Weird things I think before making certain purchases:
Before buying any shoes (accept athletic shoes) “But can I go dancing in these?” Number of times I dance per year: maybe seven? Five.
Before buying any underwear: “If I get in an accident, will it be weird if I’m wearing these (blank) underwear and they have to cut them off me?” Fill in the blank with any number of adjectives: striped, polka-dotted, Oscar the Grouch, kind-of-high-waisted-but-comfortable
The Found Footage Festival rolled into Columbia Heights last night, with two shows at The Heights Theater. Of course, it’s a laugh-a-minute program, but it also leaves some indelible impressions and lingering questions.
1. Why would anyone confuse mucus with fat? Better yet, why would anyone be so determined to expel mucus/fat every morning, save it, measure it, dry it out and sometimes burn it with a blowtorch? You tell me. I saw the footage (from a cable access program) and I’m dumbfounded. In case you’re interested, this isn’t something you can do without the aid of grape juice put into a spray bottle and sprayed into the mouth. Really gets that mucus worked up so you can spit it out into a strainer.
1. I will keep my acts, performance and behavior in good taste while I am in costume and makeup. I will remember at all times that I have been accepted as a member of the clown club only to provide others, principally children, with clean clown comedy entertainment. I will remember that a good clown entertains others by making fun of himself or herself and not at the expense or embarrassment of others.
This seems like several commandments rolled into one, doesn’t it? I think perhaps the clowns had to pare down their number of commandments so that they didn’t have ten or more. If God can keep the rules down to ten, summed up so nicely, it would seem a bit presumptuous to have ten or more commandments just for clowns.
So I’ll break it down. Commandment 1: Don’t be a clown pervert.
I have no Halloween costume. This always happens.
What can I be? A free association of ideas…
An apple that is not organic. The horror! Gwyneth Paltrow’s daughter, Apple. Emeril, the chef. The Iron Chef. Riboflavin because it could look however I wanted. No one knows what riboflavin looks like. Something fibrous. A germ. A flu bug, although that’s what they did in grade school health, didn’t they? Have some teacher dress up as a flu bug and give you a talk about germs, in character? My high school art teacher, the manic depressive with a thing for corduroy and over-achievers. A pheasant. No one is ever a pheasant and why not? When will pheasants get their turn in the spotlight like penguins have? Like lions? An alcoholic lion. Pennywise from Stephen King’s IT. He’s been on my mind lately. Shit, why did I have to think about Pennywise?
The folks at Party City weren’t kidding around when they named their business. This is a City that’s about the Party. Did you come here to Party? In the City? Cuz we built this city on Rock and Roll…
Their Halloween costumes mean some serious party business, too. If you are a gal, don’t think you’re going to find much that will conceal the lower third of your ass. If you’re a dude, I hope you look good in fangs and a smoking jacket.
I’m hung up on cakes lately. Now I found this cake idea online:
Just kidding, that’s actually a picture of my cat’s litter box.
Just kidding again, that’s actually a cake.
Gross.
Here’s the description that goes along with the cake:
Betty Crocker likes Calendar Cakes. As in, go check the calendar, surely there must be some reason to decorate a cake coming up. It’s Fall? How about a fall leaves cake? A Columbus Day cake? Halloween cupcakes?
Those are all lay-ups. Bet you didn’t think about making one for homecoming (so what if you last graduated from somewhere 13 years ago?), a Pumpkin Cake, a Harvest Cake or a Festive Cranberry Cake. Now let’s go for the deep cuts: an Autumn Chrysanthemum Cake (bonus: the chrysanthemum is made from carefully sliced orange gumdrops!) or a nice Steamed Orange Pudding?
Continue reading Where Did I Go Wrong with My Chiffon? Part II
I recently bought Betty Crocker’s Cake and Frosting Mix Cookbook from 1966. This was a time when cakes from a mix were still considered a big deal – although mixes had been on the market for awhile, Betty Crocker believed women might need some coaching in order to get the most out of them. Because mixes are complicated.
Continue reading Where Did I Go Wrong with My Chiffon? Part I
The Seventh Annual Square Lake Film Festival happened last Saturday outside Stillwater. It’s a one day deal – live music and short film programs alternating all afternoon and into the night. It happens on a farm; don’t ask me how to get there. It was Highway 36 to some road to some other road, etc. etc.
Continue reading Square Lake Film Festival: Lovable Squares + Some Losers
It’s August and I feel dull. Come to think of it, I often feel this way during August. Not much seems to be happening although I’m sure much is happening. Here are the random events.
My cat had to have her toe amputated. We still aren’t sure what caused this as we are waiting for the biopsy to come back. Suddenly her toe was swollen; antibiotics did nothing. By last Sunday night her claw was sticking straight out of a toe-like sausage. On Monday they cut it off. She rests in our closet all day. One morning I crawled in there to check on her and ended up just lying there with her, looking up at all of our clothes. I decided I could understand the need to lie in a closet if feeling raw after an amputation.
I’m the gal who doesn’t think about acquiring a new suit until it’s the middle of July. Imagine my surprise to find that everything is picked over, out of stock or just cleaned up and put away, save for a tiny rack of bikinis fit for third graders. No, the American Girl dolls that third graders lug around.
The scene at Macy’s yesterday was one of utter disgruntlement. I wasn’t the only one feeling it. There were several of us just weaving around the racks as if we were the lone survivors of the Swimming Suit Apocalypse, destined to browse through racks and racks of mismatched lycra. I’ve never seen such a hodge podge of shit! Could someone be hired to keep this all straight?
The closet and dresser are cleaned out. All the clothing not currently in rotation is boxed up. So. Where does this leave me, Tim Gunn? Besides with fewer clothing options (which is actually strangely liberating)?
It leaves me to figure out my style identity. According to Tim, I need to find a style and “mentor” to go along with it. He offers the following suggestions:
Or jumble sales.
On Saturday I went out intending to go to a sale and it was a bust. I was really annoyed. I was all the way out in White Bear Lake, which is like Mars to me. OK, maybe like Texas? So I’m driving and driving and then I see an enormous church rummage sale spread out across a parking lot.
So I stopped.
I’m going to redo my clothes closet.
Last Saturday was my fifth wedding anniversary. Although there is a vacation in the “offing,” (how come that word is usually only used in relation to wedding announcements?) we did go out and do the dinner and dancing thing.
That’s right, I said dancing. OK, it was two dances. But that is probably more than I’ve had in the last couple of years of our marriage. I kind of let Keith off the hook when it came to dancing awhile ago and he usually only pulls out the moves for one dance at a wedding.
Anyway, this is not about dancing.
Let me know which clown you’d like for your birthday and I’ll start sewing…
I can’t decide what I think of this dress. Done in white, its horrendous. OK, maybe horrendous is a little bit much. But it is sort of a “Third-Times-the-Charm” bridal dress. I so want to draw a cigarette in a holder into her right hand and a martini glass into her left. Doesn’t she look a bit judgmental, like she knows something we don’t? Maybe she knows that if you make this dress in white, you are going to be making a big mistake.
One of my all-time favorite fashion icons getting down to Madonna. RIP Little Edie. No one could rock a sweater on their head like you could.
Last night was the opening of the Minneapolis St. Paul International Film Festival. The opening film was The Visitor and the after party was at Bellanotte. That’s all well and good. I can’t say I was in a party mood. Usually what I do at parties is find the strangest people there and watch them try to interact with others.
And I didn’t have to look far last night.
I knew today was going to be a good day when I saw the woman on the bike. I was out walking the dog and I heard a “Creak, creak, creak,” behind me. I turned to look and it was a woman on a creaky old Schwinn Cruiser. The kind that requires you to pedal backwards to brake.