November 5, 2015
October 6, 2015
October 4, 2015
Own 30 baseball caps?
[When I say “one woman” I mean me.]
I spend hundreds of dollars on my hair.
It is criminal to own this many baseball caps AND spend this much on my hair.
That crazy contradiction might even spell mental instability.
Shut up it does not.
Shut up it does too.
Okay I am totally not giving up the Reservoir Dogs baseball cap I got at Sundance the year Reservoir Dogs premiered at Sundance —
[Yes the gray one with the red text.]
July 20, 2015
July 7, 2015
To truly get the significance of this post, you would have to know about things like the December accident. Which, if you don’t know, well, forget it, you don’t really need to. Just admire the hair, dammit! Yay!
Who is responsible for that spiffy Max hair???:
June 21, 2015
I have to get fat pants because I got hurt six months ago and haven’t exercised and also have lived in sweats and pajama pants for the last six months.
Interestingly, sweats and pajama pants are a lot more forgiving than jeans. Something that only really comes home after you try to stuff your fat little post injury size 6 bod into your skinny little pre injury bod size 2 jeans.
I could tell myself I will just exercise it off. But I need to leave the house one of these days before I exercise anything off and maybe not in sweats or pajamas.
Fat jeans are in the mail.
June 17, 2015
June 14, 2015
I have decided to be Asian.
There are good reasons for this.
I love white go go boots. All Asian girls look good in white go go boots.
I look like I am in costume when I wear white go go boots.
Asian girls can wear sweat shirts and hoodies and it looks like a fashion statement.
When I wear sweat shirts and hoodies, I look like an under dressed German tourist.
Asian girls can wear flat heeled sneakers and they look cute and adorable and like they have Cinderella feet.
When I wear flat heeled sneakers, I look short and like I have big feet.
I just don’t see anything going wrong with this plan. Also it is for fashion. You can’t argue with fashion, dammit!
March 30, 2015
I’m thinking about New Orleans. My favorite “New Awleen” heels, suede high heels that were purple and green and gold suede parrot shoes that everyone knew were my Mardis Gras shoes.
About skies that have partial clouds passing overhead and you are in sunlight and then in rain and then in hot sunlight again.
About a place where a California girl can’t lie out in the sun because the New Orleans sun is hotter and harsher than anywhere else on earth and will eat you.
“Hey Mister, Throw me some beads!”
Dancing in the streets, parades, a pounding drum beat.
A hand grabbing me by the back of the neck and pulling me backwards three feet in a Mardis Gras crowd, just far enough back a roiling fight passes by in front of me instead of over me.
A guy getting arrested for punching a horse. [Who punches a horse?] A horse a policeman is sitting on.
A restaurant with the best steak sandwich in town between cobblestone walls that used to house a prison, etched with centuries.
Dancing at Tipitina’s. Men with washboards they play better than most musicians play guitars.
Everyone dances. Men. Women. Children. EVERYONE dances.
And the kindness. I showed up in Louisiana a child of the road, a refugee, and everyone was kind.
My New Orleans will always be that place. The place where a beat up battered child of the road could show up and everyone would just say, Those are pretty shoes, let’s dance.