I like the concept of minimalism, really I do. I downsized to a studio apartment and feel proud being able to say, I am only taking up as much room as I need. Of course, in developing countries, families of 10 may live together in a space the same size, but everything, of course, is relative.
I had started to downsize my belongings in preparation for the since cancelled move to Chile. I took boxes of distasteful books to the used shop around the way. I threw away damaged clothes and planned a trip to my favorite consignment shop. Other miscellaneous items, such as art supplies, were also getting the critical eye. You know what? I don't miss anything I've tossed and honestly can't remember most of what it was.
After returning from my extended trip, it took me 5 days before I realized that I had left my current favorite pair of shoes in Maryland. This means two things: 1) I am horrible at unpacking and the contents of my luggage only got put away yesterday and 2) I have too many pairs of shoes. I have been adhering to some notions associated with the minimalism fad. For example, I try to focus on spending money on experiences, such as classes, trips and massages, I invest in healthy foods to fuel my body, I purchased a kindle and use my computer as my TV, etc. I generally don't bring a lot of things into my house.
The exception is shoes. I visit Piperlime an average of 3 times per week to check out their new arrivals. I have 3 pairs of Tom's. I have 3 pairs of black boots and 5 pairs of brown boots and 2 pairs of gray boots. I have 2 pairs of gold shoes and 3 pairs of silver shoes. I have 2 pairs of Converse and 2 pairs of Keds. I have 4 pairs of "real" athletic shoes. I have 3 pairs of "birdcage" shoes. I could go on.
So I'll go ahead and be honest. I've always wanted to write something entitled Memoirs of My Melancholy something. After the Gabriel Garcia Marquez book, Memories of My Melancholy Whores, which I enjoyed reading, but the title was definitely the biggest take away. I've considered writing up my personal memoirs, similarly themed, but it seems kind of low brow (although it would be hilarious, guaranteed). Plus, if I'm speaking the truth here, I might as well admit those memoirs are far from being complete.
My shoes aren't so melancholy. Unless shoes can become sad for not getting enough attention. Sort of how I rotated which of my dolls slept in my bed when I was a girl so they wouldn't get their feelings hurt. Sometimes I wish more people would treat one another with as much compassion as I treated my dolls.
January 10, 2011
January 8, 2011
Today was wonderful
I have not had a full weekend at home for over a month and I savored my Saturday. Yesterday I learned that my favorite local coffee shop is closed. Today, I discovered that the donut shop has pretty great french roast, it's totally unpretentious, and super cheap. It's the kind of place where old men hang out and have debates with one another for hours on end, or parents take their kids as a special treat.
From the donut shop I ventured down to the farmer's market, which I must say is probably the best market in the whole wide world. I am not exaggerating, I am the kind of person who goes online to research when and where the local farmer's market is while on vacation. Today I purchased a mix of greens specifically for stir fry (the recent NY Times article on healthy eating has been wagging its finger at me for my recent meals of chocolate Twizzlers), hearts of palm, citrus fruit for days, pomegranates, Kalamata olives, chanterelles, and some other random nyums nyums. I treated myself to a delicious croissant that is somehow made to taste like a pretzel.
This is the sign for the Farmer's Market I visited while in Hawaii. They sold a lot of Spam. I asked where to purchase Spam plants so I could grow some but no one thought I was funny.
In Amsterdam, where I was suckered into buying dragon fruit, which is the spiny stuff on the left. It tastes horrible.
Vancouver, BC, which just may be the most abundant place on Earth. This market is indoors and so awesome I went back. Twice.
I walked home from the market mostly along the main drag, where a t-shirt in a shop window caught my eye. LA Face with an Oakland Bootie. How amazing is that? I need one in my life, that much I know. I met up with one of the legendary dog brothers who guard the used bookstore, which is run by their owner. I can't tell them apart and I can never remember their names, but they have the most dense, fluffy white fur of any animal I've seen. I always wonder if they can even detect when someone pets them. It makes me feel so good to see the familiar faces in my neighborhood, be they human or dog. It reminds me that this really is my home, and that I need to get serious about putting in some roots and stop traveling so often.
I came home and tinkered around. I worked in the garden to spruce it up after my extended time away and the ongoing Winter downpours. I cut down all of the mint, knowing it will be back with a vengeance soon enough. I had this great idea to cook the mint on the stove in a huge pot of water as a kind of aromatherapy humidifier combination. It smells so nice, clean, and exhilarating in the apartment now!
Jess and I did a little thrift shopping and both of us scored. I got a black cropped sweater that's a blend of cotton and cashmere (all about the natural fibers) for $3. Maybe I'll post a photo like the fashion bloggers do. Next we went to our new favorite place, the spa with the private steam rooms, saunas, and hot tubs. We steamed together and had a great time clearing our pores and sinuses while laying on the warm marble benches, guffawing it up all the while. Not a bad way to spend $11.
Afterward, I treated myself to a massage at the same place and it wasn't anything to write home about. The woman basically lotioned my body with a tad bit more exertion than I would have myself. Thankfully I'm headed to Venice next weekend and you know what that means? A Thai woman will be walking on my back and causing me much pain with unforgiving pressure put forth by her inevitably tiny hands. I can't motherfucking wait.
From the donut shop I ventured down to the farmer's market, which I must say is probably the best market in the whole wide world. I am not exaggerating, I am the kind of person who goes online to research when and where the local farmer's market is while on vacation. Today I purchased a mix of greens specifically for stir fry (the recent NY Times article on healthy eating has been wagging its finger at me for my recent meals of chocolate Twizzlers), hearts of palm, citrus fruit for days, pomegranates, Kalamata olives, chanterelles, and some other random nyums nyums. I treated myself to a delicious croissant that is somehow made to taste like a pretzel.
This is the sign for the Farmer's Market I visited while in Hawaii. They sold a lot of Spam. I asked where to purchase Spam plants so I could grow some but no one thought I was funny.
In Amsterdam, where I was suckered into buying dragon fruit, which is the spiny stuff on the left. It tastes horrible.
Vancouver, BC, which just may be the most abundant place on Earth. This market is indoors and so awesome I went back. Twice.
I walked home from the market mostly along the main drag, where a t-shirt in a shop window caught my eye. LA Face with an Oakland Bootie. How amazing is that? I need one in my life, that much I know. I met up with one of the legendary dog brothers who guard the used bookstore, which is run by their owner. I can't tell them apart and I can never remember their names, but they have the most dense, fluffy white fur of any animal I've seen. I always wonder if they can even detect when someone pets them. It makes me feel so good to see the familiar faces in my neighborhood, be they human or dog. It reminds me that this really is my home, and that I need to get serious about putting in some roots and stop traveling so often.
I came home and tinkered around. I worked in the garden to spruce it up after my extended time away and the ongoing Winter downpours. I cut down all of the mint, knowing it will be back with a vengeance soon enough. I had this great idea to cook the mint on the stove in a huge pot of water as a kind of aromatherapy humidifier combination. It smells so nice, clean, and exhilarating in the apartment now!
Jess and I did a little thrift shopping and both of us scored. I got a black cropped sweater that's a blend of cotton and cashmere (all about the natural fibers) for $3. Maybe I'll post a photo like the fashion bloggers do. Next we went to our new favorite place, the spa with the private steam rooms, saunas, and hot tubs. We steamed together and had a great time clearing our pores and sinuses while laying on the warm marble benches, guffawing it up all the while. Not a bad way to spend $11.
Afterward, I treated myself to a massage at the same place and it wasn't anything to write home about. The woman basically lotioned my body with a tad bit more exertion than I would have myself. Thankfully I'm headed to Venice next weekend and you know what that means? A Thai woman will be walking on my back and causing me much pain with unforgiving pressure put forth by her inevitably tiny hands. I can't motherfucking wait.
January 7, 2011
Namesake
I seem to have been a pretty awesome small child. Sure, my Mom always tells me I was born with a smile on my face. But I think I'm most intrigued by Tiny Pins, which was the name I bequeathed my first doll. She was a sock doll with blue eyes sewn with embroidery floss, along will all of her other, plainer facial features. She wore a marmish short yellow yarn hair-do that was mostly covered with a hat that was tacked to her head permanently (undoubtedly to conceal bald spots). Tiny Pins was not an exceptional doll, but in my opinion she had a damn interesting name. What was on my mind when I picked that one, I wonder?
Rather than have an imaginary friend, I had an alter-ego, Chrissy Tina. To transition from myself into her, I put on a hat, usually a large, straw sun hat with a wide brim. I looked up to Chrissy TIna and thought she was very mature. There are a small number of photos of her at my parent's house, and in each one she is smirking like a cat with a canary feather peaking out of her mouth. I swore that the two of us shared conversations, like most kids who have imaginary friends. I wonder what psycho-analysts would say about my experience? As long as they don't tell me it means I'm a sociopath, or almost worse, average, I think I'll be ok.
This is me during the time that Chrissy Tina and Tiny Pins were my aces. While we bear a striking resemblance, I can tell this is not Chrissy Tina (obviously, there's no hat to be seen).
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Rather than have an imaginary friend, I had an alter-ego, Chrissy Tina. To transition from myself into her, I put on a hat, usually a large, straw sun hat with a wide brim. I looked up to Chrissy TIna and thought she was very mature. There are a small number of photos of her at my parent's house, and in each one she is smirking like a cat with a canary feather peaking out of her mouth. I swore that the two of us shared conversations, like most kids who have imaginary friends. I wonder what psycho-analysts would say about my experience? As long as they don't tell me it means I'm a sociopath, or almost worse, average, I think I'll be ok.
This is me during the time that Chrissy Tina and Tiny Pins were my aces. While we bear a striking resemblance, I can tell this is not Chrissy Tina (obviously, there's no hat to be seen).
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January 6, 2011
Shock Value
Wow! It's been a really, really long time since I added a post. So long, in fact, that I forgot these few posts from 2008 existed. Reading them made me smile. The New Year has prompted me to start writing more regularly. My handwriting has always been atrocious to the point that my moleskin recently asked me to please stop defacing his pages. My fingers are far more adept at typing anyway.
My favorite deputy here in California, Jess, was the first to tell me, "You are all about the shock value!" This was after I informed her and a couple of our newer friends that the rosemary shortbread she had baked "made my crotch hot." I do love throwing people for a loop, but even more I like having a language that's not quite secret, yet a bit special and in my opinion, hilarious.
I am all about hot crotches, pointing out when anything makes my crotch hot, and inquiring whether your crotch is hot, too. My favorite answering machine message of all time, long lost now, is my best friend singing (whispering) "the crotch is hot, the crotch is hot, heh, heh," a la old school Lil' Wayne. Seven years later and I still sing it somewhat regularly. Of course I follow it up with "baby my crotch hot, baby my crotch burn."
I say hot crotch and other similar (although admittedly less catchy) things multiple times during the course of most days. Recently I got it in my mind that douche bag is really not insult worthy. It makes me mad that hot crotch hasn't taken generations x-y by storm, yet I used one of those clicky counters for a week and I heard or read the phrase douche bag a total of 97 times. Come on folks, where's your creativity?!
What is so bad about a douche bag? It's just a plastic bag filled with vinegar and water. If I detest someone, calling him a douche bag doesn't pack enough of a punch. I shared my discontent with one of my more crass friends, and his suggestion was to replace douche bag with the far more vivid "yeast infection discharge". The twinge of an itch was instantly felt in my beloved crotch. I was repulsed, which is what I was going for. But it seemed over the top...even for me.
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