Resolution Update #3 (and stuff)

          So, I didn't post on Wednesday like I usually do.  I'm sorry (ish).  I was too busy having a mental breakdown.  I'll post about that later, once it becomes funny.  But to make up for my absence, here's a long-ish post:  

Big day in femme land: I found the perfect little black dress!  Thanks White House Black Market!

Then, still high on the dress victory, I visited Sephora.  I always enter that store hesitant at first and then end up dazzled and disoriented by the very friendly black-smocked Martians with their acrylic talons and glittery eye shadow.  How do they fit so many shades in the space between their lash line and eyebrows?  Sunsets don’t have that many colors. 

But what’s even more impressive than the Martians themselves is their collective power: if you walk into a Sephora not wearing makeup (or just not wearing enough makeup by Martian standards) within just a few minutes you feel like an ugly invader duckling.  That little tiny zit that popped up next to your ear lobe yesterday suddenly triples in size, your split ends reach out, away from your zitty head like angry medusa snakes and your once full lips become sad little gray worms.

Hopefully this intro will explain, at least in part, the events that followed...

I bought something.  It’s really hard to leave that store empty handed.  But this particular something is pretty special.  It’s definitely of questionable taste and may pose a health risk.  Hello lip plumper!  This product was clearly made for masochisty femmes like myself.  I tried it in the store and initially didn’t feel anything.  I started to get impatient and began to wander around.  Then I felt a tingle at my lip line, which quickly became an all-over burn.  I looked in the mirror.  Success!  My lips were fuller and definitely pinker. 

Downside: the discomfort kinda turned me on.  But I’m on day 19 of my New Years Resolution so most things turn me on.  My, that’s a handsome 5 o-clock shadow/backho/ice cream cone you have there.    So, no more lip plumper for me until I break my resolution and re-enter the world of sex.  Haha, enter.

Things that turn me on after 19 days of no O’s (this is not an exhaustive list):

1.     Stretching.  It’s a kind of discomfort and a kind of release but it’s just so terribly not quite satisfying.

2.     Chocolate cake.  (or any cake, or cupcake)  When I see cake in any form it reminds me that I’m not allowed to have it and that in turn reminds me what else I’m not allowed to have.  Then I cry.

3.     Cartoon super heros.  You know, the ones with inverted triangle torsos and grotesquely large jaws.  I’m not into cisdudes (even the cartoon kind) but they look so...mmm… virile!  I bet their little cartoon spermys have identical jaws. 

4.     Pine.  The smell of the forest my pup and I hike in every weekend now reminds me of manly mountain (trans)men.  I’m hoping there’s one in a rainbow loincloth hiding in a treehouse just waiting to scoop me up Tarzan style and save me from my self-imposed suffering.  This would of course involve a bear skin rug and an obscenely large strap-on hidden magically beneath the teeny loincloth (the queer equivalent of Mary Poppins’ carpet bag). 

5.     Pants.  No really.  It’s really hard to wear tight jeans when you haven’t o-ed in  NINETEEN DAYS.  When you sit down there’s that delicious little pressure…right…there.

6.     Vocabulary that wouldn’t normally be dirty like red velvet, oscillate and man hole cover.  Not sure what that last one means… 

7.     Curvy things.  This was the biggest surprise of all since I’m normally into ridiculously masculine beings.  Maybe I’m just into anything that looks butt-plug-ish.  That includes an unidentified root vegetable I saw at a roadside produce stand, a soft boiled egg sitting in an eggcup and, of course, lightbulbs.*   

8.     PAIN.  I knew I was a masochist but geez.  I guess I’m more hard up than I realized.  I stubbed my toe the other day and had a transcendent experience. 

9.     Muscles.  On anyone, anywhere, doing anything.  My brain now sees muscle movement in slow motion like a super sexy deodorant commercial.

10.     Handkerchiefs.  Any and all.  I immediately think of the hanky code.  As in: ooo, that hippie lady working at the produce stand on the side of the road has a malachite handkerchief in her left pocket! What does it mean?  Daddy?  Uniform top?  Into opera singers or jello wrestling or competitive chess?  Wait!  She’s pulling it out!  What’s she going to do with it? 

Oh, right. 

She’s using it to wipe off her pocket knife after chopping up samples of agave sweetened carob balls.   

       Damn.

Goalz.

I was thinking about my long term plans today and I realized that the majority of my goals fall into the category of Arbitrary but Awesome. Here are my top ten from that category: 

1. Strip to Tom Waits’ Little Drop of Poison in red pointe shoes

2. Couples Halloween costume, but with my dog. So wrong. (Since she’s a girl we’d totally look like homos.) We could be Tegan and Sara! 

(I'll be the one reading, my pup will be the one making eyes at you.)

3. Learn morse code so I can embroider smut into the rain in my crafty projects.

4. Knit my dog an ugly Christmas sweater and make her wear it every day of December 2012 and possibly into January. (I’ll wash it.)

5. Salvage an old, broken upright piano and plant things in it. Not cute, British garden plants like peonies or pansies but epic big ass plants like ferns and birds of paradise and crazy climbing vines with giant purple blossoms. It should look like I salvaged the piano from a RAINFOREST.

6. Deconstruct, line and reconstruct these: 

I'll make them into uber manly oven mitts to serve as a not so subtle hint to future lovers that I like a boi who can cook. 

sidenote: If the presence of such mitts (hung prominently over my oven) isn’t enough, here’s step two: Dress like a lovely little June Cleaver but struggle to put on my giant manly mitts, letting them fall off several times and refusing help before finally managing (with apparent difficulty) to keep them on just long enough to retrieve a flavorless charred casserole-like-thing from the oven. (ideally at this point the kitchen smells nothing like food and very much like fire). Then, upon seeing my creation and realizing I’ve failed at my wifely duties, collapse at the kitchen table, across from Lover, dropping my now mascara-tear stained face into my giant leather mittened hands, defeated. (Ideally each glove would be larger than my face) What kind of bastard wouldn’t take up the manly mitts and cook for such a sorry soul? 


...or I could just use my words.

7. Master the lost art of unbuttoning buttons with my toes, then time myself!  hot.

8. Learn to play cello just well enough so that I can sing Lady GaGa songs and accompany myself. I will wear a classic little black dress and pearls but do my hair in a giant crazy updo with a glittery white finger monkey peaking out one side at a jaunty angle, winning the audience over with its big, blinky eyes and teeny dexterous fingers. 

(because feather extensions are so 2011) Of course I'm anti animal cruelty so the glitter would have to be the finger monkeys choice. I would leave an Altoid tin sandbox full of food grade glitter on my vanity and let them decide whether they would like to role around in it. (I hope to find a femme self-identified teenage finger monkey who would be TOTALLY into it and would feel very pretty in their shimmery fur coat.)

9. Sunbathe naked on the rock in front of Bridal Veil Falls. Well, not naked naked, I’d wear my Fancy Lady Sunglasses so nobody would question my behavior. It would be clear that it was indeed MY naked public sunbathing rock. 

10. Win a MacArthur