Crazy Virgo

Clean.

Recently, I decided to take the advice of a wise blogger and friend, Emily Power (aka A Denver Home Companion), and visit a Korean bath house in Aurora (see this post). I'm a bathhouse/spa junkie. There is little I love more in this whole world than relaxing naked in a quiet state of bliss for hours on end, leaving clean and glowing and refreshed. When I was going to ad school in San Franciso in the early 2000's, I frequented the Kabuki Spa in Japantown like an addict. Let me describe it for you, and you'll know why. For $15, I got to be naked, with other women in a women's-only facility, in a quiet zen space outfitted with wooden reclining chairs, soothing japanese music, cucumber water, hot and cold compresses, bath salts, and the perfect temperature of 79 degrees. At my leisure, I could enjoy a hot tub, cold-plunge pool, sauna, steam room, and eastern and western showers (meaning: stand-up or sit down), or just relax in utter peace and quiet. And, there was no time limit. If I wanted to be there for 6 hours, hiding away from the hard San Francisco streets, I could. You understand my love for this place.

When I moved to Boulder, I couldn't believe that in such a hippy-dippy town, there was no bathhouse. For six long years, I lived without regular visits to naked heaven, until I read a post on Emily's blog about a dreamy-sounding place called Havana Spa. From her pictures, it looked fine - not my Japanese Zen hideout, but a reasonable facsimile. Her description said to leave preconceived spa ideas at the doorstep. Fair enough. I didn't need fancy. So, I booked a scrub and massage, and anticipated a day of relaxation and pampering in the ladies-only Korean bathhouse in Aurora.

It was anything but. (Emily, apologies. Your experience must have been totally different than mine. Readers, please don't let this discourage your visit. This is only one woman's humorous experience.)

The facilities are clean. Nothing is overdone. It's more functional than anything. You get the sense that Korean men and women come here to just, bathe. Immediately I love that I was expriencing something cultural. I stripped down and prepared for my day of bliss by sitting in the hot tub, steaming and showering. Then I waited in the locker room for my name to be called. 

As I let my eyes fall closed and my mind wander, I heard a voice bark, "YOU SCRUB?"
It was a small, pudgy Korean woman in a bra and underwear standing across the room near a row of lockers, her polyester pants at her ankles.

"Me? Yes. I have a scrub at 2 p.m." I answered enthusiastically.
"HET! HET!" She commanded angrily while pointing toward something, I wasn't sure what.
I coudn't understand her, so much like I do with Sylvia, I tried to listen patiently to discern what she was saying before jumping to any conclusions.
"Hat?" I guessed.
"NO! HET! HET!" she repeated, pointing toward the door to the spa area.
"Do I need a hat?" I said, pointing to my head, and looking toward the door to locate a box of hats.
"NO! YOU HET! YOU GO HET!"
Sitting in shock, with my mouth agape, my eyes worried, I tried my hardest to understand her broken English, as clearly, I was doing something very wrong.
"You want me to wear a hat?"
She came over to where I was sitting, pulled my arm so I stood up, and pushed me toward the door to the spa area.
"HET! YOU GO HET!"
"Oh, hot. You want me to go get hot. Ok. I'll go sit in the hot tub." I replied, thinking she would be pleased that I had finally cracked the code. She was not pleased.
"YES! HET!" after which she muttered several unidentifiable words and shook her head.
I obediently sat in the hot tub, trying my very hardest to relax, while anticipating her next command.
She entered through the doors, stomping to the area where the scrubs took place. She turned water on. Threw some bowls around. Cleaned off a table. Then, walked to the hot tub.
"YOU COME."
I jumped out of the hot tub like it was on fire, and followed her like a puppy to the table.
"FAY DOWN!"
I stood motionless in fear.
"FAY DOWN!" She slapped the table with the palm of her hand.
"Oh, face down. Ok. I'll lay face down."
Once again, I obeyed, and thought, ok, here's where the relaxation and pampering starts, contrary to what she must have been thinking, which was, here's where the punishment and torture starts.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her take a large, red bowl and fill it with water from a huge tub. Hot? Cold? Full of skin-eating chemicals? I had no idea. She doused me with the bowl of water, that thankfully, was nice and warm.
Ok, ok, I thought. Stop being so dramatic. This is going to be fine. The language barrier couldn't come between me and my spa time.
Oh yes it could.
THe next hour consisted of pain, agony, confusion and cleansing.

She put a brillo pad glove on each hand and started scrubbing. She scrubbed hard. Throwing my limbs here and there. Then, to my surprise, but also not, she climbed onto my back, clearly to get a better angle for torturing my backside. A familiar scent whiffed past my nose.
"Is that......Irish Spring?" I wondered.  I craned my neck to see what exotic Asian soap my torturess was using. It was a bar of Irish Spring.
She scrubbed my entire back side, including well up into my ass, three times over. I literally saw skin flying off my body. After she was done, she stomped over and picked up the large, red bowl.
"Oh god," I thought. "She's going to waterboard me."
I winced, thinking that poor Sylvia might not know her mother after today.
She stomped over with the water and heaved it at my backside.
Oh thank you god. I'm alive!
She slapped my side and yelled, "OVER!"
I had never flipped over so fast, on a wet slippery table, while lying naked. 

I laid on my back and closed my eyes, letting the exfoliation happen. She scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed every inch of my body. Oh you'd better believe she got up into my lady business, and didn't neglect my boobs. She got every freaking inch. And after three times over, and layers of skin, I endured Korean water torture again. 

Finally, it was over. The scrubbing at least. Next came the milk. Yes, milk. It was squirted and vigorously rubbed into both sides of my body - again, without any regard to privacy or personal comfort zone. All the while, my Korean mother yelling and barking commands at me and complaining loudly in Korean when I didn't understand what she said.
Massage time. She pinched and prodded and beat me into submission. Pouding on my muscles. Kneading my shoulders. She rubbed oil into my skin much the same way an auto specialist rubs wax into a car's hood. Facial time. She put cucumbers soaked in milk all over my face, and though I couldn't see myself, I imagined I looked much like Hannible Lector with the meat mask on his face.

When it was all over, I sat up, looked at the woman, and shook my head in disbelief at what had just happened. She smiled and handed me an envelope that read, "Kim."
"KIM! KIM!" she said happily as she pointed inside the envelope.
"Yeah, I've got it."

I initially hated the treatement, and was about to tell the world at large how much I hated it, but honestly, I kind-of liked it. I felt incredibly clean. My skin was unbelievably smooth and soft. My face was clear and clean and glowing. I may never revisit this Korean spa, and I may have nightmares about a Korean woman scrubbing my vag with a brillo pad, but damnit, I was clean.

Heroin vs Heroine

Heroin: An addictive drug that (I've heard, I've never done any intravenous drugs) is heaven to experience, and awful to quit. The drug of all drugs. The tip top of being tripped out.

 

Heroine: a woman of distinguished courage or ability, admired for her brave deeds. See: Joan of Arc, Queen Elizabeth, Eleanor Roosevelt, Eleanor of Acquataine, Hillary Clinton

 

I've been called both recently. And frankly, both are quite flattering. It makes a lady feel sexy to be so irrisitable that I'm someone's drug of choice - that I make someone feel as high as an addictive substance. It's an honor to be someone's heroine, woman of distinction, role model. But, if I ackowledge that I'm heroin and let it flatter me then I'm not being a heroine, am I? These two words, pronounced the same, but one letter and miles apart in meaning, have led me to a place of pause. Because as a single woman with a young lady in tow, I can't be both. Can I?

When the term heroin was tossed my was, as in "you're my heroin," my feathers ruffled, my fur bristled, and "Oh. No. CrazyVirgo is NO ONE'S drug" was on the tip of my tongue, while my finger was ready to wag and snap. But, because of the yoga classes I've been doing, I took a moment to breathe and be in the moment. Why was this a bad thing? If I'm all about feeling good about myself, having self-confidence, then why do I care what I am to anyone else? What I am to you is your deal. What I am to myself is what matters. And all that delicious yoga shit.

But, I did what I always do, I think of LittleVirgo. Do I want to tell her one day that "mama was once called heroin by a man that she was kind of involved with, and that's ok, because....", knowing all the while that I'm also her heroine (or at least I strive to be). Then my mind flexed, and talked to my soul, and checked in with my heart, and we all decided, ya. F*ck it. Be yourself. Be proud. Be strong. IF that's heroin to someone, then I must be putting off a pretty strong vibe. And, by being myself, being strong and being proud, then I'm a heroine, to LittleVirgo, to myself, and hopefully to womankind. 

So, load me up in your syringe. Shoot me in your veins. Collapse and feel like you're floating. Enjoy it. I'll be watching from the battlefield where I stand proudly with my sword drawn, defending my honor.

Yoga Revisited - It's even better than I remember

When the clock struck midnight on January 1, 2013, I intended to have a Little Talk with myself. Alas, I think I was toasting cheap champagne, and dancing to a 80s cover band. But, shortly thereafter, maybe even on a bathroom break, I looked myself in the eye and said, CrazyVirgo, in 2013 you need to make some changes, do a lot of things differently, find balance, and shed your old skin.  So, in an effort to hit restart and center myself for 2013, I opted not for a cleanse or a new way of eating - because we all know I could never - and I headed for the obvious and joined a yoga studio in my south Boulder hood. It's a gorgeous space, with a huge West-facing window and a view of the Flatirons. There's an incredibly clean women's locker room with Pangea Organic Soap (which, in my opinion, makes any restroom, shared or not, sublime), instructors with naturally peaceful, rhythmic yoga voices, and cold-lavender-scented compresses passed out at the end of class for Shavansna (did I spell that correctly?). Truly, it's awesome.

I haven't done yoga since I was pregnant with BabyVirgo - basically two years ago. I prepared myself for the inflexibilty I would certainly encounter (without judgement  of course. This  IS yoga after all). I found that yoga, much like riding a bike, comes back to you in a snap. You never really forget warrior one, warrior two, triangle pose, oojaya (i'm sure that's not spelled correctly) breathing, cat-cow, wonderful words that roll off the tongue like Utanasna (spelling), and of course, the glorious release into shavasna. 

I bought a $10/10 days pass and have been three times already, including 6:30 a.m. yoga on a Tuesday - early morning exercise, which I NEVER do. Damnit, it felt good. Yoga feels good. Hey, does everyone know this? Yoga feels really freaking good. Breathing in and exhaling all the old ickiness, or the extra glass of wine you shouldn't have had, or an argument, or judgement, or pizza, and inhaling an entirely new breathe feels transformative. Man oh man. Why hadn't I really indulged in yoga before? This shit is awesome.

After my third yoga class, I've realized, I'm oojaya breathing all over the place. Yoga is - gasp - extending in to my life at large. Oddly enough, inhale/exhale helps get through any situation. Traffic - inhale, exhale the shitty driver in front of you. Work - inhale, exhale the ridiculous feedback from a client (or boss, or co-worker, you get the point). Child - oh hell yes. Here's where it reeeeeallly helps. Right now, I'm potty training LittleVirgo, as well as wading my way through her developing personality (read: sassy independence). Since I've started yoga-ing again, I've inhale/exhaled my way through the following situations:

poop on my hand

bed time resistance: MOMMA! I sleep with you and Ozi (dog). Please?

a car that won't start

an overturned plate of food with ketchup on a teak-wood table

an constantly uncertain job situation

CrazyVirgo 2012 would have freaked out in every one of these situation, at least a little, over-dramatized them, for sure, and never woul dhave kept her cool. CrazyVirgo2013, nay, 2.0, took a moment, look inward, inhaled, and exhaled the negative feelings that were bubbling up my throat like acid reflux. Funnily enough, each situation turned out ok. Some better than expected, even. So, I'm sticking with it. I'm hooked on yoga this time around. I'm buying the overpriced montly membership (why is yoga always more expensive than the gym???) and I'm gonna be a full-lotus doing, oojaya breathing, open-hipped yogi.

Damnit Yoga. You're good.

 

2012 - The Year I Learned to Breathe

Well pals, here it is. My year in review. You'd better sit down for this one. And swallow, if there's liquid in your mouth. And, make sure there's no children in the room. 

Now, I consider myself a normal, average, ok slightly above average, female. I wake up on the right side of the bed most days, brush my teeth, dress, drink copious amounts of coffee, work, take some shit, go home eat, sleep, rinse and repeat. But for some reason, the great Universe decided to test my personal, emotional and physical strength as, not only a female, but as a human being this past year. Yes, the Universe picked this unsuspecting fool to throw daggers and fireballs and mud and a bag of nails, you get the picture. Can a normal female surive when thrown into the claws of confusion?

Short story - Yes. But I hope you continue for the long version.

First, I got a divorce. It's fucking hard. The hardest thing I've done, next to natural childbirth, which is hard, but in a rewarding way. It sucked. It sucked almost everything out of me. I lost 20 lbs., and if you know me well, you know that parting with food, and not eating, is NOT something I make a habit of. It was an awful, gut-wrenching experience that might turn some people bitter and cold and make others doubtful that love exists at all. But me? Well, I chose to look at the sunrise, not the sunset. I chose to focus on myself, my sweet child, my job, my friends. I chose to stop and breathe, and inhale and exhale and take a step forward. 

After that step forward, I got completely bruised in the tumble cycle of emotion that is re-discovering relationships. I discovered I have this wide open heart that people like to jump into - like a god-damned kids jumpy castle - get really comfy, have a ton of fun, feel super good about themselves, then beat it, leaving me wondering why I let them in.

But, did I let any of this keep me down? Nah. In the grand scheme of things, if this is what I was dealing with, it could be way worse. A broken heart can be mended.

Oh, that's not all. It did, in fact get way worse.

Next came the DUI. Yes, you read that correctly. Driving Under the Influence. I won't go into morbid detail here, except I will, because maybe it will save you from doing the same thing. I did what many warm-blooded 35 year-old people who consume alcohol have done many times. Drank a few at a party, paired each drink with a glass or two of water, waited a few hours after drinking, then drove home.I happened to reach for my phone, swerved, a cop was behind me, and wham, bam thank you Colorado Highway Patrol. Pulled over, given a sobriety test, given a breathalizer, hand-cuffed and put in the back of a cop car, in a fancy party dress, in heals, in shame. If you're thinking, holy shit I would have been in shock, guess what? I was too! Hey, that makes two of us. Mug shot taken, fingerprinted, and lectured, I was then taken not to jail, but to a detox center. In Aurora. Pardon me if you're not from Colorado, or if you've not spent any time here, but Aurora is much like, oh Jersey. I had heard tales of friends that had been thrown in detox. "Oh it's all drunk frat boys and mouthy girls." Not in this one. That would have been a welcomed sight. I was propositioned to dance my forthcoming lawyer fees off at a lovely establisment off West Colfax by an old, wrinkled drunk man who owned said establishment. Then I was yelled at by two girls because wearing a dress made me better than them. "oh you think you're better than us becuase you're wearing a dress, chica?" Then I had to watch a heroine addict come down from her high. And, I got to see a drunk old man vomit all over himself, several times. And, in case I was tired and wanted to sleep it off, I was given a bed, covered in rubber, to get cozy. My punishment continues. I lost my license for 30 days. Couldn't drive. Now, I have a breathalizer device in my car that I have to blow into while humming (insert hummer joke here to ease the tension) for the next 4 months. The amount of money this has cost me is enormous, but the humiliation far outranks the financial implications. What did I do after months of payment and punishment? Stop and breathe, and inhale and exhale, and take a step forward. 

Oh, that's not all.

On December 20th, I got laid off from my job. In a flash I did not see coming, a job that I only had for four months, a job that I had completely fallen in love with, a job that I had coveted for years, a job that I thought I would have for years, was gone. 

And that, was it, as Malcom Gladwell wrote, The tipping fucking point. Ok, he didn't write "fucking", I did.But, it certainly was the the point at which something, that might have been small, happened at a time that it started a movement and a change within myself.  What the hell had I done to deserve this? Eleven short days away from the end of a pretty shitty year, and I had to lose my job, too? For the love of.... I had nothing left to do but run to the open space across from my house - thank god Boulder has so much open space - and scream and scream and yell and scream and yell and kick a tree. But then, I knew what I had to do - brush myself off, stop and breathe, and inhale and exhale and take a step forward.

It seems nothing, short of bodily injury, can keep me down. Much like a punching bag, I keep coming back for more. Rebounding, wiping the blood off my face, and saying, Thank you. May I have another. It took a year of compounded catastrophe to teach me that about myself. It took a year of life-altering experiences to teach me that breathing, the most basic exercise in humans, will help you survive anything. Anything.

This isn't a sob story. This isn't a plea for pity. This isn't a tale of woe. It's narration. It's proof that you can get the shit beat out of you so emotionally that it starts to feel physical, and you can survive. If, you just keep breathing.

Hey you, I love you

I've been recently getting to know myself. This may seem strange. You probably think you know yourself really well, having lived in your body since the day you were born. But, do you really? When's the last time you had an affair with yourself? I mean, like met yourself in a secret location and did something all for you? Because after 35 years of living in my skin, I've realized I didn't know myself all that well, and I sure as shit have not had an affair with myself.

Let me clarify. I know things about me, like my favorite food (bacon); my favorite music (Neko Case, Bjork, New Order...); My favorite place on Earth (Orcas Island, WA); My favorite book (Pride & Prejudice). You know, the important things. But, I asked myself one day, "Hey you, have I really spent some QT with you lately? Or in the last 35 years, for that matter?" And, sadly, the answer was, No. So, I've made it my personal responsibilty to fall in love with me. 

Now, that hasn't been easy. I'm a pretty mysterious and elusive person; what you see is not always what you get. So, me being with me was easier said than done. For one thing, I realized I was really busy. I'm always booked with social activities, which leaves little time for me. What would I do if I had a night that wasn't booked with dinner or drinks or a bike ride or a child? Actually, I have a long list of answers for that, which would include: reading a book, taking a bath, putting some time in on writing my collection of short stories, drinking and entire bottle of wine, laying in the grass and watching a sunset happen, or watching "Wuthering Heights" or the entire box set of "Absolutely Fabulous." I have plenty of things to do that only require my attendance. So, why am I so hesitant to book some time on the calendar with just me? I didn't know, so I just did it. And, holy shit. Turns out, I'm a pretty awesome person to hang out with. Me and me had a great time together. I took me to Lake Dillon and stayed in a friend's condo, all by myself, drank as much as I wanted, read books, read fashion mags, watched ridiculous television, talked to myself, watched the sunset, and didn't worry about what was happening in the world at large. It was so much fun that I booked another date with myself, ASAP. I found out some things about myself: I'm fun. I'm funny. I'm pretty attractive. My breathe doesn't smell all that bad in the morning. I go to nice places for dinner. I listen to good music. I have nice conversation. I'm interesting. I clean up pretty well for a date. Wait.... was I? No.... yes? Shit, I realized that I had a crush on myself. This crush grew, and really increased the time and attention I was giving me. I bought me some lovely clothes, to look good for me on our dates. I got me a long overdue haircut, again, to look good for me on our dates. I got me a very, very nice bottle of perfume. I need to smell good when I smell me. Shit! I realized I was fawning all over me.... and, it felt really good. Why haven't I done this before? I was really enjoying this time, just me and me. I actually liked going to a restaurant and happily announcing, Table for one, please! Turns out, I fucking love me.

Well, this affair is still hot and heavy, and me and me are really in l.o.v.e. I think it might be a long-term relationship. And, here's the weirdest thing, I realized I'm a much more attractive person to the outside world after I've spent a little time dating myself. Funny how that works. When you love yourself, other people tend to love you too. When you love yourself, you stand in your power - so to speak - and everyone tends to see that. It's like the world is your oyster when you take care of yourself, and my ownly job is to show up with the cocktails sauce (i love food analogy). Life is just good. Pizza is delivered on time. People want to give you free tickets to concerts. Cabs show up when you call for them. The Universe is just like that with its rewards for being good to yourself. You meet more interesting people when you love yourself a little more. Funny thing, you meet people who love themselves, too. 

Just another little talk I've been having with myself.

Little Talks with Myself

I'm nearly 35 (as of 9-14, but when the summer hits, I always round up). And mostly every day for the past year, I feel (to quote Augusten Burroughs) like the sun has come up only to humiliate me. You see, I've discovered this concept called, "Honesty". Is it ON-esty, or HAhn-esty? It's a soft H, I think. In any case, I've been dishing it out like soup at a food kitchen. And, sadly, not a whole lot of people seems to like my soup. To keep speaking in analogy, it's usually spit out or dumped on the floor. Sometimes that's humiliating, because - to keep it going - when you dish out soup, you think the person is going to like it, or you wouldn't have offered it. Sometimes, it's like "You don't like my soup? Fine. I'll give it to someone who does."

The un-welcome response to my truth soup has left me feeling confused, and quite frankly, a little crazy. Doesn't anyone want my soup? It's free! 

So, when the sun comes up, there's a 99% chance that I'm going to feel like I wish it hadn't. How does one respond to this feeling? Well, lately, I've been having little talks with myself. Sometimes I'll take myself to the bathroom and look me in the mirror and admit the truth and not back away from it. Sometimes I'll be in the car, alone, and tell myself that honesty is healthy and a natural emotion to want to share. Sometimes I sit myself down on my bed, pat myself on the back and tell myself that it's ok to be honest, even if the honesty isn't welcomed, because that's how you find out the other person's truth.

These little talks with myself make the after effects a little easier to take. "Don't worry, you. You're doing everything right. Don't run away from the truth. Embrace it, and share it, regardless of the cost." After that I put on my "I'm not crazy, everyone else is" t-shirt, and eat a bowl of soup.

 

 

 

I'm the May Queen, bitches

In 8th Grade I told the best lie I've ever told. I was in Catholic school at the time, and May Day was approaching - a very important religious holiday. On May Day in Catholic School you don't just give flowers to someone you like, or dance around a maypole. No no, that's for pagans. In Catholic school you crown a statue of the virgin Mary with flowers. May is her month. She gets the entire freaking month! It's ridiculous, yes, but it's doctrine, and she did carry and birth the Lord, and at that point in my life, that's all I knew. As a female in 8th Grade, placing the crown on Mary's head is a coveted honor. The chosen lady wears an amazing pastel colored dress, gets to lead the rosary (the ritual where you pray and count beads on a necklace), and forever be remembered in the annals of the yearbook as the May Queen. This was our Miss America pageant.  In order to get this position, all the 8th grade ladies had to write an essay. I never won or win anything. I wasn't athletically gifted. I wasn't artistic. But, I could write. Especially in fiction. This is where I was going shine. I had to win this contest. Not just because I wanted to be CrazyVirgo, May Queen, but because I knew my best friend thought she had it in the bag. She was one of those people that are natural winners. She won everything. MVP in basketball. Girlfriend of the cutest boy in 8th Grade. Most pull-ups in gym class. I loved her and hated her for this. It was awesome being best friends with a winner, until you wanted to win. Remember that scene in "Talledega Nights" when Cal Naughton, Jr. asks RIcky Bobby if he could win just this one time, and Ricky laughs? That's what I felt like most of the time. That's just how it was - she won, I congratulated her, and if I was lucky, I came in second. Well,Not. This. Time. 

I put so much thought into what would win this essay, my brain hurt. What would the judges - my 8th grade teachers - want to hear? What was going to beat the unbeatable opponent? My devotion to prayer? Nah. My lifetime commitment to Catholicism? Nah. And then, I had it - family tradition. This is Catholicism after all. Nothing matters more than family. Hmm.... my family... what could I write about? Nothing came to mind.... that was true. But, a little story started formulating in my brain. What if my Mom was May Queen, and her mother was May Queen, and her mother was May Queen? And my older sister? What if all the females in my family had been May Queens and it was my duty to keep the tradition alive?! That wasn't the case at all. But, damnit, it was going to be. What Catholic school teacher alive would keep a young, blossoming Catholic away from completing her role in her family and crowning Mary?

So, I did it. I wrote my essay about the female tradition of being May Queen in my family. I wrote about how I wanted to make my sister, mother, grandmother and great-grandmother proud. I wrote how I thought Mary would appreciate my desire to honor her and my mothers. I lied and lied and lied. The words flowed onto the paper like a Pulitzer Prize winning novella. Fiction came to me so naturally. And, guess what? I WON! I BEAT HER. The impossible became possible. The teachers panel commended me on my devotion to family, females and the Mother Mary. I wore an awfully heinous pastel pink dress, put on my most pious face, placed the crown of flowers on Marys head, lead that rosary like a pro and enjoyed my 30 minutes as Queen. I was smiling and laughing an evil laugh inside the whole time. "Ha ha you idiots! You believed me? A 14 year-old? Serves you right for letting me have this win.

I've evnjoyed that victory almost every day since. Did my lie hurt anyone? No. Do I lie everytime I want something that I think is unattainable? No. But I knew what it would take to win, and I went for it.

Happy May Day mofos.

Printed word, I'm cheating on you

I wish I liked the drink, Old Fashioned, becuase it would be my signature drink. Instead, it's a dirty martini. But, I digress. As I was just saying, I'm old fashioned. I'm a feminist (retired). I love books.
Curling up with one on the couch with the perfect beverage and pouring over printed words on a page is bliss. I read Pride & Prejudice every February. I love postcards. I love greeting cards. I love the spring and fall fashion issues of Vogue. I love the Hollywood issue of Vanity Fair. I love oogling the hotties in suits in Esquire. This is crazy, but I love to hate tearing out the subscription cards from these magazine. I even love the putrid stench of perfume and cologne samples. I'm old fashioned and sentimental. Being smack dab in the thick of technology might seem uncomfortable to someone like me. Ha! Wrong. I deflected technology for a while, but then it grabbed hold of me and swept me up like a Victorian love affair. And, sigh, I've been totally cheating on the printed word. In the last six months, I've basically been molesting my iPhone. I'm in LOVE with Instagram (follow me @sarahsibley). I scan that shit all the time. I love that the world is my photo album, and thanks to filters, every photo I take could be printed and framed. I love Words with Friends. I love weather apps. I love Twitter (@crazy_virgo). I'm lukewarm on Facebook. I love Shazam. I love that every time I wonder what an actor is up to the IMDB app can tell me. I've even dabbled in an iPad, which I swore to hate. We didn't hit it off so well, but I respect its presence.
Thanks to my technologasm, I haven't even got through half of my yearly reading of Pride &Prejudice. I'm behind on my subscription to Vanity Fair, and basically, my iPhone is my right hand. Is this my cry for help? Yeah. Maybe. And, ironically, it's coming via a blog..... I should be journaling this shit in a ratty book with a ballpoint pen that has been passed down from generation to generation. Sigh. Cheating again.
I've gotta make peace with my internal struggle here. I've got a little Sophie's choice going on, and it needs some mediation. Can my right hand hold a book while my left hand types? Technically, no, because I'm not ambidextrous. But in spirit, yes. That's just how it's gonna have to be, becuase I'm sure as shit not giving up my iPhone or my laptop. Books, you won't get dusty. I'm a Virgo, so it's impossible for me not to clean the books. Magazines, you won't go out of date. Same rule applies. As a Virgo, I recycle the magazine as soon as the issue expires. Greeting cards..... well you are probably getting shelved, b/c email and texting is so much easier. But, I'm a sucker for letterpress, so probably you'll be back in my life soon.

Printed word, Yes I love technology, but not as much as you, you see.

Postcards from the womb

Dear mom :

Thanks for the nice digs these past 9 months. It's awesome in here. There's so much room. I can stick my butt out on one side of this sack and stretch my feet all the way to the other side. In fact, there's so much room I've been doing yoga, so you've probably felt me practicing my downward dog. I'm determined to be in good shape when I meet you and Dad.

 

Love, 

Baby Virgo

Girlcrush, part 75

I've had plenty of girlcrushes starting back in my youth with Debbie Gibson and Tiffany. Obvious dreams of hot pink sweatshirts, teased hair, my own perfume. I used them as my first fashion inspirations. I even tried to write an entire musical using TIffany's first album, thinking that maybe we'd meet when I completed the script and took it to Broadway. Then, matured to  Carly Simon, after seeing "Working Girl." A passionate, emotional voice echoing through the whole world calling out to women everywhere. All that crazy long feathered hair blowing in the wind on the back of the Staten Island Ferry singing her her heart out. In my teen years it was all Tori Amos. I died my hair red on my 16th birthday and knew the words to every song she sang, wrote them on the covers of my notebooks, thought about taking up piano, and most certainly called myself a Toriphile or some ridiculous stalker name. I probably dabbled in some Ani DiFranco in college. Who didn't?

Most recently it's been Neko Case. Rachel Maddow. Bjork. Well now I have a new one.
 Allison Mosshart. Half of "The Kills". Half of "The Dead Weather." 

 

Hello rock and roll star. Joan Jett and Pat Benatar incarnate, but with better hair. I tried my best to keep this crush at a minimum, because let's face it. She's the epitome of Hipsterdom. Every skinny jean wearing muther fucker out there loves her. My GAP-wearing, clean-laced, bourgeoisie ass is probably on her KILL LIST. Well, clearly, I'm attracted to ladies that are a total mess. My new GF Allison is a drinking, smoking, erratic, dramatic, hot rock-n-roll mess with a voice that punches you in the face. This is exactly everything that I am not. Which, I presume is what makes her so crushable. 

Evidence:

Treat Me Like Your Mother Video

 

In the past, I suppose I crushed on Bjork so much because girl dresses like a three year-old that insists on doing her own hair and wearing rain boots, a tutu, a cowgirl shirt and a stocking cap. She let's her insides dictate her wardrobe, which usually equates to confusion and and an emotional clusterfuck. A mess.

 

And a mess is something I can never pull-off. I like showering and brushing my hair. I don't smoke. I don't drink whiskey. I can't stand on stage, or in front of a camera, or straddle a piano seat bench and serenade a crowd with my heart leaping out of my throat in song. SO, I have a type. I crush on girls that are a little bit what I wish I was and shall never be. Maybe for my 40th birthday (yes, already planning it) I'll invite them all, we'll do several lines, drink vodka out of the bottle, wear bras and leather pants, rent out a theater, invite everyone I know, perform in my all girlcrush band and go on a 72-hour bender. But probably it will be a dinner party with fresh squeezed cocktails, farm-fresh food, discussion about babies, independent film, and fashion. Alas.... I'd bore my crushes to tears.

So, I'll continue to love them from afar, dress like them in my head, have secret conversations with them while I'm supposed to be working. Don't worry, I'm not going all Tyler Durtan on you.