Chugging Gone Wrong

I'm very excited to share my latest short with you:  Chugging Gone Wrong!

Thank you for watching, and please share it if you enjoyed it!

Now that I brewed this weird drink what the heck do I do with it?

My homebrewed kombucha has been fermenting on my counter for just over a week.  Now it's ready to be decanted into smaller bottles for flavoring and additional fermentation.

Most people would use a gallon jar, but I had a vase, so there it is.
You can see the mother floating sideways there - gnarly, right?

Each time you brew your kombucha a new baby SCOBY will form on top.

Tasty, right?  (As if a bacterial process could really look tasty...)
I need to remove the baby in order to pour off my brew.

If you needed any confirmation of my weirdness, just check out that manic gleam in my eyes (and ignore the circles underneath them).  That's what excitement looks like.

  Yeah, that's SpaceCat on my shirt.  Jealous?

But wait!

Every experience is improved with the proper wardrobe!

Mad scientist at work:

I'm adding blueberry juice to my glass jars before I add the tea.

You just don't mess with a mad scientist.

Recipes online suggested adding fruit juice and/or cut up pieces of dried fruit.
  Ever one to use what's on hand, I decided to add fresh pomegranate seeds in addition to blueberry juice.

Pomegranates are a sign of new beginnings.

Fitting that I should include it in my new endeavor, then, right?

They also play a prominent role in mythology...

Oh Hades!  I'll stay here in the underworld forever!  Swoon

Now that I've added my flavorings I can actually pour the tea....

How on earth am I supposed to pour that tea into those jars?
How do I get around the baby?!?!

Before touching the SCOBY, be sure to wipe your clean hands with vinegar to remove any oils or soap residue that might contaminate it.

I'm not sure if the blue nail polish is truly sanitary, but it greatly enhanced my mental preparedness

All the containers used in kombucha preparation should be glass (ideally) or hard plastic.  Metal interferes with the SCOBY and will keep it from doing it's thing

 (that's a scientific term).

That ceramic bowl is waiting to cradle my little baby.
  If I can ever get it out....

Sometimes you have to overcome your fear of the slimy and gross and just go for it.

Remember the haunted houses of your childhood?
  Sticking your hands in dishes of strange substances while blindfolded...
  The texture of SCOBY is something like that.

Eeeeew!

I grew this under a towel on my counter!

Meet: SCOBY (Symbiotic Colony Of Bacteria & Yeast)

I currently have this baby in a tupperware at the back of my fridge, in case my original mother becomes compromised.
If I want to use it I'll have to bring it back to room temperature, because they go dormant when regfrigerated.

That's pomegranate juice on my face...  And scoby juice on my fingers.

New headshot?

Now I'm finally ready to pour my kombucha tea into my jars:

Pourin' the brew.

Ready for its airtight lid

Looks... frothy.

Pouring in action

The kombucha mother lurks just below the surface of the tea, unable to escape.
Like a crocodile lying in wait for a sweet baby elephant.

 Now I'll let them ferment for a few more days before I refrigerate them.

I varied the amounts of juice added to see what tastes best.

A veritable rainbow of digestive health.
  Yummmm.

Have you ever experienced that feeling of rightness?  The absolute certainty of knowing you are on the correct path?  In the Dark Tower series by Stephen King, the gunslinger Roland and his companions often speak about being on the path of the beam.  In that world it's something they can actually see reflected in the movement of the clouds and the way the grass lays in their path; nevertheless I think it's an apt analogy.  More than ever before in my life I feel attuned to minute signs; tiny details that confirm and illuminate the road I'm traveling.  I suppose this is a product of my quest to be present, to really get to know myself.  Certainly I have been working to remove those things that are detrimental to my mental/physical/emotional health, and to give myself those things that feed my imagination/drive/sense of purpose.

I recently quit my job of five years.  As far as restaurant jobs go it was a good gig.  The shifts were rarely more than five or six hours and the money was good.  I had coworkers who had been there for twelve, fifteen, even twenty years in some cases.  And I see why.  Under the right circumstances it can provide a very comfortable living.  I wasn't happy though.  It used to be that I felt really secure and competent and grateful to be there, but that hasn't been the case in a while.  And that attitude was noticed.  I was faced with a glass ceiling, and I didn't feel like my voice would be heard.  So I didn't say anything.  So now I had these awful feelings festering inside me, and it was noticed.  Who wants someone working for them like that?  No one.

It's really difficult to try to tell this part of the story in a concise way, and also without offending people I care about.  I want to talk about how frustrating my work situation was.  How I felt completely unappreciated, so I stopped doing my best.  Not consciously, but nevertheless I got reprimanded.  It was a big eye-opener.  Because I'm a really smart, capable person.  And there's no reason why I shouldn't excel at whatever I set my mind to.  And at the same time, I realized that I'm not going to let some asshole hold me hostage.  I don't owe them anything.  I gave them four Christmases.  I gave them every Friday and Saturday night for five years.  And I deserve to have my good work acknowledged.

It was psychically draining.  It was leeching all the joy and creativity out of me.  At this time in my life when I am harboring a new and delicate thing (myself, as an artist) I need to protect myself.  The world is changing faster than I can possibly process.  MY world is changing, I mean.  Turning thirty was standing out as a giant billboard in my head.  It felt imperative that my thirtieth birthday not coincide with the start of my sixth year at a snobby corporate restaurant.

So I quit.  I'm not proud of the manner of my quitting.  I know that the prudent thing to do would have been to give two weeks notice and leave on good terms with a reference.  But something came up-something big.  And then this voice in my gut spoke up clearly and said, "What are you waiting for?  There's no other time than now.  You'll never have this decision to make over, on the cusp of your thirtieth birthday.  Stop putting life off and instead live it now.  Thus it was that on the day I had intended to give my two weeks notice I instead told them I wasn't coming in that night, and that I wasn't coming back.

It was terrifying.  And exhilarating.  I truly cannot go back.  And I have no regrets.  I experienced this sense of certainty as though I were driving down the road, with the highway unfolding steadily before me.  To either side the landscape is barren, marked only by outcroppings of boulders and sagebrush and dull, dusty desert.  But the sky where I'm heading is so so clear.  Clearer than I can ever remember.  I drive down that highway watching tiny mirages resolve themselves from shimmering water into asphalt in front of me, and I'm driving straight towards a mountain.  Towards my destiny.  Climbing in elevation and the air gets crisp and cold and before I know it I'm standing at the edge of a vast canyon that seems to continue for ever.  And something inside me just lets go.

Birthday ramble

It's a cliche that old folks wake up super early. And here I am blogging at seven am. So does that mean its true? Does this mean I'm getting old? I mean, today is my birthday after all (cue impending doom music) - my 30th birthday.

I suppose the wise thing to do here would be to lie about my age, or gracefully sidestep it. But if you know me at all you know I'm a terrible liar and that gracefully sidestepping delicate subjects is not my forte. I mean, come on, it's not called Chatty Cathy Hangs It Out for nothing. So yeah, I'm 30. Eat that. But before you make your judgements (before I eat my high fiber breakfast) let me explain why I'm awake, and how that proves that I'm not old.

The short answer is that Zaphod has been meowing at my door since six am. After telling him to shut up for thirty minutes I let him out, at which point he immediately proceeded to pick a fight with the feistier of my parents' two cats, Bandit. A little back and forth has us both shut back in my room. So much for sleeping in...

Shots is the long answer though. As I lay here in the predawn gloom, listening to my childhood home waking up, reviewing the show I went to last night (see I still like to have fun!) I find myself pondering this question: who actually enjoys taking shots?

On the surface of the question it seems like lots of people like taking shots. I mean, you tell someone it's your birthday and they say, "shots shots shots shots shots" (you know the song, right?). That's like, tradition. It's like, a cultural must, or something. I mean, I've taken at least five shots in the past week, and I don't even like them.

So what is it about pounding a miniature glass of liquor (or god forbid, some sugary mixture of liquor and liqueur) that seems like a good idea? It wreaks havoc on your stomach, it puts you over the limit on your drunk, and it's usually something you wouldn't even drink. At least, that's my experience. But maybe I'm just old.

Maybe people like shots because they're a divergence from the norm. They're festive and fun and a suspension of normal behavior. Maybe people like them because it's like a feat of strength; in downing a Buttery Nipple (my shot of choice) or a Surfer on Acid we prove our strength, our cojones. Look at the titles of shots for that matter: Kamikaze, Sex on the Beach, Red-Headed Slut. They sound like dares. Maybe we like them because they allow us to be a more reckless, glamorous version of ourselves. The version that isn't afraid to take a chance, to be dangerous, to live on the edge.

Well listen: I'm living on the edge already. I'm chasing my dream in a big city, putting myself out there to either fly or fail. If quitting your job to pursue art isn't dangerous I don't know what is. And if you need proof of my cojones: I just admitted publicly to being thirty, in an industry/city/world/paradigm that is obsessed with youth.

I'm losing the train of this thought, so I'll wrap it up. And who knows, maybe these ramblings are the signs of early dementia. I mean-I am a crazy cat lady (your words, not mine) who brought her cat home for Thanksgiving, right? (Let me just pull up my Depends so I can start my day.)

But I'm choosing to look at this new age in another light. I know myself better than ever, and I'm having more fun than ever before. So I'm going to keep it up. Keep laughing, keep loving life, keep seeing the wonder in the world, and above all keep playing: Ina word, I'm going to keep being young. So I'm going back to bed. That's what kids do, right?

PS-I'm thankful for you, readers. Xoxox

SpaceCat's Thanksgiving Adventure

The last time I left Zaphod at home for a few days he was pissed. I came home to find sweaters pushed of my shelves, all the jewelry knocked off my bureau, and all the cupboards open. I guess I can't blame him. If I got left at home for four days, missing out on fun and new sites, locked in the apartment by myself with one visitor and feeding per day I would be upset too. It makes me feel guilty, because this little guy is my number one. He had been there for me through some seriously hard times. He brings me joy and helps me appreciate the little moments. He's my muse. It's not fair to continually go off and leave him. And I haven't even gotten into the guilt accrued by constantly asking friends to watch him.

So you'd think I would decide to curtail my traveling, or at least keep it short. I however, like the genius I am, went and booked a Tuesday to Tuesday ticket home for Thanksgiving. It was a lot cheaper, and it's my birthday, and I have a new baby niece. Once I got to thinking about logistics though I saw the flaw in my plan: what about Zaphod?!?

So I did the obvious thing and decided to take him with me. I mean, I don't see the traveling stopping anytime soon. And maybe he would like to go with me. People take their dogs all over the place. Bond villains travel with cats. And how about the Siamese cats in Lady and the Tramp-that old lady totally brought them visiting with her. Anyway, the only way to find out is to do it, right?

So here we are at the airport. Zaphod is keeping up a steady rate of low unhappy meows, and I have a little bit of pee on my jeans.

Yeah, he peed. Horrifying, right? I gave him kitty herbal sedatives, but I guess that's just not adequate considering the mortal terror of an airport. Burbank airport, btw. If I was flying out of LAX this wouldn't be an option. But do you remember your first time in an airport? Overwhelming! And if you were a little kid it's entirely possible that you peed yourself.

Even worse though, is that as soon as I went into the family bathroom to destinkify myself he immediately shit in the carrier. It's like as soon as he realized we were alone and that I had the ability to clean it up he just let it go. I understand though; I hate to fly before pooping.

Luckily my carrier is all nylon, and all comes apart, so I was able to tidy up pretty nicely. While I was doing that Zaphod crouched miserable behind my backpack, taking full advantage of the echo effect of all the tile. I'm sure anyone passing by must have wondered exactly what manner of family was making use of the private bathroom. No apologies though.

Twenty minutes later as I stood in line to board as I almost bailed. I smelled like cat pee (hopefully not too strongly, but can you really answer that objectively when you're in the middle of the smell?), Zaphod was unsuccessfully suppressing hysteria , and I had a connection both ways (awesome planning, right). This trip really wasn't planned with a feline traveling companion in mind. Admittedly, I'll be staying in the welcoming environment of the house I grew up in for a week, but is that enough to offset the stressful situation this was shaping up to be?

Once we were in the air, though, Zaphod calmed down. That or it was just too noisy to hear him. And this far, through all this, I think I'm finding something. "You gotta do what you gotta do," I stoically quipped to the gate agent who checked us in. And that's true. I don't need to explain myself, or to apologize for our smell. Airports are weird public places. Traveling puts us in the strange position of sharing our quirks and bodily functions with strangers directly next to us. I imagine this must be similar to what traveling with small children is like. I couldn't begin to count the number of times I've found myself seated in the middle of baby central. Last time I flew I eve found myself holding a toddler while his mother gathered herself between flights. She was completely unapologetic, and so will I be.

I don't know if I'll travel with Z again, it will depend on the rest of the trip. But we're halfway done. And you can be sure I'll let you know how it goes.

I want to wear that on my face.

I can always tell I'm avoiding something when I find myself frantically tied up in a meaningless task.  Like that time recently when I sidestepped down the beauty aisle at CVS searching for blue mascara.  I pored over those beauty displays obsessively, looking for real untinted unapologetic blue mascara.  I was sure they'd have it, but unfortunately amongst the 10,000 tubes of eyelash tinting goo the closest it got was sapphire black.  I'm sorry, but that's not blue.  It might be tinted, but it's still black.  It's like saying Zaphod's vomit was greenish-yellow.  Although it had a greenish cast to it, my cat's barf was still primarily classified as yellow.  And I didn't want something that almost blue - I wanted authentic honest blue.

         During this search  I chafed against the marketing bein used on me (surprise).  Who are these people telling me that this product is for blue eyes and that one is for brown eyes?  Yeah yeah yeah, some corporate beauty expert got paid a billion dollars to do a color analysis in order to make generic stipulations as to what products I should use.  You might be right, but nevertheless, I like those colors, and I want to wear them on my face.  After twenty minutes of probing those murky depths I was no nearer either to finding blue mascara or changing the global marketing strategies of Revlon and et al.  Moreover, I was avoiding actual important business (though what that was, for the life of me I can't remember.  Priorities - hah).  So I threw in the towel and picked up the item I was actually stopping to purchase: black mascara (I know - ridiculous).  Then I went on my merry way.

     Imagine my surprise that evening when I went to put away my new mascara.  The tube in my hand was blue.  Not sapphire black, not tinted whatever, royal blue.  Electric, honest to god, unmistakable blue.  I swear, I looked at every single mascara they sold at that drugstore - I searched every aisle that sold makeup, and looked at every one.  And there it was in my hand - exactly what I wanted.  And I had completely given up; just when I no longer had any attachment to the idea of wearing blue mascara that day, I found that I could.  That's called manifestation.  It's a powerful phenomena.  Call it what you will (coincidence, subconscious, chance, inattention, whatever), I call it magic.

    That turned out to be my last day working at the restaurant.  It was time for me to leave.  As things roll on ever faster I determined that a change was necessary.  It had been made clear to me at my place of work that if I was no longer happy there I shouldn't be there, so I left.  I have no regrets about that.  It's a pretty scary change, but let me never look back to see that I sacrificed possibility to fear.  I'm not getting any younger, and I'm as free as I'll ever be.  The time to change is now.

     So rather than focusing on the things I don't want; rather than chafing against a suit that doesn't fit; rather than pouring my energy into an unworthy vessel I have decided to redirect my attention.  This power of manifestation, of calling my life to me is a wonderful gift, and I don't want to waste it.  Besides, if I never try to make it in my chosen industry, how will I ever know what would've happened?  Maybe what I've been looking for has been in my hand this entire time and I've been too distracted to see it.  Or maybe, now that I've let go of something that wasn't serving me, I'll have room to pick up what I do actually want.

SpaceCat and the Cone of Shame

Darling Friends, it's that time again.  I have completed another short for you viewing pleasure.  So with mighty flourishes and blaring of trumpets I give you:

Thanks again to Casey Gates for directing, editing, and moral support as I do my weird thing.
xoxox

Chatty Cathy and the Hairy Pits - or, Now it Gets Real

There's a lot in the media these days about young women, how we sexualize them, how we encourage them to embrace a confusing saint/slut dichotomy, how they're being stalked by creepers from Reddit, how they're committing suicide due to online bullying, etc.  These things are part of a larger theme I've been exploring for well over a year now: my body, my rights, how society views these things, the puritanical nature of our culture.

I have a new man in my life.  He's amazing.  I feel very happy - blessed even - to have met him.  I found myself having a discussion with him this week about body hair.  I would like to apologize in advance to my more conservative readers here, not because I actually need to, but because my culturally implanted hangups tell me I should:  I'm about to be real.  I'm going to talk about an adult relationship in the 21st century.  Anyway, I found myself talking to my lover about body hair; telling him that I swing between the hemispheres of hippy with unshaven legs versus well-groomed and totally depilated lady.  Being the understanding person he is, my lover replied, "I know that bodies grow hair."

Hair distribution of a woman versus a man...
Why isn't waxing being sold to dudes?
Economically it seems a lot more profitable...

This conversation has continued to float around my head though.  Honestly it wasn't really a necessary talk; I couldn't be in a relationship with someone who would maintain crazy expectations about how I choose to style my body hair.  But that doesn't change the fact that the thought was there.  Just the fact of the thought's existence is quite interesting to me.  And then I read an article that stirred things around further; about the expectation of young women to be sexy but not sexual (known as The Paris Paradox).

My relationship with my body is a rocky thing.  My gluten intolerance causes a constant awareness of what I'm putting into my body and how it makes my belly feel.  My industry constantly reminds me to think about my size.  Every day as I look through casting breakdowns series of figures run through my head: my sizes, the sizes they want from actresses and models, height/weight ratios, bra sizes, ass/hips/waist/bust measurements, jean sizes, etc.  Every day I look through casting notices that specify body types and stereotypes, and I try to figure out where I fit into those stereotypes based on how I look and how that reflects who I am.

There were a few years when I didn't shave my armpits.  Even today, it's common for me to go a few weeks without shaving in the winter months.  What's the point?  No one's going to see my bare legs or armpits in January.  But for two years in the middle of college I didn't shave my pits at all  (I did shave my legs -because I liked it). Honestly, it never even occurred to me that not shaving was an option until I met one of my dearest college friends.  She was a women's studies major, and the first real feminist I ever knew.  She had hairy armpits when we met in our freshman year in New Orleans.  She worked as a camp counselor in the summer, and she described how she'd answer the questions of the girls in her group by telling them that they had a choice in the matter, that they didn't have to shave if they didn't want to.  She said she liked serving as an alternative example for them.  This idea blew my mind.  Seriously.  The only thought process I remember having about body hair was after an incident in sixth grade, when I was probably just starting puberty (and so awkward and unsure), and this jerky boy made fun of me for having hairy legs.  I don't think I'd even gotten my period at that point, but what conclusions do you think I reached?

My pits were less hairy than Julia's.  And everyone LOVES her, right?

So I grew my pit hair.  And I liked it.  I found my armpit hair sexy.  I'm not a super hairy person; my hair is sort of a light brown, and I can go a few days without shaving my legs without it being a big deal.  My armpit hair was mild compared to some women.  Nevertheless, I cannot tell you how many times it was suggested that I was lesbian or bi because I chose not to conform to society's idea of how I should groom my body hair.  In fairness, I also got a lot of positive comments and support, but those aren't the ones that stand out, unfortunately.

I'm didn't feel insulted at being called lesbian or bi, I felt insulted that those qualities should be considered insults, or okay to use to tease me and put me down.  Here's the thing.  Once you know me, I'm pretty open about my sexuality (I'm really hanging it all out tonight).   If you know me at all, you won't be surprised to hear that I am very comfortable with the idea of fluid sexuality.  Yes - I'm with a man.  Yes - I will probably end up with a man for my life partner.  But that doesn't change the fact that I'm also attracted to women.  And to have this tender, shy part of myself ridiculed felt bad, even if it was done unknowingly.

I sometimes do things that other people consider far out.  I know that putting myself out here, exposed for the world, I need to be prepared to defend my differences.  Nevertheless, being made fun of for a choice I made for myself about my body, having that choice be construed as homosexual, which was in turn construed as either negative or okay to poke fun at - made me feel bad.  It upset me.  And it continues to do so.

When I go to the grocery store I am bombarded with images of women on magazine covers, enticing me learn Giada's secret to staying trim.  The only thing I ever thought about Giada De Laurentis' looks before was that her smile was frighteningly wide, but suddenly I find myself wondering how indeed she stays so skinny.  And there's that word: skinny.  Just look at what we're selling women with that word: SkinnyGirl cocktails - so you can get drunk but not fat,  skinny margaritas - order this in an actual bar, where they don't sell those bullshit mixers, skinny jeans - they make you feel so fat you need to get drunk on "low-fat" cocktails.  All around me I feel pressure from society to conform to a perfect image of perfect woman.  It's bad in LA.  I don't think I worried this much about how I look before moving here.  But that doesn't change the fact that these issues and worries are everywhere.  And no matter what you may say, I just don't see the same strictures about external looks being placed on men.

I guess what I'm asking for here is for all of us to stop perpetuating this mindset.  We need to learn to see the beauty inside people even when they look different from us.  We need to applaud people for making healthy choices and being honest to their true selves.  We need to teach our daughters that what's inside their brains hearts is more important than the exterior of their bodies.  We need to allow a little more grace, to the people around us, and most of all to ourselves.

I want my choices about my body to be mine.  I want to be able to go out into the world and not worry about how I look, or that I'll be judged for it.  Call me naive, or call me weak-willed for allowing this psychic noise to disturb me.  Or, if you like, chastise me for being honest about the things that worry me, even when this means opening up a lot of extremely personal parts of myself to the potential judgments of others.  Or maybe you'll have a totally different reaction: if so, please share it respectfully.  But before you do so, I urge you to take on honest look at yourself, and make the brave choice.  I've put my heart out here on my sleeve; maybe you can too.

Science experiment

Yet again I'm taking one step further into weird.  I don't even know if we exist in the same reality any more...

Cleaning my desk last week I found this cryptic message at the bottom of a stack of papers, "Call for kombucha mothers" with a phone number.  Flashback to a Craigslist posting offering free kombucha mothers.  It gave a phone number and said absolutely no responses to emails.  I, of course, emailed, and sure enough no response.  But I came across the same listing a few months later, and actually took down the number (two0six 555 zero8 five ONE, or somesuch - anti-robot encryption, I presume?).  So when I found the listing I immediately thought, "Hey!  I gotta call this number!"  Obvi.

There was no answer when I called.  The voicemail greeting said, "Be creative today.  Leave message  please  please please."  Awesome.  I became awkwardly excited and left a message going something like this, "Hello, my name is Catherine, and I'm calling for information pertaining to, uh, kombucha mothers.  That is, I'd like to get one.  So you can call me back at blah blah blah.  I'll be around this afternoon and tomorrow morning.  And to you sir, I say: be magical today."  Yeah, that's right, I said that in a voicemail message to a stranger.  I think to some people I sound like a crazy person.  I'm learning not to care.

We played one round of phone tag, but soon enough I had my contact on the phone.  I missed his name when he mumbled it, and rather than asking him to repeat it I just never addressed him by name.  That only added to sense of furtiveness; I felt as though discretion was necessary, that we were involved in something shady.  My contact cryptically asked whether I wanted a one or two gallon.  Confused, I didn't know how to answer, "I've never done this before" I laughed nervously.  We agreed to meet the next morning at 10am.  He seemed cagey about having me meet him at his house, and gave vague directions to a 76 station in my neighborhood instead.  I agreed, and we hung up.  I mean, I guess that's understandable - Craigslist is full of weirdos.  But at the same time... was I missing something?  Are kombucha mothers a classified substance?  Is the free exchange of weird mushroom things frowned upon?  Oh wait......  Whatever.

So this brings me to Saturday morning, waiting in a gas station parking lot with dirty hair and no breakfast, looking for a man with a fungus.  When I called him he said his wife had the car, it was too far to walk, and could I come to his place?  It was a five minute drive to a residential neighborhood.  When I turned onto his small street he was waiting by the edge of his driveway, clearly looking for me.  We nodded in recognition and I parked.

Once I met my contact any sense of cloak-and-dagger illictness disappeared.  My contact was a charming gap-toothed man with a well-tended afro who introduced himself as Mario.  He apologized for being out of it, saying he just woke up.  "Gears are starting to turn," he threw out at one point, as he described how to brew kombucha.  He briefly outlined the steps involved, I acknowledged what he said, and promptly forgot it all.  I think he and I both knew that although I had no idea what to do with the bacteria thing he was about to give me, I would shortly know everything the internet had to tell me on the subject.  Nevertheless, I learned from him that the oils in soap can be harmful to the mother, so you should rinse your clean hands with vinegar before touching it, and that it would take at least five tea bags to make.  This exchange happened underneath Mario's carport; sitting on the hood of a faded black Mustang was a one gallon jar full of apple cider vinegar and bacon fat.  At least that's what it looked like.  In actually it was layers of these kombucha colonies floating in the fermented tea that is so excellent for you.

The tupperware container I brought was totally inadequate for the thick white waxy thing Mario gave me.  It was a yogurt container-sized takeout tub leftover from pho, and it turns out the lid I had didn't match it.  Thus was I was forced to drive home holding an open container of quite vinegary smelling starter tea with an awkwardly folded kombucha mother sticking out.  Luckily I never had to make any abrupt stops, and I made it home without incident.

I'm pretty excited about this.  I love drinking kombucha.  It makes my body feel really happy.  It's good for your digestive system and your skin and your hair and your appetite and your immune system.  It's totally weird.  And I'm totally into it.  I'll tell you more about this experience for sure.  In the meantime, try a bottle.  It's expensive (which is why I want to brew it myself), and it's different, but it will totally grow on you - literally (get it? Cause it's a living organism).  And just think, in a few short months, you'll have a new hookup for sweet little kombucha babies.

Fit or fat; my mood this week.

It may come as no surprise to you, to me it's a revelation - a beautiful moment of clarity, a glimpse of understanding in an otherwise foggy mirror: I have trouble with moderation.  Moderation in all things, goes the old adage...  Easy to say, hard to do.  Realizing this about myself absolutely helps me through times like these past ten days.  I've nothing bad to report; Zaphod hasn't contracted worms or been abducted by aliens, neither car troubles (for me at least) nor strange symptoms.  But nevertheless I've been struggling.  Perhaps it's the approach of my 30th birthday.  Perhaps it's my hormones.  Maybe it's the shrugging off of old ways that no longer serve me.  Maybe it's the looming approach the end of days (at least according to the Mayans).  Or maybe this is just part of my personal cycle.  In truth I think it's all of those things.

I've been hating myself again, I admit it.  Don't get me wrong, I fucking love myself too.  But I've transitioned from a transcendent period of inspiration, drive and clarity into something decidedly less pure.  All I've wanted to do lately is drink red wine and eat ice cream, and part of me hates it.  Of course it's easy to love myself when I'm truly motivated to go to yoga or go hiking five times a week.  Loving myself when I'm eating healthily and I feel fit and beautiful and I'm creating things every day.  It's a lot harder to love myself when all I want to do is get drunk and read novels, and I can find five million excuses not to go to yoga.  But this is the way it goes.

That's the funny thing about this: this is the way it goes.  I've been here before.  I've even had this revelation before!  But every time it's like brand new territory.  In a way, I suppose,  it is new territory, because I'm not the same me I was when I last experienced this gnarliness.  But look what came out of that; the August of SpaceCat!  Many many times during which I paused to thank the Universe for that divine spark, because I knew it would come to this again.  And here we are.

So what's the point?  I don't know.  I guess the point is to accept myself in every phase, whether it's the fit or the fat phase.  The point is to say it out loud (in writing) so that I have to be accountable to it.  The point is self-recognition and awareness, so that when my mood my life my spirit circles back to this place again I recognize and remember it.  So that I can continue moving up and out, into the vasty realms of space and time.  The point is for you to tell me, "Hey, I do this too, you're not alone."  The point is for me to remember next time I feel the urge to give myself utterly something - be it drinking five bottles of wine in as many days or an all-consuming art project or an intoxicating new love - that the faster I give it out the faster I'll need to recharge.  Or maybe there's some point I can't even comprehend, but it's waiting for me around the next turn in the road.

Things I don't need any more:

I feel fucking gnarly today
I have this grungy growly energy
spinning churning agitating in my belly

I want to tear the face off something
I want to shred it to bits
I want to sift through its leavings and let them run through my fingers
like the ashes of so many corpses

SpaceCat loves you.

Okay I've sat down to write this blog post at least three times, I think, and the damn thing doesn't want to get written.  I don't know why.  But here it is:

I have this thing I'm working on; it's called SpaceCat!  (That's all one word, in case you didn't notice.)  At various times I have described SpaceCat in the following ways: Ziggy Stardust+internet cat videos+ street art, my alter-ego, my artistic identity, an interdisciplinary web installation, Facebook art.  SpaceCat comprises the following things sometimes referred to as the Five Faces of SpaceCat: Zaphod in all his many photogenic moods, a stencil I designed of Zaphod as I imagine he would look in a spacesuit, shirts on which I have painted said stencil, me and my girlfriends (or boy friends - ahem Josh Tolle) wearing little to no makeup and posing in SpaceCat shirts, videos of me dressed up as a feline impersonating Zaphod (I'm imfelinating him, get it?), me dressed up as a superhero named SpaceCat, the Facebook page (SpaceBook page) I created to act as a home for all this.

Okay, I feel better having that all off my chest.  Sometimes I have to get out of my own way and just write it down without making it too complicated.  I'm going to save this now.

Okay, good, it's saved.  So what's left to tell?  What is the point, you may ask?  I wrote a response to that question a few weeks ago, but I have to admit that it is a valid question.  Well, I'm hoping to push my career further with this thing.  For a while there I was experiencing no joy in my art, and SpaceCat is nothing if not joyful.  I think ultimately by doing all this: making my weird videos, creating a story about a superhero named SpaceCat who fell to Earth, and painting shirts and putting them on my friends, that I am exploring and displaying a much rounder version of myself as an artist.  My hope is that I can really bring everything to the table, and ultimately have more success in my career as an artist.

So how?  Aargh, that's another good question.  The two things I have in front of me right now are my videos and my shirts.  For a while now I've been exploring with paint and used tee-shirts (a great excuse to go to the thrift store) and my stencil, and having a lot of fun making designs.  I've been posting pictures of my process (along with all the inspiring things I see on my way about the world) on Instagram (you can follow me @nerdgirl).  So far I am really pleased and touched by the responses I've gotten to my SpaceCat shirts.  I have a pretty good variety at this point, and made my first sale last week.  Now I need to start really selling them, and also think about how I want to continue with my little business.  Things under consideration: Etsy, silk-screening, buying wholesale tee-shirts.  The important points for me are that they be affordable and fun, and ideally that I get to photograph everyone in their respective SpaceCat shirt.  This aspect of SpaceCat is called Imperfect Woman, but I'm not going to get into that right now.  After all, I've got to keep you interested, right?

As far as the videos go, I am currently working on the second one: SpaceCat and the Cone of Shame!  I am so excited, and I really hope you'll like it.  And again, I totally, TOTALLY appreciate the support we received for the first one.  Thank you.  I have ideas for other videos after that - some about SpaceCat, some about Chatty Cathy (hooray!!) and some other totally unrelated things.  The videos are important to me because even if they're low budget to begin with, I'm creating the habit of making my own work: following through with ideas start to finish, doing what I say I'm going to do, learning the skills I don't have, and putting art out into the world regularly.

So that's what I'm working on.  Something that should hopefully bring in a little money, and something else that should hopefully get me a little more exposure.  I don't know if this clarifies at all for you what SpaceCat is.  But you can follow the process and see how it develops if you're interested.  And of course, if you like what you see: 'like' my SpaceBook page, share it with your friends, contact me about buying a shirt, offer me your input, suggest a trade, smile.

I am eternally universally infinitely lovingly blessedly happily star-brightly sun-shiningly sweetly goofily thankfully joyously grateful for your continued presences in my life.

SpaceCat loves you.

Zaphod Bukowski

Ten days I woke up crashingly to the sound of breaking glass.  I immediately thought that someone (my ex-boyfriend) was breaking into my apartment, and fumbled for my bathrobe so I could go investigate.  In  the dull orange glow of the street lights I saw my cat crouched in the middle of the living room looking very freaked out.  Reaching him in the half-light I found a gigantic jagged piece of glass curving out of his chest.

I flipped internally, but still managed to channel enough  of my mother's calm-in-any-storm mojo to investigate.  His fur should've been soaked in blood - it wasn't.  Despite about ten inches of broken glass attached to his neck, my cat seemed fine.  Once I turned on the light I discovered the full extent of my cat's stupidity.

That's right, I said stupidity.  Cause I love my cat, and in some ways he is really intelligent (I'd say he has more emotional intelligence than many humans I know), but lately he is nothing but trouble.  Poor decision making is where the problem lies, I think.

picture this filled with kibbles

Before going to bed that evening I emptied out the canister of Zaphod's dry food, and apparently left the lid open.  And then my brilliant cat must've stuck his stupid furry face in there in the middle of the night.

And gotten stuck on the rim of the jar.

And fallen off the counter, smashing glass everywhere.

I figured this out as I examined Zaphod, who was wearing a beautiful broken glass collar with metal clamp detail.  Doesn't he look lovely Gina?  This unique piece can be yours for the price of BUY THE DAMN PET INSURANCE ALREADY.

A liberal amount of vaseline later I had my cat free, and some awesome early morning cleanup ahead of me. But everyone looks forward to thoroughly vacuuming their kitchen at 6am.

I swear, this cat is the feline incarnation of Charles Bukowski.  I feel like lately he's just an angry growly cat who goes around three days drunk picking fights and hurting himself.  Earlier this summer there was the episode of the cone.  More recently than that he had another scratch on his face and an upset tummy.  And let's not forget the car accident (I think?) last fall.  And now this.  If this is the stuff that I find out about, I don't want to know what he does when I'm not around.  So I'm keeping him under house arrest for a while.

Of course I say that and then three days later I'll let him out for his morning poo again, but I really mean it this time.  Because this morning he locked in a death match with Egypt and my neighbor had to dowse them in iced coffee to break it up.  And inevitably I found that Zaphod's paw was bloody.  I swear, it's like living with Will Hunting before he meets the girl.

The upshot is that there's got to be a video in this somewhere, right?

What is the point?

"What is the point?" you ask.
What is the point? Does divine inspiration need a point? The point is that I am compelled to create this thing. Creation is the only way to describe it. "The joy of creation," as David Lynch put it, is the point.
This is my way to pull myself out of the shit. My way of showing the world who I am; of selling myself so the world will sit up and take notice. This is my magic dance to call my destiny to me. That is the motherfucking point.

12 Red Flags At the Dentist

I hadn't had my teeth cleaned in probably ten years, and I thought, "Heck I'm probably due." So I kept my eyes peeled and sure enough I found a Groupon.  Great idea right?  Then I sat on the coupon for a few months thinking about not wanting to go to the dentist.  By I paid my by-God $35 and I sure wasn't going to waste it.

So one day a couple of weeks ago I called the clinic nearest me to make an appointment.

Red flag #1, the phone is answered by a woman saying, "Hello?"   "Is this the dentist?" I asked.  (Brilliant question, right?)  I then set an appointment for "...next Friday."

Red Flag #2: She doesn't ask how to spell my name, and she doesn't take my number.  When I call to confirm she (the dentist? office assistant? receptionist?  lady?) changed the appointment from 9am to 10am because she was coming from Bakersfield.

Red Flag #3: I roll into the parking lot and it's a strip mall.

Red Flag #4: The office is locked, no one is there.

Red Flag #5: A small woman walks up and unlocks the door, telling me she's just arriving, and shuts the door in my face.

Red Flag #6: When I follow her in she tells me I can sit and wait.  She bustles around turning on lights, and then turns the TV in the waiting room on.  Normally I would assume this is for my benefit, but the whole time she's choosing the channel she is holding open a door with her back, which completely blocks my view.  By the sound of it she eventually settles on a crime-recreation show on some low budge network.  I pull out my book.

Red Flag #7: She goes  into the exam room, which is partitioned off with a fake wall and looks out onto the parking lot, and  immediately turns on another TV.  The View is on.  What is the logic here?  Who is expected to be watching these two televisions.  If I weren't here would she have both on anyway?  Do the stoic interviews and police sirens of the crime show add something special to The View.  She still hasn't acknowledged me further.  I pick up the remote and turn off the TV in waiting area.  It's distracting me from my book (The Kid by Dan Savage).

Red Flag #8: When she finally gives me paperwork she uses no courtesies in her speech. "Here I'm gonna have you fill this out."  It takes me a moment to realize she's speaking to me; I'm immersed in my book, and she doesn't address or even look me in the eye.  At this point I'm really looking forward to having her root around in my mouth.  Fabulous.  But I'm resolved not to waste my $35.

Red Flag #9: Once in the chair the exam continues in a similar vein.  My dentist (wtf is her name anyway?) shoves a small square of cardboard in my mouth and tells me to bite down for the x-ray.  The cardboard is wedged down in such a way that I can't close my mouth.  I'm not sure what to do.  "You're not biting down all the way," she says from around another wall.  "I can't" I slur over the thing in my mouth.  As she's fixing it she chuckles, "You gotta gag reflex, huh?" What?  Um, yes?  I gag on things sometimes, but that's irrelevant because I wasn't just now.  I just couldn't close my mouth, and I didn't know how to fix the thing.  Not once throughout the entire exam does she ever warning me she's about to stick her fingers in my mouth.  She prefers a sneakier approach, bustling around the room and then flying in unexpectedly.

Red Flag #10: Looking over my x-rays she makes a number of cryptic and worrying statements:
"You gotta big cavity in the back.  You gotta white fill?" Is this a question or a statement?  Is she talking about something in the past?  I shrug.
"Your wisdom teeth trying to come through." I had all four wisdom teeth out when I was 17.
"Ooh.  Root canal." Okay, so you're pointing out the dental work I've already had... Yes, that's true.
"You got an infection, it coming through you're nasal cavity." What?  Is there something I can do for this?
"Root canal." Wait, another one?  No meds first, just straight to ripping out the roots of my teeth?  Fucking fabulous.  You wanna just dig in right now?
As she shoves a mirror into my hands: "Here!  The 8 and 9!" As if I'm an idiot for not knowing my teeth by number.  Wouldn't I have an inkling of that if I had an infection?

Red Flag #11: As she lays me back to begin the cleaning I'm wondering if I should just go right now.  But I sort of feel like it's been so long since my last cleaning that I really need to see this through.  As we begin I try to smooth things over and ask her how she long she's been a dentist. "Uuuuh, 15 years."  "Do you like it?" I ask, trying to be friendly now that she has me in a position of weakness.  My dentist answered by ranting about Obama-care, and how she's not going to advise her college-bound son to go into it, implying that it no longer pays.  Lovely, because I totally want someone who's concerned only about their paycheck cleaning my teeth.  No wonder she needed to sell Groupons.

Red Flag #12: During the cleaning she flicks toothpaste onto my face, and when I start she asks me what's wrong like I'm crazy.  Every time someone passes by she pauses to watch them.  I stare upside down through her goggles at her eyes as they follow each person and wonder if she thinks they're coming in.  Because I know for sure they're not.  She sticks the suction hose to the inside of my cheek and leaves it there while she goes to get something.  It dries my mouth out and I start to choke.  Then she abruptly sits me up.  "You gotta cavity.  Big one," she says, thrusting the mirror back into my hands.  She indicates a molar at the back.  I'm not surprised, I figured as much.

As she hustles me out of the office an hour since I came in nothing surprises me; my red flags have all been raised and I have no excuse for feeling abused.  I could've left at any time.  She offers me copies of my x-rays, but when I tell her that'd be nice she says, "It's gonna be $25.  It costs money you know." Great, I'll keep that in mind.  And I certainly won't be back.

Presenting my first video!

I am really excited today.  I wrote a short film, and it debuted on the web yesterday!  For the last year and a half I've been writing sketches and short stories and monologues.  I've started and stopped screenplays, and even collaborated on an entire webseries.  But none of that panned out.  Until now.  I conceived the idea, wrote it, created the costumes (!), and produced it.   The lovely Casey Gates filmed it (on her iPhone4!), edited it, and generally encouraged me - for which I am extraordinarily grateful.

This film is not trying to be fancy.  The production quality is low, but I think the whimsy and laugh factors are high.  This is the first of many: they're just going to better and better.   I hope that you'll enjoy this short film for what it is.  To me it is a triumph.

With no further ado I happily present you:  Space Cat Gets a Haircut!

If you enjoyed my film you can learn more about SpaceCat on Facebook!

xoxox

Thanks to Jaq Galliano for an afternoon's work well done.

 

Coming Out

This week I had a personal coming out party.  I came out as myself.  Recently I found something I feared I had lost forever.  Some part related to that 18 year old who dyed her hair black, and when it faded to blue she continued to dye her hair blue.  You know, that part of me that always wanted to date the Sandman:

I've been dutiful.  Working my fancy, corporate restaurant job in Pasadena, submitting my marketable, all-American headshots, and denying a very large side of my personality.  The largest side of my personality.  For you, dear readers, this probably comes as no surprise: I'm a weirdo and I like it.  I get really excited about listening to Neal Stephenson speak at the local indie bookstore.  I dance alone in my apartment in the middle of the night to Miike Snow.  I eat weirdo health foods, and photograph street art, and fear the Kindle.  Almost all my clothes were used before I bought them; I am passionate about gay rights; there are lots of pictures of nude people in my apartment.  I have been informed on more than one occasion that my dark side is very well-explored.  I call myself an artist.  I like tattoos.  

I like tattoos.  I like them on my friends and on the people I date, and I have a couple.  I know tattoos are not for everyone.  After all, moderation in all things, right?  Don't get me wrong: I'm not saying all tattoos tasteful ,or attractive.  But when thoughtfully executed they can be lovely.  I got a new tattoo this week.  Surprise!

The quality of the photo isn't great, but I'm not that concerned about it.  The quality of the work is excellent and I love it.  The idea for the hummingbird was around for a long time, but I never knew where I wanted it. In my head it moved from right shoulder to right lower back to right pelvis, but it was never the right time.  Until it was.  Like with all my other big decisions, one day I just woke knowing what I wanted to do.  If you have never experienced this brand of certainty, let me tell you: there is no more gratifying feeling than reserving judgement until you equivocally know the right move.  

Getting this tattoo was a big thing.  There were a lot of reasons - spoken and unspoken, not to.  As an actor I wanted to be marketable.  I didn't want to pigeon-hole myself, I wanted to be able to go out for any role.  That was mostly an excuse though.  I think I was hiding behind hypothetical roles because I was afraid.  Afraid of disapprobation.  I come from a very conservative upbringing, and I dislike conflict.  For a long time I have avoided bringing up certain subjects for fear of being disrespectful, or disrespected, or (worst of all) disliked.  Please understand: I'm setting out here to describe what is a very personal and painful process of self-realization.  No disrespect at all is meant to where or who I come from.  I love my family very very much.  I am more grateful to them than I could ever express.  But in some ways I'm very different from them.  I have different aesthetics, and in some cases different morals.

My little hummingbird makes me happy.  I love it.  I love looking at it, and noticing it out the corner of my eye while I sit here typing.  I love how it looks in pictures; in general I find it very aesthetically pleasing.  And somehow now I feel more like myself.  Most importantly, I have faith that this feeling will stay.  I'm glad I waited until now to get it, though.  I have thought long and hard about the repercussions and ramifications of having an image tattooed indelibly on my body.  Heck, I could've gotten breast implants or plastic surgery, but that's not me.  The body modification that speaks to me is an image, and I wanted it right there on my forearm where it would serve to remind me of certain things; where I couldn't hide it.

I feel like I spent a long time hiding.  I've been dutiful and marketable, or however you want to characterize it: approachable, acceptable, likable, friendly, blah blah blah.  Now, finally, I just want to be me.   Bleached streaks in my hair, cut up tee-shirts, visible tattoos and all.  Not that those other qualities aren't part of me, they're just not the whole me.  I'm tired of leaving the intrinsic parts of myself behind when I come to the table.  From now on, I'm bringing the whole thing.  Hopefully even if you don't always agree with my choices, you'll respect that my happiness doesn't always come in the same shape as yours.  I may do things that don't make sense to you sometimes, but that doesn't mean they are hasty decisions.  I'm working really hard to find those things that make me happy.  My new tattoo makes me happy.  This is my coming out party: I'm coming out as a weird, nerdy, gluten-free, sometimes spazzy, tattooed, artistic, eclectic, feminine, independant, contradictory person.

Fat Athletes

I love that the Google home page today celebrates people of all shapes and sizes.  We all have body issues, right?  (Let me get up on my soapbox once more to yell about how I resent the boxes society tries to put me in.)  I think my breasts are too small/I'm too tall/my belly is too round/my feet are too big/my hair is too big - WHATEVER.  So in general I'm in favor of media and artists giving me images I can live up to, rather than airbrushed Barbies.  At face value this picture does that, right?  Pictured above I see a rainbow team including: a soccer ball shaped football player, pearish swimmer, lanky runner, squat javelin thrower, and perky fencer.  Great.  Except that Olympic athletes give up normalcy to attain peak physical form.  They spend years becoming perfect specimens at the top of their sport.  You're not fooling anyone, Internet. We know what Olympic athletes look like:  

Hmm...  Well those athletes are actually pretty varied...  They do look a hell of a lot more fit than those lumpy cartoons above though.  In which case, what's the lesson here?  Is it that Americans are into watching TV and eating fast food and turning off their brains?  A, "Shape up couch potatoes! It's not okay to be healthy and inactive!" sort of lesson?  Or is it a "Hey Media!  You're making me miserable with these ideas you're shoving down my throat!" sort of lesson?  I don't know.  But once I finish this dark chocolate bar I am going to figure it out.

Escapism and Summer Reading

For those of you who don't know me well, I have little to no self-control where a good book is concerned.  I'm like a nerdy meth head, thinking only about when I'll get my next literary fix.  And this summer, I've really been bingeing.  There's a thing about summer reading, a sort of unspoken cultural idea that come summer it is our God-given right, not to mention our patriotic duty, to put aside textbooks, nonfiction, and the classics in favor of books that are, well... fluffier.  Books we actually want to read, as opposed to those books we think we should read.  Although I tend to read this way all year long, lately I've been shouldering a very large part of the fluffy burden.  For America!  That or I'm experiencing a massive bout of avoidance.  Whichever it is, the upshot for you is a phenomenal reading list... if you're a nerd.  With no further ado, I give you the reason(s) we haven't hung out or talked in weeks:

It really started with A Game of Thrones, back in May.  My friend loaned it to me, saying I wouldn't be able to put it down.  I knew I'd probably enjoy it (it's popular for a reason, right?) but I hadn't been in any rush to read it.  And my friend was right, I couldn't put it down.  One day I read from morning to night, for probably twelve hours straight.   The next day I went looking for the sequel, A Clash Of Kings at the thrift store.  It wasn't there.  But I DID find the third and fourth books, A Storm of Swords and A Feast for Crows, waiting like little homeless kitties.  It was meant to be!  Naturally as soon as I got home I ordered the second book on the internet - for 7 cents.  Ridiculous, right?  The waiting for book two would've been awful, but I luckily went out of town for a week, and it arrived shortly.  And then all of a sudden it was three weeks later.  I basically read during every spare moment (this includes while eating and brushing my teeth).  Imagine me waiting tables with a too-happy smile on my face while frantically wishing my guests would shut up and pay so I could break the sound barrier rushing home to find out what happens to Arya Stark.    Honestly, I think this whole pattern is part of the reason I was in no hurry to start reading the series in the first place - because I knew once I started I wouldn't be able to stop.  

The whole Game of Thrones series didn't disappoint, for the most part.  They are entertaining, interesting, thoughtful books.  They're fun to read.  The author shifts point of view between a wide variety of characters, giving the reader a really global perspective of the story.  And not all the characters are men either; I'd say maybe a third of the main characters are women, and amongst those are some really strong interesting females.  I commend Martin for taking the female perspective into account, although it seems like a pretty natural thing for him to do.  I don't think it's always easy to write from the opposite gender, but he handles the task well.  I don't want to say much more about the stories, but if you like fantasy, or epics, or HBO, or history give these books a shot.  I warn you though, you may lose your summer tan while you're inside reading for the next six weeks.

Next I started reading The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon.  I've only read one other book by him, but he sticks in my head as an important American author that I ought to like.  So this has been in my short stack for a while.  By the third chapter I was so reminded of Neal Stephenson's Snow Crash that I had to put Pynchon down, though.  It was a good move; I don't regret it (and I don't know when I'll go back to the Pynchon).  Snow Crash is like an old friend - I've probably read it six times.  It is a pivotal cyberpunk novel.  If William Gibson is the father of cyberpunk, Snow Crash is the poster boy (this analogy is faulty but I like it so I'm leaving it anyway... Really I should be saying that Neal Stephenson is the poster boy of cyberpunk, but I kind of think he's a dick...).  Directly after finishing Snow Crash I revisited The Diamond Age: or, A Young Lady's Illustrated Primer by the same author.  These books fire me up.  They take place in a not-quite dystopian vision of the future where smart-tech permeates everything, and nations have come out of the closet as corporate identities.  They're funny and really smart and make me excited about making art.  Read them.

From there I borrowed a bunch of books from another friend, including Catching Fire - otherwise known as the second Hunger Games book.  This is another one I was in no hurry to read.  I read the Hunger Games maybe six months ago, and enjoyed it.  But I didn't like it enough to search it out.  Besides, I knew it would come my way eventually.  Catching Fire satisfied me.  It was readable, entertaining, and very fast.  I do have some annoyance toward Katniss's perpetual dissatisfaction with whatever boy she's with.  I have even more annoyance toward Suzanne Collins for recycling that stupid plotline.  I know that society and mother culture tell women we should want nothing more than to have two boys fighting over us, but I think it's bullshit.  First of all, how often does it actually come about that you have two equal-but-opposite, good-looking, interesting guys you can't choose between?  Second, there's way way WAY more to both the human and female experiences than romance.  I'm trying in my own life to learn this lesson, and it would be a lot easier if it wasn't all over the media (yeah yeah yeah, write it myself, I hear you).  Anyhow, I enjoyed the book, but again, I'm not rushing out to get book three.  If someone wants to loan me Mockingjay I'll gladly borrow it.  And no, I do not use a reading device-they make heart dissolve.

I've guess I've been lonely, because I revisited another old friend next; The Time Traveler's Wife.  I LOVED this novel when I read it four and a half years ago.  I didn't disappoint the second time around.  The movie did it NO justice.  I noticed something different this time though.  (SPOILER ALERT)  The book perpetuates the cult of youth  and beauty vis-a-vis women.  Now that I'm almost 30 I read the story with different eyes, and it's pretty impossible to ignore Clare's age throughout the story.  You get plenty of adult Henry and little girl Clare, but not the other way around.  Once again it's acceptable for a man to love a younger woman (or young girl), but god forbid we read a story about a woman and a boy.  And then Clare's story basically stops after Henry dies, but that's the part I'm most interested in!  What happens after he's gone?  What happens when she has to learn to really stand on her own?  How does she manage?  You basically get one or two brief glimpses, but then nada.  Don't get me wrong.  I love this book.  Read it!  These are just some things I've noticed.


Okay, that's all I've got attention span for (I actually just want to get back to my book).  You may be interested to know that I'm reading a hard sci fi novel right now called Broken Angels, which is the sequel to Altered Carbon.  It's about downloading consciousness into different bodies.  And you may also be interested to know that somewhere in there I read the screenplay for Notes on a Scandal (speaking of women and boys - shudder).  And I've been slowly making my way through The Daring Book for Girls, which is AWESOME.  Today I learned how to put my hair up with a pencil, yesterday how to make a variety of different knots.


What are you reading this summer?  What did you think about these books?  Do you have something you want to loan me?  I take care of the books I borrow, and I return them.
xoxox