New Years Numbers

   What a crazy fucking year 2015 has been.  This has been my most difficult, and most exceptional year.  Emotionally I have gone into the fire and through the maze, and I still don't know if I'm out.  And at the same time, in terms of career and overall life experiences I have traveled places physically and made connections I had no idea were in my immediate realm of experiences.

It would be impossible for me to qualify or properly categorize 2015, but I'm going to try my damnedest.  Because looking at 2015, the things that stand out to me are the numbers.  The numbers that keep floating to the surface of my mind are

33 and 142

That's my current age and weight.  As a model/performer/actor/creative woman/personality I feel a lot of pressure not to age, and to stay thin.  And although I clearly am thin, I often run into this dumb stereotype about my weight and/or dress size.  When I tell people my weight they most often seem surprised, their guess is often 15-20 pounds lighter.  Likewise people often assume I'm five years younger than I am.  Part of me doesn't mind, but part of me minds a lot.  

I, at 33, 6', 142lbs, am not a fragile little twig of a girl.  I am a woman, with muscle and fat and broad shoulders.  I think this is to my advantage: I can sit down comfortably and stay reasonably warm when working nude, plus I have a wide variety of life experiences and training to draw on, allowing me to embody emotion and story on the fly.  Annoyingly, however, I regularly see women shaving off a few years and a few pounds online to seem more desirable.  I, in turn, have participated in it to be competitive.

Well that's it.  I call bullshit.  Lying about my age or my weight to try to get jobs or seem attractive is totally stupid.  I want to empower women to own themselves in full, and that means owning those numbers.  I'm proud of my years on this planet, and I'm proud to take up some space.  

Ultimately, I don't think those are the even the numbers that matter.  Here are some of my favorite numbers from 2015.

highest elevation: 8262 ft, continental Divide, Yellowstone National Park, 12/22/15

lowest elevation: 200 feet below sea level, Death Valley National Park, 4/6/15

states visited: 7 - WA, OR, CA, WY, MO, NV, LA

other countries visited: 1 - Canada
territories: 1 - US Virgin Islands

hot springs visited: 4 - Esalen (three times), Desert Hot Springs, Deep Creek

                                  - Yellowstone (no swimming!)

epic roadtrips: 2

solo truck stop dance parties: 1

mileage on my car: 165,240

weddings attended: 3 - 1 secret wedding on the beach, 1 pagan self-marriage in the woods, 1 very               

                                     short notice in Victoria BC

individuals, workshops, schools, studios, or events worked with: 74

photo shoots in exotic locations: 4

viral videos views: 34,592

new tattoos: 1

Looking at all those numbers, you might think 2015 was nonstop excitement and fun.  But it wasn't.  I have a few really sad numbers, or difficult numbers, that have weighed me down a bit.

lowest weight in 2015: 120lbs

hardest day: 3/4/15

psychiatrist visits: 4

Let's just end that list there, shall we?  I didn't intentionally drop 20 pounds in the end of 2014, but I did.  For the first time since I was a young girl I weighed what people had always guessed.  And I can say categorically that I feel better this way.  Gimme that 22 pounds.  Did you know that women primarily store serotonin in the fat cells around the belly.  Ding ding ding!

So I just want to come out and say it, loud and clear.  I'm 33 years old, and I weigh 142 pounds.  This is a real woman's weight.  My resolution in 2016 is to be honest with myself, to love myself very well, and never to apologize for myself.  2015 was all about those things, and I wouldn't change anything. Let's see what the new year has to bring.

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.

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.

Tearing the World Apart

Let me tell you a little more about the show I'm currently working on.

Tearing the World Apart falls into the categories of experimental, physical, and dance theatre.  It consists of a series of vignettes exploring the title theme.  The vignettes include dance choregraphy, physical interpretation of text, physical improvisation, performance poetry, music and paint.

When I auditioned for this show I knew unfailingly that I had something to offer. I tore my own world apart last year; I've been sharing that journey fairly publicly here, in the hopes that it would resonate with other people, and also as my own method of therapy.  If you come see my show, you can join me and two other performers on the ride.  Heartbreak is definitely one aspect of the theme we explore.  We also explore some of the revolutions and riots of the last year, and the pervasive sense of dissatisfaction that floats around.  And we'll share with you our dreams for the future.  Because if you're going to destroy everything as you know it, hopefully you'll have something in mind to replace it with.

What I've been up to lately

It's been a while since I posted anything!  Honestly, I feel like a lot of the balls I was juggling have dropped for the moment.  Balls like social life, street art photography and tagging, and blogging.  Most of my extra time has been taken up with rehearsals for Hollywood Fringe Festival 2012.  It's a piece of experimental dance-theatre called Tearing the World Apart.  I've been in rehearsals three times a week since the middle of April helping develop this short piece (only 45 minutes).  We're exploring the theme of what happens when you're pushed to the edge, what happens when the world as you know it hangs in the balance, will you push forward to create change? even if that involves the painful destruction of all you know?  Just to make it even more fun, we're using projections, original sound design and performance poetry, and LIVE PAINTING.  It's messy.

        Working on this piece so far has been awesome.  It's been a while since I've done any physical theatre; I'm reminded of why I love it.  As an artist my goal is to serve as a vehicle for expression, to go places that others are unwilling or unable to explore, to take viewers on journeys they wouldn't embark on alone.  This piece, this strange little avantgarde piece of theatre so far has given me that.

And that's kind of the problem.  This piece is developing into something intensely personal.  How could it not?  I'm collaborating with an amazing team of artists (director Naomi Bennet, playwright Barbara Ishida, cocreator Mercedes Manning, actor Alejandro Ruiz, actor Carrie Newell, production designer Heather Fipps, and a couple of other people I haven't met) to create a piece of theatre taking into account the state of the world today, along with our personal stories.  So along the way, my feelings and my journey have wormed their way into the piece.  And that's kind of scary.

So here it is, I'm asking you to come out and see it.  It frightens me to do so, because you may come see this piece and think it's weird.  You might not get it.  You might disagree with some of what's said.  You may learn more about me than I am comfortable telling you.  You may hate it.  Or you might love it.  You might see something like you've never seen before.  You might learn more about me than I'm comfortable telling you.  You might be motivated to take the plunge and change your own world a little bit.

There are a few ways you can support me in this.  Come to our fundraiser on Saturday at 12pm.  We will perform an excerpt of the piece, and then invite the audience to join us to play with paint.  Come get messy!  It's $20, which is kind of steep, but all proceeds go to supplies and rehearsals space and costumes and that kind of good stuff.  If you have kids, bring them!  It will be fun!

Or come see the show!  We have three performances: Sunday June 17 at 5pm, Saturday June 23 at 3pm, and Sunday June 24 at 4:30pm.  It's $10, but if you're really broke I can get you a discount.  Or if you come to the fundraiser AND the performance we have discounts for you.

Or you can donate directly via Indiegogo.  I would really appreciate your support in any capacity.  I feel awkward asking people to give money to something, or to come to a fundraiser and a performance, but I guess I've just got to be humble.  Please help.  Even if all you do is come see me perform, I will notice.  And you'll get something out of it too, I promise.  All my love to you all, thanks for reading!

10 Ways to Get Over a Breakup

1. Cut and/or dye your hair
2. Become vegetarian
3. Get a tattoo
4. Burn some shit (ie: the things your former lover was stupid enough to leave with you)
5. Start dating women (unless you already were, in which case, start dating men)
6. Take up witchcraft
7. The 3 P's! Pot, porn, and the Pixies!
8. Get a restraining order
9. Lots and lots of yoga
10. Start a blog

I spent Christmas with my family for the first time in four years this week.  To make it even more jarring, this was the first Christmas in probably seven years we celebrated in Seattle.

It's difficult for me to describe exactly how and why this was a weird holiday, but it really was.  The best way I can think to describe my mental state, behavior, and general temperament is to tell you that I reverted to my 17 year old self.  Any self-respecting adult among you has experienced the same thing.  Don't lie to yourselves.

I found myself doing things like slouching moodily in front of the open refrigerator staring at nothing.  Rather than buying the foods I wasn't finding in my parents (really full) fridge I just scrounged around.  I justified myself saying I wasn't going to be staying there every night, so I didn't want to buy something and waste it.  But would it really have been that difficult to buy some plain yogurt and a bag of arugula?

I also slept an average of eleven hours a night.  I even woke up after one ten hour sleep only to return to bed for a two hour nap.  You could say that I obviously needed it; I certainly push myself harder and sleep less in LA.  But is twelve hours honestly necessary three out of four nights?

And when my friends dropped me off at 1am (come on, that's early!) I realized I'd have to go in through the garage, probably waking my parents.  Immediately I imagined my mom meeting me at the top of the stairs, giving me the sniff-n-hug, which caused a huge twinge of anxiety.

Observing these behaviors in myself, I missed my autonomy.  It's like I wasn't able to take up an adult space in my parents house.  Through no fault of theirs, I became an emotional, antisocial, contrary little bitch, rather than asserting myself as a grownup individual.

And I missed LA.  When I thought about coming back here to my unattached single life, for the first time I felt really okay about floating free.  Maybe that's selfish, or childish, or escapist, but I am really enjoying it.  In my little world I can get as weird as I want, and when I'm pouting in front of the refrigerator I have only myself to blame.

Gaslighting and Fat Asses

Recently the internet was blowing up over the picture/article/phenomena of "plus size" model Lizzie Miller and her un-airbrushed belly roll;  I'm a few days late here but I wanted to weigh in anyway (pun intended).

This girl had her photo in Glamour magazine and everyone flipped because she's so natural looking.  I mean that people are flipping in a good way.  This photo is, as the article states, the type of candid photo your boyfriend might capture.  I love it, she looks vibrant and beautiful and like someone you'd meet in your everyday life.  Apparently women everywhere have been flooding Glamour with positive feedback because they like seeing attainable standards of beauty in the media.

So what's the deal with airbrushing?  Why does it happen to even the most beautiful celebrities?  Why are slim-hipped boyish 14 year olds still setting the standard for designers?  I mean, I don't pay a ton of attention to the media or what is considered in right now, so sometimes I allow myself to think that the cliches are no longer in power, but that's clearly not true.  What shadow force is it that's airbrushing our photos behind our backs, even when that's not what we want to look at?

Oh, maybe it's men.  Okay, we're going full on weird here.  But it occurred to me as I was dishing up a giant bowl of (brown rice) pasta and cheese (Thanksgiving week is evidently an excuse to eat massive amounts of cheese) that another article caught my eye recently.  It's about gaslighting, which is a tactic used (often unconsciously) by men to make women feel crazy, thereby negating what they're saying or feeling.  Come on, we've all felt it, right girls?  So see if you can follow this.  As men get older their beards go silver, their hair salt and pepper, and their pates bald.  And women eat it up, because men get better looking as they age.  Women, on the other hand, are told that their post baby bodies are unattractive, that their gray hair dulls their eyes or complexions, and that they aren't as pretty as they used to be.  

And let's be honest, who controls the media?  I don't know, and I haven't done any research, but I'm sure it's men.  So airbrush all the models: the Kate Winslets and the Keira Knightleys.  Keep women straining after unrealistic standards of beauty and they won't wake up and realize that they have options.

Okay, so this is a totally convoluted theory here; I'm really flying by the seat of my pants.  But tell me I'm crazy and hear me cry, "Gaslighting!"  And I know that I don't have much to complain about in this category.  I have my beautiful parents to thank for a fast metabolism and a lucky physique.  But when I get older I'll be aging naturally.  And I celebrate my right to enjoy a glass of wine and not worry as I move into my 30's (as one of my managers pointed out this is the start of my 30th year.  Thank you so much) that it'll land more firmly on my ass.  Get fat, ass! That's it.  Now excuse me, but I've got a giant bowl of pasta to finish up.

Confession

Okay, I'm going to tell you a secret.  I go through Lost and Found bins, and sometimes I take things that I didn't lose.  I feel a little better getting that off my chest.  Here's the thing.  I'm really careful of my possessions. I wash my clothes carefully.  I get my shoes repaired.  I mend things.  And I also know that, for the most part, if I lose something or it breaks or wears out, it can't be replaced.  It's one of a kind.  If I went to big box stores and bought lots of interchangeable stuff all the time I might value my possessions less, but that's not how I work.  So when I lose something, I go back and look for it.  For example, I have two water bottles.  One I from Starbucks that I got with a gift card several years ago, and one big silver metal one that Lindsay left in my rental car in Boston, which used to belong to her ex-boyfriend.  I take one with me everywhere, and I can't tell you how often I leave them places.  Just this week at the yoga studio, in fact.  And often I'll leave one at the theatre.  But I always think about where they are and go looking for them.  Which is how come I might be browsing through lost and found bins, noticing that some of this stuff was here the last time I lost my bottle.  So obviously someone has forgotten about it and won't be bothered if I take it.  But don't you think that if individual items had more personal meaning to us we would be more careful of them, and less likely to misplace or break them?  Don't get me wrong, one of these days those bottles will go the way of the world, and I'll have to replace them or go without.  And that's fine; as much as I love collecting things I also try not to be too attached.  But in the meantime I will make them last as long as possible.  And if you happen to see me wearing a scarf that you recognize, yes, it probably is yours.

Wanty-wanty

For whatever reason I went to Hollywood and Highland center three times in a week.  Once to meet a friend, once for an audition (classy) and once to buy some foundation for a shoot.  Makeup falls under my toiletries caveat as far as used things only, especially since it was for filming.

It was interesting observing the mall from the point of view of buying nothing new.  I've never been a big mall shopper obviously, but before I made the conscious decision to buy only used items I would've given in to the feeling I had when I was surrounded by Bebe and Lucky and... the rest of the forgettable stores at the mall.  A feeling of wantingness.  A feeling like what I have or what I am is not enough.  A feeling created by that little voice in the back of my head who sees a window display and says, "Go check out the sale rack.  Just to see what's there."

I didn't need anything at the mall.  I accumulate new (to me) things all the time, regardless of buying used things only.  But this time I was able to observe that wanty little Golem in my stomach and say, "No.  You don't need those shiny things.  Get over it."

And let's be honest, in some ways this nothing new thing has just given me an excuse to shop the thrift stores more.  Because when you can get things new you have to be looking all the time.  I don't go intending to buy one hard and fast item.  I have a shifting list of things I'm looking for, and if I don't find them it's not the end of the world.

I'm thinking about extending this thing to a year.  So far six months doesn't seem that tough.  I do feel like I've been a bit lax about documenting it lately, but I'm not sure people want that many boring details...  Check back and I'll post some photos of some of the used stuff I've picked up lately.

Traveling Boutique!!

I'm planning a pretty awesome blog post for the holiday season (which also happens to be my birthday season, FYI).  But this weekend I became compelled to give you all a little sneak peek.  So without further ado I give you:

the Nothing New Guide to Shopping: Chatty Cathy Goes Thrift Wild!
Okay, maybe that title is a bit much.  Whatever.

Anyway, I was leaving yoga on Sunday and saw a small moving van parked by the farmers market across the street, and had to go in.

What is this??

Who wouldn't want to shop here?  Well I wouldn't want to be friends with someone who wouldn't want to shop here.

 This adorable store is called Tin Box of Curious Artifacts (tra-vel-ing bou-tique).  They sell mainly vintage items, and a few new things.  I was so charmed I felt absolutely compelled to purchase something.  There was an old school Parcheesi game that particularly caught my eye, but in end these amazing Sophia Loren glasses came home with me.

Looking good.

Not that they're my prescription.  Not that I really need glasses.  Not that I'll wear them frequently.  $10 totally well spent.  Oh yeah, did I mention that Tin Box is very affordable?  All the clothes are in great condition, they're perfect for hipsters, and everything was priced surprisingly low.  If you see this store I urge you to check it out.  It's really cool.

Nothing New: the bike post

What is up my 9 followers?  You are some of my favorite people on the internet, just sayin.

I have to go imagine some things for acting class tonight, so I'll keep this brief.  I just wanted to let you know how Nothing New is going:

GREAT.  Yeah, so that bike that my neighbor gave me is sweet.  The guys at the Bicycle Kitchen were really helpful.  For $22 dollars they showed me how to change the tires, hooked me up with a couple of used tires in good condition, straightened the rims and oiled the chain.  Go there.  I will definitely be back.  And then yesterday I went for a ride in Griffith Park.  It was kind of an ambitious ride, but I saw so much of the park, it's definitely the way to experience Griffith.

I'm really jazzed about biking; I'm so tired of my car.  But now I need a lock and a helmet.  The lock I will definitely be purchasing used.  If anyone has one let me know.  As for the helmet, if I can find a pre-owned but not really used one that would be ideal.  However, if necessary I will buy a new one.  I know it's not really that cool to where a helmet, but let's face it, I have a history of accidents.

Also, you'll be interested to know that I purchased remanufactured ink cartridges for my printer.  They've always been wonderful in the past, this time I had the misfortune to be sent an empty black cartridge, but hopefully they'll replace it.  And I can send my old ones back to be reused.  Hurrah!

As for that other thing...  Nothing to report, let's just leave it at that.

Nothing new-1st update!

Unintentionally it is exactly 4 weeks since my first post about not buying anything new.  Allow me to clarify one thing about this idea:  I am allowed to buy used things.  I am not allowed to buy anything that hasn't already been owned, with a few exceptions: shoes, underwear, food, toiletries, art by artists I wish to support financially.

It's interesting to me that almost a month has passed and this really hasn't been a stretch for me.  Of course, I have always been a garage-saler/go-through-your-curbside-leftovers/thrift store shopper.  I like used stuff.  So I'm not terribly surprised.

So far the main shift in my thinking is about plastics.  For example, when I moved back in March I decided to reuse my Ziploc bags.  They're really expensive, and sometimes they were barely used at all, and I'd just throw them away.  So I started washing them with the rest of my dishes and drying them on my dish rack.  Since I've started this project, however, I've avoided using my Ziploc bags completely.  I still have some in my drawer, but why put half an avocado in a Ziploc bag when I could use a piece of Tupperware?  Incidentally, I only have two pieces of store-bought Tupperware.  I also have an abundance of clean sour cream containers and mustard jars in my cupboard.  It's basically the same thing as Tupperware, and totally reusable.  And I'm recycling more.  I have to confess, I wasn't great about it before I started doing this.  It wasn't totally convenient to me because I didn't have a container for it, and my apartment complex doesn't have recycling bins.  But the two buildings next door to me do have recycling bins out most days of the week, and I took the bucket I was using for dirty dishtowels for my recycling.  Voila.  I was just being lazy before.  Cause here's the thing.  I figured what's the point of consuming less if I'm still throwing away bottles?  This is a no-brainer, but I just needed to really think about it, and then start doing it.  FYI, I also stopped using paper towels.  I use rags instead when I need to clean-usually it's cat vomit I'm picking up.

Through the magic of asking the universe for what I want I came by a bike.  I put it out there on Facebook that I wanted a used bike.  Then I asked my neighbor if he knew where I could get one, and he gave me one that he's not using.  It needs new rims and tires.  His stipulation was that I fix it, and then ride with them.  Pretty good deal!

And I'm pleased with the fact that I made it happen by asking for it.  I could use that lesson in my career in a big way.  In fact, that's kind of the lesson of the blog.  So I haven't gotten the new rims yet, but I plan to take it to the Bike Kitchen this weekend, where they'll teach you to work on it yourself and might have used parts.  So that's cool, I'll be sure to update.  Riding it is a scary prospect (lest you forget I chipped my two front teeth in a bike accident), but I'll cross that bridge (hopefully on my bike) when I come to it.

I was rather puzzled recently about getting a new toothbrush.  I used to have a Sonicare, but it wore out.  It seems like a good idea because it lasts so long, but I'm not really into gadgets.  And I'm not the type to go out and buy one.  Trader Joe's supplied me with a toothbrush recycled from yogurt cups though!  And the packaging can be used to return it to be recycled!  

I also scored a razor by the same brand at Whole Foods.

I was in Boston this week, and got a pair of earrings made by my friend's roommate Nicole.  Luckily this falls under supporting fellow artists, because it didn't cross my mind not to get a pair.  

She made these earrings by hand, and I love them.  She's a super talented artist, her room is filled with all sort of interesting hanging pieces, and prints and beautiful mounted insects.  I encourage you all to check out her website: www.nicolecolella.com.  Buy her jewelry!

I did have a moment or two of distress at the airport when I questioned whether I really wanted to read the books I'd brought, but I just didn't go in the bookstores.  Those books are overpriced, and I don't need them.  Suck it up!

Okay, so for those of you who have made it this far, this is where it gets interesting.  I have a dilemma: I want a vibrator.  I haven't had one for a long time, but now I kind of need one.  (Sorry if you're reading this Mom, I don't mean to embarrass you.)  So I can't decide if this falls under toiletries?  It seems like I ought to try to find one made of recyclable materials, but that seems kind of gross, right?  And yet, recycled products like plastic bottles have to be sterilized or whatever, so is it really that different?  Obviously a straight-up used dildo is out of the question (ew).  I have also considered the fact that I've made it this far without one... I guess it bears research.  

I'm just being me here, folks.  Keep it respectful.  xoxox

Field Trip!

It's summer, and money is tight.  So I have been looking around for affordable (read free) things to do.  The other day I came across a coupon on the LA Weekly website for free admission to the Pyschiatry: An Industry of Death Museum.  It was eight pm on a Tuesday night, and this place just happens to be open until 10pm (weird hours, right?) so obviously I downloaded the coupon onto my phone and took myself to Hollywood!

I have walked by this place a number of times and thought to myself, "What is up with that place?  What kind of a name is that for a museum?  And what kind of hole does this fill in the public consciousness?" Time to find out!

So, turns out I didn't need the coupon, because the museum is ALWAYS free.  Okay, interesting.  My friend and I went in, and as the docent is giving us the history of the museum she mentions that it's affiliated with Scientology.  Ding ding ding!  Weird hours, unnecessary coupons, and unwieldy name all starting to add up here.  Clearly I am great at mental math.

The museum is basically a loop, and they start you out in a small room with padded walls to watch a movie.  The padded walls were a really nice touch; I guess I should expect great production value from anything associated with Scientology.  The movie had testimonials from lots of psychiatrists saying that there's no medical proof for most of psychology, and then it showed that they were the authors of books like "Mad in America", so they're obviously reputable sources.  The movie also showed shots of lots of really unhappy looking people, and interviews with their families about how their lives were ruined by psychiatry.  Finally, once we were totally depressed, we were turned loose into the museum.

The museum was like a combination of Universal Studios, Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum, and the Holocaust Museum in Normandy.  It was basically a parade of Atrocities Everyone Loves to Hate, beefed up  with weird visual aids: examples of medieval torture devices, bloodletting knives or primitive electroshock chairs, realistic looking mummified heads made of wax, photos of bone thin patients locked in "cage beds", etc.  Every six feet or so there were large monitors showing video segments (now I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I should NEVER submit myself for an in-house Scientology project).  The exhibits are organized somewhat chronologically, and concern the Holocaust, racism, Hollywood icons, school shootings, insurance fraud and TERRORISM to name a few.  This was all accompanied by a bunch of arguments that really stretched to show that all of psychiatry is a conspiracy with big pharma.  

Don't get me wrong.  I think that people, especially kids, are over medicated.  I believe that there are lots of people out there who want a quick diagnosis, or who want to put other people's inexplicable behavior into an easy to understand box.  But I also believe that sometimes we can become emotionally unbalanced, and need more than someone to talk to.  There is a time a place for chemical aid.

When we left the museum we passed through a room whose walls were COVERED with pamphlets.  A sign politely informed us that each guest was permitted to choose one pamphlet free, but that additional pamphlets can be purchased for $1.50.  I was tempted to take the one titled Raped by Psychology, but I restrained myself.

I couldn't leave without checking out the gift shop.  Sure enough, right there on the shelves were copies of "Mad in America" and all the other books whose authors were quoted favorably in the introductory video.  What a surprise.  There was also a book that had a giant tag line saying, "Tom Cruise was right!!!"; I forget the title though, because I was so mesmerized by that.  There were also some really awesome tee-shirts.  My favorite was a bubblegum pink one that said, "Psych drugs turn kids into killers."  'Killers' had a gun superimposed over it.

We rushed out of the museum.  Luckily there were some teenagers foolish enough to talk to the docents, so we avoided being cornered by Scientologists.  We felt thoroughly depressed and in need of chemical aid after my trip through that weird, sterile space-it was like a carnival ride from the most depressing circle of hell-so we headed over to Mercantile for a glass of wine.