Senoir Balthazar Pamplemousse!!!

I’ve been begging my boyfriend to let me buy a Pomeranian. They’re adorable.

Evidence:

They’re especially adorable when they get all mean and growly because it’s like, “Awwww! You just think you’re so big and scary but you have fluffy ‘tocks and tiny little paw pads!”

             Evidence:

His name will be Senoir Balthazar Pamplemousse. I plan on calling him Moo for short.

Monopoly is EVIL!!!!

Monopoly is Evil!

I HATE the board game Monopoly. I can’t understand why people enjoy playing this godforsaken game. It’s the epitome of everything I hate in life: money, greed, dishonesty, and especially basic math. Ew.

I’m one of those rare people who just generally dislikes games. I couldn’t care less about sports. There’s not a competitive bone in my body. Board games are repetitive and boring. Any kind of party game where I have to dance, be blindfolded, or spin around is simply not going to happen.

There are some exceptions to this rule. I fully embrace drinking games. I loooove trivia. I watch Jeopardy EVERY night. But that’s about it.

Games just seem like a waste of time. Why play a board game when you could, I dunno, have an authentic intellectual conversation?! As much as I love shouting “Sorry!” or “Jenga!” at the top of my lungs (I so totally DON’T), I would rather hear someone talk about their passions or their fears or what they ate for breakfast last Tuesday. Fuck “Family Game Night”! How about we have a “Family Actually has a Meaningful F-ing Conversation Night” instead?

End Rant.

But if you'd like to purchase said evil board game:

   

Ken Dolls...Pffffft!

           I like people who look like old houses. People with creaky floors, layers of paint, and weird 1970’s wallpaper; people with character. I’d gladly take Sarah Jessica Parker’s nose or Keith Richard’s wrinkles. I’d love nothing more than Frida’s unibrow or Anne Boleyn’s rumored sixth finger. Scars, tattoos, stretch marks, crooked noses, weird toenails… all so much more attractive than the media would have us think. I mean, if people actually thought the whole bulimic, orange-skinned, bleach blond look was attractive, the Barbie people would have made Tanorexic Ken by now. Have they? Nope. They did, however, make Beach Glam Ken and also some monstrosity called Hottie Ken.

           Thank-you toy gods. 

  

I have officially finished all 500 pages of the Hayden Herrera biography!!! It was an epic book. Her research was detailed and expansive. I’m pretty sure she interviewed anyone who ever smelled, tasted, heard, touched or saw Frida Kahlo. She even got her paws on personal photos and love letters.

Pretty much the second I put down Frida, I picked up the next book in my pile, Finding Frida Kahlo, which is about the very controversial stash of Frida belongings found a couple years ago. These newly discovered trunks and suitcases were full of personal documents, diaries, clothing, and art that appear to have belonged to Frida Kahlo. This has not been authenticated. Most people believe it’s a total fraud. I wanted to see for myself, being the amateur Frida scholar that I am, so I went through page after page of glossy photographs and descriptions of the items until I came to a conclusion:

They’re a complete and total fraud.

The signatures are all wrong. Every item in this stash is signed “F.K.” or “Frida K.” and I mean EVERYTHING, even recipes and doodles. It doesn’t make sense that she would have signed things like a list of ingredients for stew or random doodles of monkeys. Plus, Real Frida (as she shall henceforth be known) signed her name differently depending on whom she was writing to, and it was usually a nickname or even just lip prints. Why then, would she sign every letter and piece of artwork “F.K.”??? In addition to this Real Frida meticulously dated all of her letters, not only the year but the month and the day as well. She was very organized. Conveniently, none of the letters or documents are dated.

What’s really interesting though is a bunch of sexual drawings and descriptions of her sexual affairs with women. These are totally faked. Real Frida loved sex, but she NEVER spoke of her own sex life. In addition her bisexuality was never an issue. Diego preferred her to have affairs with women. Her affairs with other men made him furious.

Even more annoying are the hundreds of letters and diary entries calling Diego names and depicting him as a pretty ruthless monster. This is also completely false. Real Frida loved Diego. One of the most compelling things about their relationship is that they were both deeply flawed people who loved each other not in spite of, but because of those flaws. Frida knew that she always came second to his art and that she usually came second to his womanizing. She also knew that her love for him transcended the pain he caused her.

Clearly, whoever forged all these documents wanted to stir up the Real Frida mythology. They wanted to shock the public. They wanted to create a new person, one that was angry and hopeless and pathetic. These are things that could never describe Real Frida. She was sexual, vibrant, funny, graceful, and a belligerent drug addict in her last days.

I did some research online to find out what other people were saying about this new discovery. This article appeared in the NY Times and it pretty much validates my opinion:

 http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/29/arts/design/29frida.html?_r=1&ref=frida_kahlo

What's the Opposite of Bieber Fever?

Dear Justin Bieber,

Lately, you may have noticed that your body is going through some changes. There is hair where there was no hair before. Your voice is finally sounding like that of a man instead of a dying baby dolphin on helium. Congratulations. You have entered puberty. I’m here to help you. I’ll give you the answers that Rex, your roadie and ex-Hell’s Angel, just can’t provide. I’ll tell you the truth, unlike your agent, who’s really just a whoremonger of “cool.” He can’t pretend to care as well as I can.

Firstly, you’re not cool. Don’t take it personally. Nobody going through puberty is cool. It’s impossible. I say, embrace the awkwardness. Learn to love your gangly limbs and cracking voice. Let your freak flag fly. Do what other boys going through puberty do: get braces, embark on a futile quest to grow a mustache, pop some zits. You have my permission.

It must be exhausting to be cool all the time. Why don’t you take a day off and, I don’t know, try to touch a girl’s nipple or something. What about Selena Gomez? She has a cherubic face and a charming personality. I’m sure her nipples are lovely.

CUTEITARIANISM!!!!!!

I was a vegetarian for a little over a year. My reasons for going veggie were numerous, but mostly it was because I have a great deal of love and empathy for animals. I was already avoiding products made by companies who used animal testing. I was well educated in the ways of PETA, with their lists of charities, companies, products, and foods that are cruelty-free. So, I embarked on a year of meatless eating. It went well, but I have to admit, I missed meat.

 I also grew up down the road from the middle of nowhere.  I lived out in the country, surrounded by farms. I had many friends whose parents made a living raising and butchering animals. I’m not like those big-city hipsters who have never been to an actual farm. I know where the little wrapped packages of supermarket meat come from. I’m also not an idealist. I generally hope for the best and plan for the worst. I figure idealism is for sheltered hippy-snobs who have never experienced the real world. You know, the world that isn’t financed by daddy’s credit cards. Plus, I didn’t want to be that pretentious asshole constantly saying “I don’t eat meat” and insisting on a vegetarian option at a steakhouse or a greasy spoon or my friend’s mom’s house.

My point is that, realistically, cows aren’t native to Canada. Chickens can’t be returned to the wild. What purpose do these animals have other than being eaten? I’m definitely against unnecessary cruelty. Chickens should roam free in fields bespeckled with wildflowers. Seriously. They should. Cows should wander the countryside, chewing their cud in peace and mooing with contentment. Seriously. But they wouldn’t survive in the wild. So, unfortunately, the only thing to do is eat them.

Thus my dilemma: I love animals. I feel guilty when I devour their poor little carcasses but I refuse to be a vegetarian. My solution to this problem is this:

I only eat ugly animals.

I stay away from adorable cows. Rabbit is obviously out of the question. I was born in the Year of the Hare and bun-bun feet are quite possibly the cutest things on earth. I’ll eat some pig on occasion but only rarely. Pigs are not only cute, but they’re smarter than dogs.

I will eat chicken. I think they should live a happy life but they kinda freak me out. They’re sorta creepy with their pointy little beaks. Shrimp, lobster, crab and scallops are totally edible. Off with the head of anything that walks sideways while blowing bubbles! Take that e e cummings!

I suggest that cuteitarians unite! Eating ugly animals will make you feel less guilty about the fate of our feathered friends. You’ll be able to gaze into the eyes of your loving cat without feeling the need to yell, “I’m sorry Elvis! I ate your cousin! Ok, so that chicken was a distant cousin, but still!” and then having a panic attack. 

Love and other Drugs

 Friday I’m in Love…

I love my boyfriend. He’s amazing. He’s the bee’s knees, the cat’s pajamas and the dog’s tuxedo. Before you puke up your low-cal latte, let me just say that it’s true. This isn’t some kind of love-induced haze of affection; he’s actually an incredible man. My mom loves him. So does my stepfather. He even gets along with my weird twin brother who says things like “you know that TV show that’s an hour, with that guy who used to be a vampire and his dad invented running shoes?” (For the record, he was talking about Kiefer Sutherland in 24 and, yes, that was my first guess. If that’s not crazy twin telepathy, I don’t know what is) But the point is that my wonderful boyfriend will gladly buy (probably illegal) fireworks with my brother and set them off in the backyard, much to the irritation of the neighbors. My boyfriend will also make me tea, rub my back as I fall asleep, call me pretty when I’m not wearing makeup, say it’s cute when I obsess over wanting a Pomeranian puppy, watch Jeopardy with me, and read this stupid blog every day. HE’S ALSO AMAZING IN BED. Jealous? You should be.

I lucked out with this one <3 <3 <3

Cats etc.

Excuse the photo-whoring but…

Here’s Mortimer! He’s evil but cute:

You’ve met Elvis:

Here’s my desk, also known as Le Frida Shrine. My cats often dismantle it:

Here’s the Halloween altar we made for Samhain. All the candles represent loved ones who have passed. Yes, there is one for my Frida:

 Here’s me, kinda, sorta:

Here’s some of my art. I’m not saying it’s good, but I think it’s cute:

The Beginnings of the Dreaded Christmas List...

           All I have to say is: goodbye Starbucks, hello Tassimo. With your little cups of goodness and your streamlined physique, able to be crammed in next to the fridge, you shall save me from my Starbucks addiction, oh wondrous Tassimo! 

           After much highly un-academic research, I’ve come to the conclusion that the Tassimo is superior to the Keurig because of the wider variety of drinks and brands associated with it. Basically, it makes Chai lattes. That’s all I need to know. Anyways, the Tassimo is now officially in second place on my Christmas list.

First place goes to the amazing Surrealist painting my stepfather painted this summer. It’s beautiful, full of vibrant oranges and blues. I’ve already cleared a space for it on my wall.

Here’s another one of his paintings. I succeeded in prying it from his steely grip earlier this year:

He’s definitely the artist in the family. I paint with acrylics and draw. My style is very basic and folk-arty. That's the kind of stuff I love, obviously. Mexican folk art is my favorite. 

Frida was also inspired by folk art. She was capable of drawing photo realistically, but purposefully chose a more primitive style. She often studied medical manuals and handbooks. I know this because I’m halfway through the Herrera biography. Frida even considered a career as a medical illustrator. It shows in her artwork, the fetuses and anatomical hearts. I, on the other hand, am not artistically equipped beyond the realm of primitive folk art. Perhaps I’ll post some photos if I feel particularly confident one day.

My Hopeless Starbucks Addiction

            It’s officially November, despite my pleading with the weather gods for it to be October all year round. The holidays are upon us! This means several things to me (mistletoe, anatomically correct gingerbread men, copious amounts of booze in the a.m.), but most importantly, it marks the beginning of my seasonal Starbucks addiction.

            I can resist the call of those sexy, caffeine-pushing mermaids in the summer. Mostly. Except for iced Chai lattes. BUT as soon as the holidays come around, those brilliant, coffee-swilling bastards bring out a rainbow of festive, candy-topped drinks. This is my downfall. Pumpkin spice lattes, salted caramel hot chocolate, crème brule lattes, gingerbread lattes, eggnog lattes…. *coffeegasm*

            I’d write more… but I have to go to Starbucks now.

            Damn it.

           

  

What's Your number???

I’ve come to a conclusion.

Numerology. Is. Awesome.

I was listening to an episode of the Paranormal Podcast (one of the best podcasts on iTunes) and the lovely guest was a numerologist. She was saying that numbers influence everything in our lives. Digits like your street number, phone number, and even your bank account numbers might be helping or hindering your progress on this big, blue planet of ours. Intriguing, no? I suggest you look up your life path number immediately.

Your life path number is very important because it represents the innate traits that will influence you throughout life. Think of it as a gauge of your talents, abilities, fears, and introversion/extraversion. Add up the numbers in your birthday, month and year. For example, mine’s 03/10/1987 and YES, that means I’m 23 and YES, that means I spend my time listening to new age podcasts instead of watching Jersey Shore. I never said I was normal. Soooo my life path number breaks down to:

3+ (1+0=1) + (1+9+8+7=25 and then 2+5 =7)

SOOOO 3+1+7= 11. My life path number is 11. This means that I’m very intuitive, intelligent, creative, inventive, extremely beautiful and good in bed… I may have exaggerated the last couple of things…but only slightly.  

*seductive wink*

   

Writing, writing, writing...

      
            In case I hadn't mentioned it, I'm trying to be a writer. That’s one of the reasons I started this blog, it forces me to write something new every day. But then I read a page of the Frida biography by Hayden Herrera and I think, "I shall never be that awesome!”

*sigh*

Here's a brief excerpt from her book in which she relates Alex’s story of the tragic bus accident that ruined Frida’s body:

Something strange had happened. Frida was totally nude. The collision had unfastened her clothes. Someone in the bus, probably a house painter, had been carrying a packet of powdered gold. This package broke, and the gold fell all over the bleeding body of Frida. When people saw her they cried, ‘la bailarina! La bailarina!’ With gold on her red, bloody body, they thought she was a dancer.

Yep. It’s THAT good. For your information, I spent the better part of yesterday writing an article titled “History of the Merkin.” If you don’t know what a merkin is, google it and then laugh at the ridiculousness that is my life.

HAPPY DAY OF THE DEAD (DIA DE LOS MUERTOS)!!!!

Those pictures are of beautiful shrines and altars built to honor my favorite girl, Frida of course, on this special occasion. In case you’ve never heard of this amazing celebration I’ll give you a brief description (compliments of Wikipedia):

Day of the Dead (Día de los Muertos) is a holiday celebrated by many in Mexico. Gatherings of family and friends pray for and remember their loved ones who have died. The celebration occurs on November 2 in connection with the Catholic holidays of All Saints' Day (November 1) and All Souls' Day (November 2). Traditions connected with the holiday include building private altars honoring the deceased using sugar skulls, marigolds, and the favorite foods and beverages of the departed and visiting graves with these as gifts. The Day of the Dead is a time of celebration, where partying is common. People go to cemeteries to be with the souls of the departed and build private altars containing the favorite foods and beverages as well as photos and memorabilia of the departed. The intent is to encourage visits by the souls, so that the souls will hear the prayers and the comments of the living directed to them. Celebrations can take a humorous tone, as celebrants remember funny events and anecdotes about the departed.

I have my Frida altar assembled and my candles lit. I plan on drinking a shot of tequila in her honor (booze lover that she was) and leaving one out as an offering. It’s the least I can do for the woman who has become my personal guru. Plus, Frida loved Day of the Dead. She was inspired by José Guadalupe Posada prints:

           Diego was influenced by Posada as well. He painted Posada, himself, and Frida into his mural “Dream of a Sunday in Alameda Park”:

            I love and respect the way Mexican culture views death. Mexicans live with death everyday. It’s not a taboo or a phobia. Death is embraced with a sense of humor. It’s affectionately mocked, like an old friend.  

Nobody embodies that spirit more than Frida. She lived her life with one foot on earth and one foot in the hereafter. She suffered polio, impalement in her tragic bus accident, 35 operations to correct her spine and alleviate her chronic pain, amputation, alcoholism and morphine addiction and yet she never lost her spirit, her charm, or her sex appeal. She may have been bedridden for many long weeks and months, but she kept living. She wore her beautiful Tehuana clothing. She put on her red lipstick. She spent hours on her hair. She put rings on every finger. More importantly, she continued to love voraciously. Most importantly, she painted.

So let’s all drink a shot of tequila for my Frida.

I love you amiga! Viva la vida!