am entertaining…quite a few actually…is gratification enough (ewwww) but once in a while…a gem calls up and leaves a note. (Don’t tell the rest…but I love you more.)

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Plus, I enjoy giving them a good laugh, groan, chortle, or otherwise a headache (if you’re one of those prudes that’s constantly tagging along to read, and then you find it all disturbing. Yawn. Why do you log in if that’s your purpose?) Ok. Go ahead. Ask me. Why do I write it all? Well. For starters? It’s a free country, and am a great believer in making use of all the freedoms that come with being FREE, free to breathe, free to pay taxes, free to avoid the boys in blue (on principle I don’t like them, plus it sucks when you have expired tags…which I do…uhmmm…sometimes…money children. Money. Ok. I lied, I take the bus everywhere…really. Scouts Honor.)…if it comes to that, I also feel free to do naughty things with my love (He better hurry, or I will do something mean, I don’t like waiting).

Second, well I just enjoy the writing, so why the heck not? Seeing how I’ve got me a few of you that have become loyal listeners (’cause it feels like you’re just in front of me, so I talk directly to you, don’t let anyone think am talking to myself: that’s grounds for not so sane accusations, and that? Is one of my greatest problems, am so sane, I sound insane. Ok. It’s not a problem, that’s not just a glitch in the Matrix NEO, there is no such thing as deja vu … {well yes there is, it’s a strip joint in LA, I think there’s one in Vegas too…don’t ask me how I know, I’ve never being, but if you drive in these cities? You get to see the naked chicks with come-on smiles on billboards.} There are no glitches in the matrix. An agent might be reading us. …ohhh, how I wish it were a writing one too. sigh.)

Ok. Back to the subject at hand. Enough with the ADD, though it’s fun making you guys run around through the rabbit hole, ending up in Narnia, and skipping your way into Bilbo Baggin’s home. Must be a gift. Anywho. I write because am free to do so, and I love the exercise. So. That’s that. I write, but also, there’s my specialty: the art of well doing art. I create…and I make a point of putting up paintings, drawings, sculptures, whatever I’ve made…so that you all can enjoy along with me.

The other reason I post images? Once in a while I find funny stuff that I have to share, and I do…in the form of images. And that’s the case of the booty call agreement. I couldn’t help myself, as raunchy as it is, I had to post it. It’s mean, but something that way too many in the population take as their relationship (not) meter. Sad, but funny. In I went, recreated it and posted it in my website. As far as I know it’s anonymous, guess nobody wants to take credit for that kind of literature, but I tell you…there’s certainly MANY of you out there that are reading up. Studying perchance? Making sure you didn’t forget any part of it? Hmmm. I wish I knew what’s the number between the boys and the girls (ladies don’t deny it, it takes two to dance that particular kind of dance.)

Why this whole little litany about the posting of an image called the booty call agreement? Well I posted that? I don’t know, quite a few months ago, and I had totally forgotten it. Truth is? It was a moments guffaw, and I was done. A short laugh, that’s it. Seems, though that it gained popularity without me knowing it. How do I know? Weeeeellll. I post my images from my photobucket site. Some of the stuff is up for view from myspace albums, but most of my stuff? I keep it on photobucket, flikr, and any site that allows me to save my work. (I’ve got to start keeping tabs on all the sites, since am always jumping around trying to get just one more place to include me in their artist registries, etc.)

Below? Is a print screen of the photobucket “stats” page. What do you know? Booty call…came a-calling. Seems I’ve had 279 “hits” on that specific image…in the last month alone it seems. Look at the chart…the line in blue? That’s the spike in interested viewers. Hmmm. Sounds like there’s some out there looking to find out a little more on how to carry on…ahemmmm. I just had to have a bit of a laugh. That’s all, and wanted to clue you in on it as well. It’s funny, not the agreement…the interest. That’s all.

Well, to all my bootyful viewers/readers/listeners/peepers? Enjoy. I post for the sake of having a good laugh, if you’re enjoying… and getting yourself a copy of this non-binding agreement (I mock it because I don’t agree with it, but hey, to each his own.) for yourself? Hey. Who am I to judge? Nobody. You just better not try to pull that kind of cowpie on me. I may snap a finger, roll my neck, and give you a nasty setdown.

As to the actual agreement? Well. If you’re that interested? Here it is:

For us square folk? It’s insulting. I can’t help it, I’d give you a kick in the backside as soon as I possibly can to make you wake up. I don’t play these games, it’s cold, it’s not me. I’ve got too much hot blood to stand for it.

So there. Go ahead, have a laugh, it’s so offensive, it’s funny: reason why I had it to begin with. Am still laughing though…hmmm. It’s my most popular image…go figure. On to the next subject…later.

Oh…and by the way…the reason I was on photobucket and chanced to see this smallish detail? Well, like I said. Am slaving away online trying to link all my different sites, so that I can make use of all the connections I’ve got all over the place. Cue in…checking out photobucket to get a picture, to link it to my wordpress site. Sigh. Believe, it all makes sense in my head. Just know? I was doing some sleuth (detective, private eye, Murder she wrote…no wait, that’s Jessica Lansbury…ok..you get the drift.) work and I found this little gem of a fact hidden in plain sight…and so I shared.

Aaaahhhhhhh. I do love to give back to the universe. It’s good Karma.

These situations are part of our learning curve, but never are they easy, and always they leave you with a degree of regret that changes you as well. When that happened to me I went through a series of emotional stages that I wanted to describe. These are so common that most of us go through them without noticing the transitions. They are the healing process of the failed romances we all live in our lives. Some of us experience them with greater strength, and some simply know how to maneuver and cope.

Denial.

Stage 1is perhaps the saddest because it’s the one that we have the most trouble getting out of.  When you’re living a torrid romance with a special someone, and you can’t see the forest for the trees…because you’re too busy counting the freckles on your beloved’s nose…that’s called denial. He/She treats you without the care or consideration that would befit your person, but you deny any wrong doing because you’re in love.

During the denial stage, you walk around in a state of well…denial. Others see the faults that you refuse to measure, and they also give warnings that fall off your (temporarily) deaf ears…to open your eyes. During that period, you are willing to let your love be slightly imperfect (very much so in other people’s eyes) because you’re in love, and who’s perfect in this world? Right? Wrong, we all have a right to expect token shows of love and if you’re loved you’ll receive more than just the basics.

Disbelief/Depression

Stage 2, is when your eyes are slammed open. You are seeing clearly, and the stage is set for you to have your heart broken. It’s at this time that you cry (yes even men, though in private), and not only are down but maybe even a wee bit depressed. That’s when you see things as they are, and you can’t believe that’s happening to you. Believe it, we’ve all gone through it, and some will commit the same mistakes again. Why me? You’ll ask yourself and walk around asking what you did wrong. There’s no perfect answer to that. You may be at fault for accepting attitudes that should have been checked immediately or simply…the feelings were not as strong on your lover’s side. Depending on the setting, and the kind of failure that the relationship brings with it, you may be facing a failed romance because your character was incompatible…or a person that was incapable of sharing themselves with you as you needed them to. It happens. Time to move on.

Anger

Stage 3, is a skippable stage for some. Why? Because it all depends on the type of failure you’re facing. You may be angry if you’ve got a lot of bad things to remember during the Denial stage, or if it’s not as heavy a load…you find it easier to accept the outcome. If you are one of the unlucky ones that has faced being used, or treated without the consideration or care you should expect, this is when you get angry. You’re angry at yourself for accepting less than you’re worth, and angry at your ex-lover for treating you to less than you deserved. This stage can be tricky though, because some of us learn the wrong lessons.

This is when users are created. Some refuse to give of themselves again, and instead play the same game of being heartless. It’s also the time when some become bitter, lose faith and remove themselves from the race to find true love. The majority of us though, eventually learns to get past this…if we fall into these attitudes.

"Acceptance" by: Jezli Pacheco, Graphite on paper

Acceptance

Stage 4, you’re almost there. When acceptance has finally broken through, it’s because you’re almost to that point where you can move on. Anger and pain are not the dominant theme of your thoughts. Instead you’re walking around making plans on how to cope with yourself. The memories are still strong though, and you can’t help comparing your lost love to all those new people you meet. Since you’re so vulnerable at this point, you shouldn’t start something with anyone. You could fall into another failure because you’re not ready to let go. This time though, you might end up hurting someone else along the way. You would be doing yourself and all other true love hopefulls a disservice. If you can’t give yourself whole, better let yourself heal before you try again.

Normal Again.

Stage 5, once you reach this point, you have learned all there is to be learned from that romantic lesson. Your life is better because you know yourself stronger, and know the pitfalls to avoid for the next time around. You’re ready to open your heart again, perhaps a little more cautious, but still willing to try. Good luck, we all need it, because we all deserve to find love…but those falls sure do hurt.

Stay in touch. Jezli@yahoo.com