The · girl · next · door

Gosh o' mighty! Not counting yesterday's weirdly symbolic dream entry, it's been a while... I've been working my fingers off recently, so I do have a good excuse for not doing much personal writing as of late. That does need to change though -- I need to make journaling a priority for myself again.  
 
So what's been shakin' for the past couple weeks? I turned another year older and on this spin around the merry-go-round I had to renew my driver's license. I also became an organ donor. I have no idea why I hadn't signed up sooner, especially since I know what it's like to lose a loved one to kidney failure, but that little oversight has now been taken care of. Hopefully if I'm in an accident the EMT's will take care of me and won't just stand around waiting for me to die so they can salvage some spare parts. No, I have not seen Repo the Musical. 
 
Went to Park of Roses and took some photos. My favorite rose they have is the Lagerfeld, but it wasn't in bloom yet. My second favorite, Blueberry Hill, was though. Here's a photo of her: 
 

 
I always think of The Little Prince when I go to Park of Roses. I'd love to organize a Neo-Victoian/Steampunk/Romanti-Goth picnic there at some point this summer, complete with croquet, badminton and bocce ball. However, I do not have a croquet, badminton or bocce ball set. Anyone interested in planning this with me? I think it would be absolutely wonderful!
 
 

 
I've been listening to a lot of Bix Beiderbecke and Josephine Baker lately. I'm totally convinced the world would be a happier place if everyone spent fifteen minutes a day playing twenties jazz.

Soooo... I'm hoping everyone had a lovely Memorial Day weekend. I know I did!
 
First off Saturday afternoon, maleficone and I stopped by Marcon. Unfortunately no one in the dealer's room had an TOS woman's uniform for sale. Seriously, something is rotten in fandom when I can't get a science officer's mini dress. Still, there was quite a bit of steampunk paraphernalia present as well as new Who, lots of books and the obligatory sharp pointy things courtesy ofmzmadmike, his wonderful wife and adorable kids. Ran intoxrmndml at the bar of course. Since he's not in Columbus too often, I took matheon to Northstar to try the best veggie burger in the universe, then later met up again at Church. Hopefully I was a decent hostess. Still kicking myself for missingmsomega and the various room parties. Oh well. Onward and forward to next year!
 
Sunday was spent mostly unwinding by reading a biography about Mata Hari. For WWI's most notorious femme fatale, she really wasn't all that glamorous or even much of a spy during the war. Her early years as a pseudo-Eastern dancer are what fascinates me most. At five foot nine inches tall, dark haired and flat chested (sound familiar?) she was not the epitome of beauty for her time. She didn't begin dancing until after she married and had two children with her military officer husband. They were stationed in Indonesia and while there she began emulating the dress and dance of the natives -- most shocking for a European lady! After the death of one of her children and her husband's increasing alcohol fueled abuse, she left for Paris. Now this is a lady who had absolutely nothing, and goes from divorced (unheard of!) military wife to the first woman who actually made stripping respectable. Not that she completely bared all. When she first arrived in Paris, she attempted to get work as an artists' model, but her small breasts which expanded then shriveled up during her two pregnancies, were now what vulgar Parisian men referred to as "tobacco pouches". Quite pictorial, huh? Recognizing her deficits in that arena, she fashioned an early type of padded brassiere which she never took off even while playing the courtesan to her many lovers. When asked why she never bared her breasts she would tell her paramours about how a former lover flew into a drunken jealous rage and bit off her nipples one night. How awesome is that?! Her decent into espionage has its humorous moments but is still depressing overall. She really did get a bum wrap from French intelligence trying to cover their mistakes. If anyone has seen Kubrick's Paths of Glory, you can easily imagine where her story goes. Next up I'll be reading a biography about Pre-Raphaelite super model Jane Morris. (Yes, she and Lizzie Siddal were a super models by the sheer fact that they were world famous as the faces of that art movement, much as Twiggy was the face of Carnaby Street mod fashion.) Something about those tall, dark haired women I can relate to.
 
Having Monday off, I indulged in my favorite thing to do -- I got to peruse the antique shops and thrift stores! Found a cute little black eyelet sundress to wear to the Beanblossom Bluegrass Festival next month and a full, summer skirt that twirls perfectly. And even though I do not have a stereoscope, I picked up these slides. Judging from the words printed printed on the backs of each picture, the Victorians enjoyed a little Schadenfreude as much as we postmodernists do. 
 
 

No excuses -- just a rambling update and photodump.

I now have to go in to work an hour earlier, which means I get to leave an hour earlier. It also means I have to wake up earlier and go to bed earlier. I am not an early bird and I do not like worms. It is nice coming home at five, though.

Saw Star Trek and really did like it. There were a few things that bothered me though:

 

Last week I did something way outside the norm for me. I bought two tickets to the Bill Monroe Bluegrass Festival in Beanblossom, Indiana and I am taking my grandmother for a girls' day out. The two main fellows behind the O Brother, Where Art Thou soundtrack will be performing, so at least I'll know a few of the songs. Not wanting to be completely unprepared for this cultural experience, I looked up some of the other performers and through them found a genre I didn't realize existed (although it makes total sense): Gothic Bluegrass. Makes sense for the sheer fact alone that a lot of bluegrass lyrics deal with death, dying, killing your lover, being killed by your lover and general depression and decay. Anyway, I'm now looking forward to hearing some music I don't know much about and spending time with my grandma. I'll either get burned at the stake or have a wonderful time.

 

If all goes as planned, maleficone and I will be at Marcon Saturday. I seem to have misplaced my Spock ears and need a new pair. Really that isn't such a frivolous purchase. They do double duty when I play my elven mage in D&D.
 

( Can't get enough of you in that red leopard print angel wing blouse )

Saturday being a washout, I called my grandmother Easter Day and found out a former step-cousin (my uncle and her mother were married when I was nine and divorced when I was twelve) had been killed in a car accident about ten years ago. I wasn't particularly close with this person in my adult life, but for the short span of time we were related we were always staying over at each others for the weekend. We were roughly the same age at a particularly obnoxious period of life for a girl -- somewhere between singing the Shaving Cream Song at the top of our lungs and comparing training bra fastening techniques, fantasizing about Rick Springfield and chasing down the ice cream truck. Knowing she died ten years ago already gave me a sense of detachment about the whole thing, but not seeing her in over twenty years and having only images of her as a young girl made hearing the news about her death even stranger. It's so eerie to know this girl I shared part of my childhood with is now gone forever. I always thought we'd run into each other, go have drinks and talk about how we'd still do Rick Springfield. Whatever that means.