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!