Oh Say Can You See My Eyes If You Can Then My Hair’s Too Short

You guys, I’m super excited! One of my oldest and closest friends is visiting me tomorrow.  To know her is to love her.

Sasha and Automne. Sweet Seventeen.

Okay, she’s probably going to kill me for posting this pictorial montage but I can’t help myself.  I never grow tired of looking at our old hair pictures.  Seriously, people. SERIOUSLY! Only two of these photos were taken on Halloween. The rest of them were probably from a lazy Tuesday afternoon. Take notes.  The nineties were ridiculous.

In no particular order…

Wow.

WOW!

It was actually quite difficult to find any pictures where we didn’t have tiaras, antennas, bows, balls, halos, fake fur, flowers, hair dye, birds or plastic farm animals in our hair. I don’t even know if such photos exist.  (Do they, Sa?) I did find this one.

Ahhhhh, so normal. We practically look like business ladies.

Anyway, my hair can’t wait for Sasha’s hair to get here already.

I’m going to start putting shit in it asap!

Dear Lucky Dress,

It was weird folding you up one final time and sending you off to your new home in Singapore.  I almost couldn’t do it.  We’ve been together for over ten years and you’ve seen so much — so many night clubs, dinner parties, bedroom floors and spin-the-bottle games.  You were there the night my friends and I ate magic mushrooms in the Tenderloin. You were there when that cute boy kissed me at the Whitechapel Tube Station.  I remember wearing you when I sang Clash songs with a complete stranger in Brixton. I also remember picking you out for a job interview in San Francisco.  You were there the night I said goodbye to all my friends and for the night I met new ones.  You’ve been to happy hours,  slumber parties, art openings, photo shoots and in a lot of different suitcases.  We danced together the  first time I ever saw Pulp play and I got sick with you the night I drank too much tequila with Karen O.  Recently you’ve just been hanging out in my closet and it made me sad.  You’ve served me so well over the years and I thought it was time that you went on to have even bigger adventures.

Godspeed, lucky dress!

You will be missed.

Love,

Automne

Hot Lava

You guys, I’m in love, love, LOVE with Hot Lava.  They make the kind of music that’s in my brain 24/7.  They make me forget about how sad I was when my favorite band Electrelane broke up.  They make me dance. They make me excited for Spring.  They make me want to buy all of their merchandise and make them rich.

Hot Lava forever!!!!!

Do Mormons Get Their Period?

Much like malt liquor, hallucinogenics and Gossip Girl, I had to see what all the fuss was about.  I needed to know why the story of  a 108 year-old Vampire virgin (riiiiiiiiiiiight) hunk that falls in love with a teenage dullard has captivated the interest of so many people.  Like I’ve said before, I’m obsessed with normal America.   I’m not above popular culture. I’m not above running across the street to borrow Twilight from my friend. Not me.

Ummm, I’m shocked that a grown women wrote these books and not a twelve year old that uses the word “chagrin” too much.  I’m also shocked that I’m already on book three.  All of the stories are poorly written, a tad racist  and infuriating to every feminist thought in my head.  I hate them and I can’t put them down.  It must be my obsession with the weirdness of normal America.  Maybe it’s more than that.  I don’t have to think about anything when I read these dumb stories.  It’s like a vacation from my brain.  I also wonder how hard it would be for me to write my own teenage romance.  I’m pretty sure I could do a better job than this undersexed Mormon lady.  Seriously, does the main character ever get her period??  If Judy Blume wrote these books, you better believe there would be at least two chapters devoted to menstruating around a bunch of vampires.

Maybe it’s a Mormon thing.

Make It Fancy.

xoxo

Exactly 22 Years Ago.

Nice sunglasses at night, bitch. Nice Swatch, freak.

Friday, February the 13th.

1987 Junior High School Dance.

I wore black jeans and one of those  t-shirts with a tuxedo painted on it.

The other girls wore formal dresses and pumps.

The 1986 hit,  “Word Up” played twice that night.

Kari Clark and Heather McClanahan went behind my back and asked Randy McCoy to dance with me.

He said, “no.”

My life, was… like, totally ruined.

“Dear Diary,

Bitchface  Kari Clark has ruined my life AGAIN!!! I’m never speaking to her ever! Totally going to transfer schools!”

I also got my period and ruined my mother’s couch.

Word up.

A Night With The Normals

You guys, I did something last night that I’ve never done before.

*long pause*

Ummm, Graham and I went to a NBA game.

Seriously! For those that don’t know us, that’s completely CRAZY! We don’t go to sporting events. We don’t even go to big concerts.  The only things we go to are punk shows and $3 movies.  Well, we did go to the Roller Derby once but I’m not sure if that counts.  Anyway, NBA games are crazy expensive but Graham’s boss gave him two free tickets.  We had to go. Besides, I’m obsessed with how normal America lives.  Really, is there anything more fascinating than normal America? There have been a few instances where I tried to go undercover to see what it was like.

Halloween circa 2007. "Taylor don't like it when I rest my fanny pack on the baby."

Alas, it left me feeling even more confused. It doesn’t matter how many bottles of body glitter or fake Smurfette tattoos I get.

My totem Smurf.

Try as I might, I just can’t get inside normal America.  My little subculture bubble is all I know.  Clearly I need to get out more so I won’t be so perplexed by things like Sarah Palin, Tila Tequila and Taco Bell commercials.

Why hellooooooo, normal America. Is this seat taken?

So how was the NBA game?

Ummmm, so overwhelmingly awesome/ridiculous/fun that I’ll never forgive myself for not bringing a camera. We had really great seats and could see everything. Basketball players look crazy in person.

the trailblazers.

Know what else is crazy? Money. Money and what it buys is totally crazy.  Sports arenas are so over the top fancy. Domestic beer was $6. I felt like I was in Tokyo again. I might as well have been because I clearly had no idea what was going on. The music would change every ten seconds and the TV monitors would change more than that. Even weirder, the monitors would tell people what to say and everyone obeyed.  At one point, the people were chanting “Chalupa.”

Chalupa?????? That doesn’t have anything to do with basketball.

It think it's Spanish for diarrhea.

There were also these other totally random things like breakdancers and degrading games where people had to scoop money off the floor.  It was like I took a trip into normal America’s brain.

Normal America's Brain

Perhaps the weirdest thing of all was the fact that Graham and I were the only indie rock/punk/hipster/whatevahhhh people there.  For Portland (a city where hipsters drives cabs and everyone is 24 and in a band) that’s absolutely maddening.

Ohhhh, normal America.  We have fun.

Enjoy your Chalupas.

Next stop, Monster Truck Rally!

The Lost Years

I just found an old journal/sketch book. These are some of the highlights.

You’re So Fat, You Broke Your Family Tree.

Last summer I was at a friend’s bachelorette party and we all went to a bar to have drinks. Like most female gatherings, the subject of body image came up and one of the thinner girls started complaining about her weight. The usual game of “What are you talking about? You’re skinny. I’m fat” took place.  By the way, NOBODY at this table could be considered fat.  Some of the girls at the table could easily be part time models. Things got weird when the girl that started the conversation motioned to the part time model girls and said, “OMG! You two have nothing to talk about, now me and….” (motions to the rest of us) “….. we can talk.” I was shocked.  I wasn’t even participating in this ridiculous conversation and now I was being told that I should be talking about my supposed freakish weight.  Say, what?  In the girl’s defense, she was very drunk.  In my defense, my BMI is very normal.  I’m not a pinup girl or a super model. I’m just average.  Cut me some slack. It’s taken me years to achieve “average.”

I was a fat baby.  I’m not just saying that so people will look at my baby pictures and say, “OMG! You weren’t  fat. You were skinny. OMG! “ Seriously, guys. I was a FAT baby. You have no idea. I attribute this to being a month (are you friggen kidding me, mom?) late. They couldn’t even fit those baby bracelet things on my fat, baby leg. I think I weighed in at 10 pounds or something.  Maybe it was 12 pounds?  I don’t remember.  It must be all the fat in my brain.  Anyway, I could have been twins.  My poor mother.  It’s like she gave birth to a toddler. She has these great baby book journals that I periodically read when I go home for Christmas. Judging from her archives, I slept a lot and the nurses loooooooved me because I was so sturdy and agreeable.  I even laughed and rolled my baby eyes at a much smaller baby that was being fussy. My first life lesson – if you’re fat, you better be charming and have a good sense of humor… especially around skinny bitches.  What can I say? I’m a quick learner.

My cousin and I.

My baby fat remained with me for years. When the Sears catalogs would come, I’d have to get my stuff from the Pretty Plus section. Totally mortifying. Those clothes sucked.

This is what "fat" looked like in the seventies.

Skinnier friend's blue dress is waaaaaaaay better. Lucky bitch.

When I was 9, my mom put me on a diet. It was hard juggling my busy 4th grade schedule with a diet/fitness routine.  As a result, my Duran Duran scrap-booking suffered.  My second life lesson was that you can’t possibly do it all unless you cut out sleep.  I became a night owl.  I know more about late night television in the 80’s than Youtube ever will. I can still remember some of the Johnny Carson monologues.

Age ten. Popped collar. Haven't been sleeping much.

My baby fat was stubborn and continued on during my awkward preteen years. Junior High was particularly brutal.  Junior High is when the masochistic nurses do those check ups and announce your weight to a gym class full of bitchy girls.  Do they still do that? If they do, I’m going to make it my mission to get them to stop.  It’s terrible.  Clearly, all of this body image stuff was making me angry and rebellious so I got into punk and wore a lot of unflattering band shirts.  As if I didn’t have enough going against me, I was also tall for my age and towered over every single boy I came in contact with. Turns out, guys HATE amazons in over-sized Cure shirts.  They just hate them.

Like all fatties, I decided to get a crush on some pint sized child named Randy McCoy. He probably came up to my chin. He was in love with a very plain and skinny blonde with no sense of humor. My third life lesson was that being clever doesn’t compete with being thin, blonde and conventionally attractive.  That’s the only way I can explain Gwyneth Paltrow’s career.

Hi, I haven't had a carbohydrate since 1998. Do you like my face?

I’d like to say that it all changed in High School but I was still rocking that baby fat… not as much, though. It wasn’t debilitating or anything.  Honestly, when I look at old pictures, it’s hardly as bad as I thought it was. I looked like Lydia Lunch. I had friends. I had dates.  I did well in school.  People liked me. I had a boyfriend.  My fourth life lesson was that the right kind of people will always love you for who you are.  Friends don’t care about your cellulite — and if they do, they’re not your friends.  Still, I had no idea what it was like to not think about my weight every second of the day… especially when all my friends were stick thin. In their defense, they hated their bodies and constantly complained about not having boobs.  Whatever. I would have traded in my double D rack for their legs any day. I just wanted to wear mini-skirts.  Just one mini-skirt.  Just once.

This was all 80 feminist theory classes, thirteen hair colors,  two countries, seven cities, eight lovers, dozens of adventures and thousands of kisses ago. My identification as being “the fat girl” is ancient history.  I closed that page,  tore the photos out of all the albums and blocked it out years ago.

Until now.

Lately I’ve been revisiting it.  All of these fashion blogs and Etsy pages have me thinking about girls’ unhealthy obsession with weight.  It has me thinking about my old unhealthy obsessions with weight and all the fun I missed out on. The reason I don’t know how to swim is because I was too scared to wear a bathing suit when I was younger.  Seriously, guys.  That’s f*cked up.  Even now that I’m older and wiser, I find it hard to listen to friends casually suggest that skinny is better.  I think smarter is better. I think funny is better.  Man, if I didn’t work so hard at being funny and smart all of the time, maybe I’d have some extra hours to work on being skinny but it just doesn’t interest me.  I don’t care how much better my clothes would hang. I don’t care how many more Etsy sales I’d make. I’d rather make you laugh than make you look.

Besides, my dog uses my less than perfect thighs as a comfy pillow. If I were bonier, I’d hurt his puppy face.

Text Messages From My Mom Part 2

Mustache On The Loose

It’s true. People really do only notice your hair.

Best police sketch ever

Oh, local news. Bless you and your constant comedy relief.  I hope you catch John Stossel or whoever.

Etsy Update

You guys, I went shopping yesterday and found some fantastic stuff for the shop.

The second I put this on, I started posing with records on the shag rug. Ladies, this dress means business. I pass it on to shorter ladies with better legs and shaggier rugs. That’s not supposed to sound dirty.

I adore the collar and matching tie. I don't adore the fact that it's, like, 2" long and you can see my underwear.

This next dress stole my heart with the red and blue color scheme, matching belt and A-line shape.  It kind of  makes me want to eat cheese on boats .  Sadly, the top part is white and I’m a notorious wino that can’t afford a dry cleaner.  I pass it on.  Godspeed, adorable dress!

Totally threw out my back with this pose. Old age is a bitch.

Since Scandinavia has been on the brain,  I absolutely had to have this as well.

Swedes and a puppy.

This, too.

Feeling a bit like a woman child.

I knew I picked a winner with the cutie pie sweater when that mean, coked up, hippie lady at the shop smiled at me for the first time EVER.  This sweater has super powers.

Keeping on the subject of coked-up hippie ladies, Stevie Nicks was playing EVERYWHERE I went to yesterday.  I was worried that she died or something.  Anyway, that’s my excuse for buying feathers(???!!!), some crazy ass fringe/sequined/lace shawl and this shirt.

I call it "I Dream Of Stevie"

For realzzzz

I dunno. I’d keep it but it’s the kind of shirt that looks better on girls with long hair,  a turquoise jewelery collection and a pet dove.  It’s also ivory colored and you know how cheap I am with the dry cleaner and how clutsy I am with my dribble cups full of wine.

Last but certainly not least is this little Valentine for your body.

OH! MEH! GAWD!

I call it the Cupcake shirt. I want to make sweet love to it.  It’s not just me. The lady that sold it to me didn’t want to sell it. It looked like she was going to cry when she saw how cute the buttons were.

Lil' jewel beans for buttons.

And now I can’t believe that I’m selling it. The only thing that makes me feel better about it is the fact that it’s a little big in the waist. Still, I have belts. That’s what belts are for. I even have a belt that would match it perfectly. Oh, man. Like I said in my Etsy listing, buy it before I change my mind.  Pictures do not do it justice. This shirt is like wearing a cupcake your best friend made on a unicorn to Candyland. Fact.

In other news,  I have to wear a glove on my right hand all the time because I’m starting to get chilblains on my fingers.  Yeah, our house is cold enough to do that.  Man, I have got to move back to a warmer climate. Portland is killing me.  I keep getting all these old man problems. Anyway, I’m going to peruse the Internet for cute hand cozies. This cheesy ass opera glove just isn’t cutting it.  I feel like the poor man’s Michael Jackson.  Maybe that’s why he wore the glove.

Like looking in the mirror.

You know, you can get chilblains on your nose, too.

Eww.

Just saying.

Goddamn Whippersnappers!

Man, it’s already been one of those Sundays. I have a head cold and some complete stranger posted the weirdest comment on one of my blogs. It looks like they took a post of mine about people with money waaaaaaaay too seriously — seriously enough to get on my case for talking shit on notorious shit talker, GavinMcInnes.  I know, huh? Next thing you know — goths, Suicide Girls, President Bush enthusiasts, Cynthia McFadden’s dress, Jarvis Cocker’s beard and Kate Perry’s gut will all be leaving me bitchy comments. Lighten up, people. How do you even find me? I’m Nobody McNotyourconcern.

The total stranger wrote:

“One thing: Gavin has pictures of ALL of us. Make a wrong move – BAM! You’re on 50 websites being giggled at by 17 year old girls. You have been warned.”

I don’t know what was funnier? Was it the “Gavin has pictures of ALL of us” part or the “You have been warned” bit? Should I do a poll?  If this was a joke, well played. If this was not a joke, ummmm… what? Rully? You’re talking to me, right? You do know that I’m old and boring?  I’m super boring.  I was born in the early seventies. I follow the news everyday. I walk my dog. I Google health oddities. I listen to NPR constantly.  I probably have arthritis. I think American Apparel makes people look dumpy.  I am of no interest to Gavin or the teenagers that read his “50 websites.”  Unless Gavin is in charge of the department of GIVE ME SOME DAMN MONEY, I’m not particularly interested in him or his picture farm.

Sorry. It’s just how I feel about it.

Text Messages From My Mom.

I think Kate Perry looks like you! I love how she dresses!

I miss you!

Luv u mum

It must be our wine gut.

My mother is so hilarious.  I’m totally going to call her today.

Scandinavia and Me

A friend and I used to joke that they don’t make them ugly in Sweden.

Meet Sebastian. This is what substitute teachers look like over there. Seriously! Photo http://www.flickr.com/photos/snbg/

I’m going to take this crass generalization a bit further. Dude,  they don’t make them ugly in any Scandinavian country. What are they putting in their water supply? Do they drink the joyful tears of unicorns? Do they take relaxing baths in milk and honey? What’s going on over there?  Is it all the free health care and spa treatments? Clearly, I’m  smitten. You Scandinavians really have my number. It’s like you’re reading my mind.

Automne's mind.

Like all obsessions, mine probably started somewhere in Moominville.

Finnish genius. Tove Jansson's beautiful world.

And only got worse after discovering Danish dream girl, Anna Karina.

Karina in Godard's "Alphaville."

Don’t get me wrong. Godard is a brilliant film maker but I’ve watched some of his films just to stare at Anna and her clothes. If there were a movie just about her wardrobe and hair styles, I’d watch it every month.

Une Femme Est Une Femme (1961)

On the set of the film "Pierrot Le Fou" (1965)

Vivre Sa Vie: Film en Douze Tableaux (1962)

My Scandinavian obsession only became worse while living in London.  I went to Art School with A Swedish boy who was working on a piece about feeding birds rainbow colored bird seed just to see if they shit rainbows.

Seriously.

I wanted to ask him if Swedes shit rainbows but we all know that they most definitely do.

I also became quite close with a Finnish artist that I met at a bar. Her name was Raisa. She had funny broken up English, perfect bone structure and a bedroom that looked like a fairy tale.  Of course.

http://raisa-veikkola.co.uk/

The UK could be grey and miserable but her world wasn’t. It only confirmed my suspicions that the grass was just greener where she came from. Actually, there is no grass where she comes from.  Instead of grass, they walk on cupcakes and all the trees are lollipops.

I’m not kidding.

Just another day in RaisaLand.

We just have plain old grass in the States.

A few years ago, Raisa and her adorable Swedish partner in crime, Frida, came to Oakland to put on a puppet show. The fact that those two didn’t get mugged is totally bewildering to me.  Even more bewildering is that they made West Oakland feel like Cupcake Land. Even thugs know not to mess with mythical Scandinavians. Everyone likes sweets.

Raisa and Frida. Just another day in Gunne SaxLand.

Lately I’ve been noticing that my Nordic obsession is getting out of control with Flickr. It’s kind of ridiculous. Every thumbnail I click on ends up being a Scandinavian in Cupcake Land with an amazing blog and an even more amazing wardrobe.

http://flickr.com/people/sandypandycandy/

http://flickr.com/people/ireneadler/

http://flickr.com/people/vitamininmotion/

http://flickr.com/people/piksi_/

http://flickr.com/people/helloalena/

OMG! There are deserts and bows and hearts all over the friggen place.

I can’t quit you, Scandinavia. Even if you do make me feel like the dumpy, fat girl at the party.