Kittens-a-Cattin'

It's The Little Things...Like Staying Alive

2009-02-24T12:58:00.003-07:00

I don't think I have ever not cared about how I looked more than I do now. This surgery has sucked every bit of life out of me. I would lay in bed thinking about what outfit I would wear in the morning, physically restrain myself from going into Nordstrom's shoe department, and was continually on the quest for the shiniest lip gloss ever.

What the fuck? I guess I realized that the little things people spend their time worrying about are so trivial compared to the real world.

I spent 2 days vomiting blood, desperately trying to hold my composure while various residents and interns found it necessary to ask me every humiliating question possible while 3 other patients were in the ER room with me. And I was worried about LIP GLOSS?

It's not that I gave up, it's that while I'm not feeling well, I don't want to live up to anyone's expectations. I don't give a fuck if I wear scrubs to Super Target, or no makeup to Walgreens. I don't give a fuck.

When I'm feeling better I will step back into my cork wedges. But I hope I don't lose sight of the truly important things...like staying alive.

Surgical Glue...Things Have Changed.

2009-01-21T21:51:00.001-07:00

Call me old fashioned, but I'm used to big giant staples. My surgeon cut out the giant scar I had and gave me this clean one, minus the staples. Surgical glue? Boy am I out of the surgery loop.

EMTs Aren't Attracted To Skeletons Holding Urine Samples

2009-01-13T11:21:00.006-07:00

When I get sick enough that I find myself too disgusting to look at in the mirror, things have to be bad.
I went to the ER on Sunday night. It was 7pm and I had been vomiting for 24 hours, and could no longer hold down a sip of water. I was deathly afraid that I had an infection from my surgery.

While laying in a bed between a raggedy old broad with a kidney stone and a coughing old man with his 6 family members, I desperately tried to drown out everything, including my fear, with a little Adult Swim on Comedy Central.
I needed to get an X-Ray to see why my body wasn't working, and had to give a urine sample to make sure I wasn't pregnant. Yea........... So I dragged myself to the ER bathroom, holding onto some random nurse I grabbed along the way. After taking 10 minutes to find a drop of pee, I bundle up and get ready for the 45 sec torturous walk back to Bed No. 2.

I swing open the door and a bed was blocking my exit. On the bed was a giant woman sitting halfway up on, listening to a nurse yelling from across the ER. The man pushing the bed sees me and apologizes and moves the bed.

The man turned out to be an EMT. Now I'm not attracted to people because of their professions (ok that's a lie, I prefer artists or other tortured souls), but the two EMTs pushing this woman were good-looking. Very good-looking.

And they scooted by me without a second look (or a first one really). Oh my god. That never happens. On a normal night, I would be dressed in a vintage top, jeans and platform wedges, big earrings and perfect mod hair. Even going to the hospital I prefer to look somewhat nice. But Sunday was bad. They couldn't look at me. My eyes were so black and sunken that it was almost hard to see them, my cheek bones were protruding, my hair was unwashed and somewhat pulled into a pitiful ponytail. And I was holding a urine sample.

I felt disgusting. There were no exchanged glances or sly smiles, only an 'excuse me' as I shuffled away holding a cup of warm urine. But what did I expect?

I feel disgusting. Absolutely fucking disgusting.

Photo by Reuters Pictures.

Sunken Eyes Are The New Black

2009-01-07T16:41:00.001-07:00

Today I felt like a real sick person. I've always thought of it from my perspective, like "I have serious health problems", but today was different.

You always hear about those dogs people bring into hospitals to cheer the patients up. You know what I'm talking about. You've seen the photographs of dogs sitting bedside of a smiling sickly skele-woman in diapers or young adorable cancer patient.

Well, today I was that person. The hospital brought a big fluffy dog into my room and he stood next to my chair. He didn't seem to interested in me, more into the scent of The Gucch on my stuff.

I made small talk with the trainer and we talked about my cats (go figure). I was so happy to pet the dog...it really was the highlight of my day. Things have been rough, and it did something I haven't done in ages: smile.

Afterwards, I thought of the way the trainer looked at me. A gaunt sickly girl with sunken eyes, bruised arms and a pasty white face, petting his dog with a boney shaking hand. I became "a sick girl". Nothing more, nothing less. Just a girl in the hospital that a dog cheered up.

It solidified the fact that I blend into the crowd of emaciated, disgusting, bleeding, oozing, dying, cancerous, bedridden patients. I felt the pity of another person. I didn't like it.

Settlers Aren't Just From The Old West

2008-12-17T21:13:00.008-07:00

I'm going absolutely insane in Omaha. I thought I could handle the lack of fun here. This town is rampant with relationships and settlers. Settlers are the people desperate for that constant reassurance. "I must be pretty." "He/She won't leave me." "I'm special enough for someone to stay with me this long."

"I will never be lonely."

So my nights consist of something a little less fun. All of my friends are gay, so we ALWAYS end up at the 3 gay bars in Omaha, Flix, Chix & The Max. I dress to the nines. Beautiful vintage mod dress, 5" Dior platforms, 1960's Bouffant, my favorite Love Las Muertas jewelry, and of course always Urban Decay lip gloss, gum, and $20. So now I'll set up the scene for you. Now imagine 2 degree weather, 3" of ice on the sidewalk.

I get into my friend Mike's car. We drive to Flix and have a few drinks. After an uneventful night with absolutely no straight hotties in sight, I feel, yet again, like the 5th wheel. Michael is flirting with his boyfriend, Sarah snaps her fingers and a smooth bootie girl appears at her side, and I'm flirting with the idea of a grilled cheese appearing at my side. After an hour of whining to go home, I finally unstrap the heels, slip into a tank, situate The Gucch at the end of my bed, slip on my headphones, and fall asleep to the sound of Air, Nouvelle Vague, or sometimes The Velvet Underground.

It's like Groundhog Day without the hotties. My last days before a long tedious painful surgery are spent curled up in a hoodie, watching movies, and thinking about my art. Fun!

"Unnecessary Voyeurism" Video #3

2008-12-10T12:42:00.000-07:00

This American Life is the highlight of my Sundays. 10 am I listen to my radio with Gucche and a cup of Chamomile Tea. This episode called 'Home Alone' deals with the lives of people who are engulfed with loneliness, and how they deal with it. The story I mention is about a woman who died alone. There was a body to be buried, a house full of stuff to get rid of—but no family or friends to deal with it all. Not a trace of anyone in her life.

I'm horrified at the thought of this happening to me, but I refuse to get married just for the sake of getting married.

Living Without My MacBook Pro! Ahhh!

2008-12-07T18:05:00.006-07:00

I'm so sorry I haven't posted in a while. I swear it's not my fault! I walked in to my computer/office/TV room, and saw Gucche sitting next to my very expensive laptop, only to scream at the sight of my screen covered in grey pixelated squares. I tried all the troubleshooting solutions. Nothing worked, and it no longer booted up. Then I looked at Noguchi (the Gucch) Big Bunny Kitty, and thought of the possibility of him walking across it, breaking the computer....

Although I couldn't get mad at him, my heart dropped at the thought of losing every piece of my life. I took it to the only Genius Bar in NE, and after diagnostics it coule be between $400-$800 to fix. After a WEEK of waiting (their excuse was sooo stupid) I got the news. They were sending Lappy in to be fixed, at no cost to me because it's a problem with the hardware. OMG was I relieved. But it takes 7-12 days to be fixed, so Monday or Tuesday it should arrive.

I'm using my mom's old PowerBook, which means I can't upload my videos. So I decided to write a bit about my life in Omaha, and a story or two. Look for the next post tomorrow.

"Drowning Down Dora Brown" by Rachel Cole

2008-11-15T18:26:00.009-07:00

After reading Rachel Cole's recent short story, Drowning Down Dora Brown, with a cup of chamomile tea and Gucche at my feet, my mind wandered with the flow of her emotive writing, pulling me back into the childhood imagination I sometimes forget existed. Rachel is a good friend, a highly talented writer, and most definitely deserves 3 blog posts dedicated to her most recent short story. I decided to split the story into 3 parts, so come back or subscribe to this blog so you don't miss a word!

Drowning Down Dora Brown

Reader read my lips: plum-gray rain falls and does not stop. Drawing lopsided hearts, over and over, is how to patiently acquire rage that paper doesn’t pound. I am Red Riding Hood. Pupils loaded, mouth meat-coated. See my tracks like cigarettes burn the splattered ground.

I’ve been sentenced to death by hanging or electric chair. It will be a coin toss five minutes before. I won’t even get to call heads or tails. The warden, a pale, asexual thing with a small mouth says I might try to manipulate the outcome. I’m not sure which I’d choose: my torso tossed as if a rag doll on a string or my brains toasted to sweetmeat.
Until I’m executed I must reside in a white-marble palace, not to ensure my last days pass pleasurably, but because according to cutting-edge research, a condemned murderer needs to get her anger out.

An angry heart is particularly muscular though not biologically superior, beating in 4/4 musical time instead of the anatomically correct measure of a waltz, thus emitting electromagnetic waves like those channeled by an alarm clock. The crimson bouquet surges with infrared fury at the moment of death and fucks with television signals. No one likes to think, There goes that guy who stabbed that other guy, while watching the evening news.
To pacify those final fearful ticks, a dead-woman-walking must be given fancy lodgings where she will perform murderous activities slowly expunging the culprit heart of it’s enraged thumping. State nurses announce when the aorta begins to atrophy and execution is scheduled for the next day.
My memory tilts here, unable to form a mental map of the prison I swim my index finger along the glittering streaks in the walls to find a fridge, the bathroom, the bed I slept in last night or one that is untouched.

Like talking to the friend of a friend who recounts her most private hurts on first acquaintance: an anorexic mother, the long-distance relationship that failed, a nose job to shave off an unsightly knob, I’m waiting for a turn to tell my side of the story.

It wasn’t a tea party or voodoo. We never dressed for funerals. Hot-blooded and old-fashioned, my Family wanted things shredded and absorbent. That’s why we threw old bodies to the steady clock of fins. The dumpster, your soup bowl, a pool of ink, the sink. You can find a shark anywhere. No one ever asked why: we needed to eyeball and pet the remains. The nauseous observation of leaky planets wobbling in a lava lap. Reincarnations of beefsteak and ham slices for dinner. How far to Dallas? St. Louis? Chicago? My bones still shudder from those brassy, cold webs drizzling between the antennae of our car and a tightrope of highway.

Evidence I Buried in the Forest: Exhibit A, Bread or Broken Cake

Several partially consumed wheat rolls smeared with pink frosting and laced with cherry-flavored cough syrup. Memorial supper for children of gangster families. Brightly-colored candles decorate the top. With tiny booms the tongue glides and shudders. Spit-damp, slender, and yellowed. Siphon sugar from the fire. Chew carefully for hidden nickels.

I am going to my Grandmother’s house.

How to get to your Grandmother’s house: Fiddle bedrooms at night for homemade maps and elderly palms. Wear fur, cover your head, bury your books, and don’t look at clocks. I always played the eyes, a messenger with big green Venus flytraps buzzing from my skull. Daddy called me, Lady Face. The happiest I’ve ever been was when we performed the face trading game. I became my dewy sister, a symmetrical nosegay, or my Gladiator brother, an iron action figure. I put on my father’s motorcycle-blown visage and ran around grunting. Frequencies of split-second personal histories bloomed from a lodestone then rotted into bubbles of rosy pulp. Dora Brown committed suicide by jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge, I saw it. A statuette clinging gracefully to the bright crimson streak of metal. When her banana-split mask, damaged and exaggerated by impact washed on shore an hour later, I wore it for two weeks trying to see as she saw and hear as she heard.

Plum-gray rain falls and does not stop. I haven’t rested my eyes on that kind of water in years, there aren’t any windows. But no matter which corners of my palace I prowl, I hear the sound of plum-gray particulae bouncing. Visitors come cold and drenched, smelling like current jelly. My palace is a rat trap. Hallways wind around, stairways lead back to where they started. I am required to wear a red hoodie and skirt so my figure is easily distinguishable on security cameras. There are a few cases of murderers who learned how to camouflage with the furniture and escaped by blending in with a musty couch donated to Good Will. Never met a guard and haven’t seen the warden since I was admitted. I smile politely at the people visit, hoping I won’t have to beg. Maybe a former lover will lean forward and with what appears a nostalgic embrace, is really the whispered secret of how to escape. Neither reprieve, nor compassion. Not even from my mother as a birthday present.

I coolly mention to her while licking frosting so glossy my temples throb, that I would like a death cake too, that is if she can’t bust me out of here.
“Where would we hide you?” she shrugs, “You better behave yourself and keep your trap shut.”

A caravan of gypsy-vardos will be necessary to transport my scraps plump-on-theoretical-last-words out of the execution chamber to a soggy cemetery. Dora Brown taught me how to sketch a family portrait in summer hot tar before we left town. Homunculae wringing bulbous hands, motionless and exasperated. A ruby blush of shadow inside a cabinet is where I hid until my mother found me scribbling on the walls, three pencils arranged to poke between the spaces at my knuckles like long fingernails, trying to understand urgency. Concavities were sticky in our rickety wagon with my father’s folk music, sweet rolls that smelled like plastic, a wad of tens in the potato chips, open-mouthed breathing five inches away from my closed-mouthed-through-nostrils version. We dropped our charms (bubble gum children in assorted colors) and abandoned gravesites (chicken legs, a few tire tracks). The first sensations of pain are pure color, shock that the interior of the body isn’t really opaque. This thought fattens until a needle-thin cut weighs forty pounds. Skeleton dizzy with the groan of a typewriter, how to carry the rest away?

Evidence I Buried in the Forest: Exhibit B, Testimony of the Body of the Deceased
“There are four, clearly visible lacerations across my chest, which were probably the cause of death. As you can tell, the xygomatic structure was once inhabited by a small pack of wolves which evacuated the ravaged bone, leaving pale skid marks and further prove that the blade had time to stop before colliding with my person.

“I blame my untimely death on the bad weather we’ve been having. The unfortunate combination of heat and moisture make it necessary for one to carry a sharp object for seeing with. The day of the murder, I saw my breakfast, health insurance agent, and a flat tire with a six-inch steak knife.
“My final think-spasm was, ‘I am open-mouthed at the bottom of a chasm, hungry for a whole house stuffed with candied-bullets and stray cats.’”

Plum-gray rain falls and does not stop. A team of computer technicians check my vitals once a week. Did I call them nurses before? I meant computer techs dressed like nurses. Regular visitation of a lonely criminal requires an interest in malfunction and not animal preservation.
Anyway, one of them, an intern, is quite attractive. There was a time in my life when I believed that I could seduce my way out of any situation. But nobody ever makes eye contact with me. Every week we play the same game. I smile while two nurses listen to my ever-robust sugar beat, one pressing a stethoscope to the left of my chest, and the other to my back, while the intern takes notes. I twitch my eyebrows slightly at him, an act of precision honed during many years of successful coquetry, but no one responds. It’s moments like this that I wish I had a twin to talk to.

“Here I am,” I say. “Anybody else thirsty? The cupboards are full.”
Sometimes I talk about what I’ve done since they’ve last seen me, or what I would have been doing if I wasn’t trapped.
“Went sky diving last weekend. Landed in the Sierra Nevada and was almost eaten by an armadillo-cat monster.”

Years pass. I know because the intern isn’t an intern anymore. One of the old techs stops coming and the intern gets his job. He has a ring on his left hand now. My pulse: a barracuda thrashing on meat hooks. Closing your eyes ignites hurricanes of dirt and tinsel. Family is a game of wooden dolls with human organs squirming inside. I’m beginning to wonder if my blood will ever weaken or if they’ll notice when it does. I get so nervous every time I put on a paper gown, they’ll nod and that’s that –that my heart pounds.

Death, according to Dora Brown, is continuously swimming circles inside the Internet. Pinpricks of teeth tug at your skin but you’re careless and deaf. Humans have not replicated consciousness with the invention of the computer, but have unknowingly replicated death, a vacuum of stimulated sensation, odorless and stagnant. Curving skeems of cartilage ripple beneath the screen and we reach for them with an arrow, fishing for the breaking point, where a nose rubs the surface, a maroon tear in the glass, practicing what it’s like to not be alive.

In the amorous arts, I have been known to make quite an exit. I told one guy that I had cancer of the ears and it was contagious-via-oral-communication, he shouldn’t even be listening to me dump him, it was best if he left right away. I convinced another guy that I was really a ghost, which had the unintended consequence of creating an obsessive infatuation that lasted months, during which foreplay consisted of banter using an ouiji-board. When my own chest-of-bricks-and-blood was finally broken, I slept. Cocooned in bed, chewing plugs of toast and butter, flexing my throat around coffee and pills. When all the food and medicine disappeared, I suckled a piece of charcoal until it fuzzed and waking life froze into sound gently echoing through the catacombs of a radio.

Reader, I confess the last person I kissed before going to prison was neither my Grandmother nor my boyfriend. I wander the empty halls, remembering with every bone in my skull the slip and knot of lips. A fist puckers around the pen. What would other famous killers do in my situation? Masturbate toward the camera. Smear the walls with shit. Carve obscenities in my skin. Perform typical criminal kitsch. Then what?

Sometimes I kick the furniture pretending it’s the neighbor who kicked his dogs. Sometimes I get genuinely pissed-off. One night I find a bedroom identical to the apartment where my Family lived years ago on the worst block of town. Everything languorous in its place, even the sketchpads I’d kept. I tear the room apart: throw coffee cups, rip the fan from the ceiling, punch the walls. I grit my teeth and let go of precision, whip the room into a snow globe of ragged quilts, gnarled furniture, and crumbs of paper.

A few days later, I discover a balcony on the top floor, the only opening in the entire palace. I can’t quite remember what the moon is for, so I spend the night throwing objects at it: bedding, plates, books, a Christmas tree, tampons, the house plants, the washing machine, a globe.
“I am kicking myself out!” I shout. “I can’t come home like a lost dog to me anymore!” Then I spit for good measure.

When my aim and pitching velocity improves I will crack the melting orb in two so gallons of batter fall to the earth and when the sun rises everyone else will be baked into marble cake which will skim the edge of my balcony. I’ll step over the railing and tunnel to my kaleidoscope of jagged things where I’ll live in a cake tomb, burning black candles and waiting for some cosmological pendulum to spoon my body out and shoot it frosted across the chain-link fence of sky.

**All images are by Allison Brady. She is a phenomenal artist, and her beautiful photographs seem to compliment Rachel's story perfectly!

"Unnecessary Voyeurism" Video Diary #1

2008-11-06T13:09:00.002-07:00

"Unnecessary Voyeurism" is a breakdown of what we understand as truly being alive, and what we take for granted. It all becomes so trivial when faced with the idea of everything we know changing in a unimaginable way. The idea of being faced with devastating pain, heart-wrenching feelings of desperation, and slowly learning to put everything back together again with a smile on your face seems inconceivable. But in "Unnecessary Voyeurism", the indescribable becomes described, the unspoken speaks up, and idea of surgery becomes more than just a word.

This documentary is voyeuristic to say the least. I'm letting the viewer witness every part of my life. This will include the humorous, the humiliating, and the incredibly personal parts, during the beginning, middle and end of my extensive surgery for chronic pain, all caught on a collection of different formats.
"Unnecessary Voyeurism" includes personal diaries, videos, 8mm film, hand written notes & blog entries, photographs and Polaroids, all of which will be put together as a show.

Cleveland Clinic: Best Hospital In The US & Expensive As Fuck.

2008-10-29T14:54:00.012-06:00

My doctor's appointment in Cleveland was interesting. I stayed at the InterContinental Hotel, a $300 mistake. There were only about 5 restaurants within walking distance, and 4 of them were $15-$30 a plate. (More about my walk around Cleveland below).

During my appointment, I was required to go through my medical history with the nurse, surgery by surgery, diagnosis by diagnosis, test by test, so that she could enter it into the computer. It took 2 hours. Since it's a teaching hospital, 4 residents listened in awe to my extensive history, just salivating at the chance to study my case and discuss it over coffee.

Soon the surgeon forced his way through the looky-loos burning holes into my fabulous vintage outfit (cashmere sweater, 60's tan boots, 50's pearl necklace). "Why do you want to have surgery?" he said as he leaned back in his chair. "Are you kidding?", I ask. "No. Why do you want to have this surgery?" he asked again. "Because I hate my life" I quipped. "Well what about your life do you hate?" he asked, trying to get to the point. "I'm not going to talk about my personal problems with them in the room," as I motioned towards the staring gallery.

They filed out the door, and I replied, "Every part of my life is painful. I cannot live another 60 years in chronic pain. I cannot work 8-12 hour days when I desperately want to go home and lay down. I cannot avoid dating because it would create future, and most likely heart-breaking, problems for me. I have given up on life. I no longer have creative juices to fuel my art, which is my existence. I no longer want to leave my house. It's too much work."

"OK. Let's go over your history". Without blinking, he took my entire 4 page spreadsheet in and asked a few questions. He understood. He understood without any explanations about my 27 years of health problems. Suddenly it was done. All done. I was elated that our exam was over and my search for the perfect surgeon had been fulfilled. He was incredibly busy and tried to answer my questions without going into long speeches. When he left, I tried to shake his hand but he was already onto the next patient.

And that didn't even bother me. He was to the point. He was blunt and honest. There was no bullshit, just answers to my questions. And that's what I want in a surgeon. Someone with extensive skills, enough empathy to take care of me the proper way, and someone that conducts himself in the most humble way possible (he's a 70% humble, 30% cocky ratio). I also expect him to have impeccable attention to detail in understanding of my history, my feelings, and the surgery.

I made an appointment for Dec. 30th, his next available. Suddenly a warm feeling of happiness rumbled through my body and I wanted to cry. This was the first time I've felt this emotion in many many years.

A life without pain. A life where surgeons no longer dictate what I can, and cannot do. A life where people's mistakes do not hold me back from the feeling that I can DO WHATEVER THE FUCK I WANT.

December 30th will be the day I'll remember for the rest of my life.
At least I hope it will be. There are no guarantees with surgery and I cannot have unrealistic expectations that my life will do a 180.

My Cleveland Clinic experience cont'd: I wandered around the Fairfax area and ended up at MOCA, a delightful surprise. This was absolutely the best part of my visit. It was small but beautiful. They were showing Jorge Pardo's instillation which MOCA describes as, "Arranged according to use and function, and displayed within the context of various rooms of a house, the instillations, sculptures, and paintings in Jorge Pardo: House highlight the artist's ability to consistently traverse the boundaries between art, design and architecture".
I am coming to Cleveland a day early before my surgery for pre-op appts, and I'll be making my way to the Coventry area. It's the lowbrow indie part of Cleveland, a place I would never expect in a town that is bombarded by doctors and residents, and Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame visitors.

*Photo #1 is of a a note scribbled on a napkin in a weird 'Praying Room' at the hotel. There were stacks and stacks of bibles next to the oils.
*Photo #2 is of the clinic building my exam was in.

We're All In It Together Now.

2008-10-25T02:22:00.005-06:00

I've given up. I'm sitting in Papillion, NE doing absolutely nothing with my life. I read, watch movies, daydream about art, sort through my belongings to put in storage, dream about art, pet my cats, and sit in the backyard and do sudoku.

Then I remember that people are losing their houses, their jobs, their life savings, their retirement funds and many are ending up working jobs at 1/10 of their skill level for 1/250th of their original pay while I'm watching weird indie comedies.

Then I remember that the reason I'm here, being bored and complaining, is because I'm about to undergo my 50th surgery, which not only will take several excruciating months of recovery, but doesn't even touch the tip of the iceberg when it comes to fixing my health problems.

Then I think about the people who are in much worse shape that me, have a tremendous amount of health problems, and might not have anybody to help them. And some have no way to pay for their bills and end up living on disability for pennies a day, being shoved in a state-run facility, or worse yet, living on the streets.

But then I remember that pain is pain, and nobody deserves to deal with it no matter what their situation is. Having a bed to sleep in at night doesn't mean my surgery will be any less grueling and having parents to help me certainly doesn't mean I'm not going to be drowning in medical bills the rest of my life.

I guess we're all in it together....thank god for Nov. 4th.

The Token Funny Quirky Single Friend

2008-10-21T20:45:00.000-06:00

See who's in the background? Yep that's Rhoda. The quirky, single, funny best friend.

And who's Doogie's right-hand man? VINNIE!

Why am I naming off these famous TV sidekicks? Because I've come to the conclusion that I'm the token kooky, funny, single best friend. I've always been the funny 3rd wheel, usually cracking jokes while I go through men like tissues, occasionally self-deprecating, and always the girl with all the bad luck.

Mini Story: While a Home Depot associate was helping me find spider killer, he asked me if I had a boyfriend to kill them for me. No...I don't.... "Well I always kill them for my wife". Well I have cats, and they're scared of the spiders as well. "You need to find yourself a boyfriend to kill them for you." OUCH.

That's when I came to the realization that I'm the quirky BFF. My friends have always had boyfriends, or at least seem to "invite this new guy" at the last minute when we go out, so I end up being the funny single friend trying to make myself look less single. And always ending up in the hospital is such a drag on having fun. Apparently diseases are a real mood killer!

Honestly, I'm not embarrassed of being quirky and single, it's just the stigma that comes along with being quirky and single. Is it so terrible that I'm SINGLE AND FABULOUS? Didn't Sex In The City just teach us that being single IS fabulous?

But don't feel too sorry for me, I've definitely had my fair share of sidekicks, although my sidekicks still dragged THEIR sidekicks along for the ride (random fuck of the week, bf/gf, stalker, the new desperate friend, etc.).

I also consider myself to be a Eddie Haskell to your Wallie Cleaver (I can be a sneaky girl-crazy asshole), and a Dan Fielding to your Night Court (It's not easy being sleazy), Jeff Green to your Larry David (I have really bad luck), and of course Joan on Mad Men (so many reasons I can't even begin to list).

Life! Come Back! Don't Leave Me, I Swear I'll Be Good This Time!

2008-10-20T00:09:00.009-06:00

I woke up on my 27th birthday, made my typical breakfast (French Vanilla coffee, Luna bar & banana), worked a 12hr day, ordered a dress off the internet, and off to bed I went. Then it suddenly hit me:

WHERE HAVE THE LAST FEW YEARS GONE?

I just kinda gave up, I've been on autopilot. I honestly don't remember anything significant happening in years, and I realized that I'm no longer enjoying life. What happened? Everything happened I guess...

So I jumped out of bed and decided to change my entire life. I planned out a surgery to (hopefully) put an end to my chronic pain, worked for a few months to save up money, sold 3/4 of my amazing vintage furniture & clothing, and waited for the 'go ahead' from my parents to move into their house.

Finally the opportunity arose, and one weekend I quit my job, packed up my shit, and moved to Omaha. And although the circumstances are shitty, this is the best thing that's ever happened to me. I brushed that bullshit right off my shoulders, left everything in the past, and am on the way to starting a BRAND SPANKIN' NEW FRESH & CLEAN LIFE!

A pain-free existence, new job, new city, new outlook...I absolutely REFUSE to miss one more day of life.

PLANS:
~~1. Sell everything.~~
~~2. Leave Denver.~~
~~3. Plan surgery.~~
4. Have Surgery.
5. Recuperate.
6. Move in 3 months.
7. Enjoy every minute of my new warm, beachy, sunny life.

*The photograph was taken during my 12hr drive from Denver when I stopped to set flowers on my grandpa's grave. It was 1am, and my shining my headlights on the gravestones was the only way I could find his name.

Diseases Always Get In The Way Of A Good Time

2008-10-17T13:24:00.001-06:00

I moved from Denver to Omaha 12 days ago and I'm already drifting off into a suburban stupor, worrying about sorting the recycling instead of 6" heels, Swiffering blinds instead of drinking cocktails, and yardwork instead of art galleries.

So why would I make such a bold move? Because unfortunately I'll be having my 51st surgery, and recouping will take a few months, which means I'm moving back in with my parents so they can take care of me. Yea thanks disease, not only are you painful, frustrating and never-ending, but you are also an incredible financial burden, strain on my relationships, and problems always seem to arise at the worst possible times.

So you're coming along for the ride. I'll be documenting my entire health debacle with photography, films, blogging, and even describing every account of my trials and excrutiating tribulations during my longtime hospital friend, the I.V. He has always been there for me, following me through some of the toughest times of my life, becoming an ally against pain and infection for decades of hospital stays. And that motherfucker gives me the morphine I need to recite beautiful poetry and create enough fodder for another 10 art shows.

A Vessel For Babies-Use Your Own Uterus

2008-09-28T09:41:00.006-06:00

I've always known I don't want kids. I've also never once thought about a wedding, dreamed of the perfect husband, a white picket fence...my dreams include owning a successful business in NY, living in a beautiful loft overlooking the city. Never once has a man or baby entered these dreams.

And I've always felt bad about it. Whenever I would tell someone I don't want to get married, I get this distorted face, and an immediate "Why? I've never heard of that before! Is something wrong with you? You'll change your mind when you get older." No...nothing is wrong with me. I'm just not interested in it. And after such a simple answer to their belittling remarks, I answer that I AM older, and I'm still not interested.

At a Cereal Bar in Denver, I was enjoying a cupcake & coffee, and a stray child started inching towards me. So Inchy ended up 2 inches from my knees and I looked around desperately for the parents, who after 1 entire awkward minute, finally dragged the kid away with a "She likes you!" (Um hello...watch your kid. There was an open door next to me leading to a main street.) Again, Inchy walked towards me like a drooling, mouth breathing Frankenstein. Again I became extremely uncomfortable. I don't know what to do, I've never touched one or talked to one, and I don't see anything wrong with that.

The mom again grabbed the kid 1 minute later, and with a disgusted look said, "Are you scared of kids?" "Um no....I mean....Well, yes." A clearly disgusted woman remarked (a little too loud), "Ugh! Oh my god! WOW!!!!!", and spend the next 10 minutes grabbing her kid before she could make her way to me while simultaneously giving me dirty looks only reserved for boytoys I never called back because "It's me, not you".

I don't see the problem with this. Actually, it's the woman's problem for not watching her kid. Do not let your kid walk away for 1 minute at such a young age! WATCH YOUR KID.

I'm not interested in children. I'm not interested in marriage. I do date, and I will live with a partner eventually, but I don't believe every woman with a uterus needs to have kids (or even like them). And now that I'm older, I decided I no longer feel bad about my feelings.

Like an old BFF used to say to me, "Some people like cats, and some people like kids. And I like cats." Well said.

Designer Death: The Design-Savvy Afterlife

2008-09-22T23:11:00.005-06:00

An entire blog post about Death? Call it morbid, but I call it Designer Death. By 18 I had a Last Will & Testament that outlined every detail of my funeral arrangements. Although some of my ideas have changed since then, I still want the basics: Hello Kitty coffin, carved pink granite headstone, extravagant funeral at the creepiest, oldest, and most beautiful church available. Oh, and Stoli + Cran served during the Funeral Procession. And probably some gift bags to take home.

So I'm here to nudge you in the right direction when it comes to making out your final arrangements. It doesn't matter what your age is, but accidents take more young people's lives than anything else. So take a night, figure out what you want, costs, burial grounds, etc., and put it somewhere safe. It will give you piece of mind, and your family can be assured that they will acting out your final wishes.
PS And wear your damn seatbelt.

Memento Coffee Table Coffin

After seeing this coffin designed by Pratt Institute student Charles Constantine, I've decided on my new coffin choice. Constantine's Memento Coffee Table Coffin doubles as a stylish coffee table. Opening up the coffin reveals a storage space for books, games and magazines, and eventually a place to store the body, to which the designer says "mimics the human skeleton". The eco-friendly pine wood Memento Coffee Table Coffin has biodegradable slats that are made without the use of harmful chemicals.

Constantine designed the Memento Coffin so that a family could come to terms with the idea of someone close to them dying. As the Memento Table becomes a part of their everyday life, death becomes a part of their everyday life. When the table transforms into the coffin, the sentimental attachment to the table keeps the family close to the deceased family member, burying their love for both the person and the piece of furniture they've grown to love.

Constantine describes his design as a way “to promote a more personal way of dealing with death, and help us, as a culture, confront an issue that is universally denied.”

Egg Casket

Crazy Caskets has created, well, crazy caskets. This egg casket was created for a woman who wanted to be buried in the fetal position. The beautiful detail on this casket, plus the idea of leaving life in an egg, which symbolizes birth, is just so organic and shit.

Kitty Cat Urn

Eternal Image created the Cat Fancier Urn, which is supposed to be for your furry feline friend, but if I shall pass before Gucche (my little buddy) he would probably prefer this urn on his mantel. Oh and they are coming out with a Precious Moments casket...ironic in so many ways.

Last Supper Casket

Tribute Direct has created some of the most beautiful caskets for the religious kitsch lover in all of us! They also have a beautiful Lady of Guadalupe that is absolutely stunning.

Fester Coffin End Tables
Casket Furniture makes beautiful handcrafted coffin-inspired furniture. Don't wait till your afterlife to enjoy your Designer Death! "The Fester" Coffin End Tables pictured above start at $299).

And just an fyi, for all you frugal shoppers, you can pick up a Guadalupe coffin at Costco for $1299.

What DJ Sara Tea Wants You To Know About Hipsters, DJs & Keepin' It Real

2008-09-07T20:46:00.000-06:00

Taste This Delicious Cup 'O (Sara) Tea!

I spoke to well-known DJ, promoter and music extraordinaire Sara Tea about her overnight move to LA from Denver, breaking the glass ceiling of the male-dominated club scene, her new grassroots clothing line, and a little advice for future networking prodigies. I have always enjoyed a night out with Sara and her over-sized vintage tees, gold shorts and hot pink pumps (oh and don't forget those fantastic legs!). She packs a punch when it comes to getting what she wants, and won't let anything stop her!

Sara T is also an artist. Yep, add this to her über cool girl résumé. Her art reminds me of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat meets that little sketchbook you see geeky artists doodling in at some obscure kitschy coffee shop in Echo Park.

So I emailed S.T. a few questions in order to learn about all the new things she throws herself into. To learn more about this hot cup of yummy Sara Tea (with milk and honey please), visit her websites at the bottom of the post.

So you jumped on a plane and moved from Denver to LA, throwing yourself into the mix of LA's art/DJ/hipster/indie scene. It amazes me that you took such a chance! What made you do that?
Well it was more of a grassroots process of picking my my roots and replanting. I kept visiting and feeling that LA was the next place for me...the environment, the way people embraced me and treated me but also how I personally feel here. It came down to a simple feeling of that I was happier in LA. It was definitely a leap, a complete upheaval, but I felt like I kept getting signs to head West and I needed to follow that. I wouldn't necessarily say I threw myself into the midst of the scene here, I actually feel like I came to LA to get away from a scene and settle into a longterm community built upon music & developing creativity.

It spoke to me personally...ie I'm not sayin' it's for everyone. You usually know it when you visit a city if it embraces you or not. When I came here I wanted more of a personal, quiet life of heading to the movies, eating at great vegan places and connecting with new friends. I've been lucky to connect with friends were born and raised here and/or those who are looking for something deeper/more than the usual LA fare. It's my 10th state and I'm happy to be exploring it.

I've seen you network before...you are fantastic at it. How do you meet and stay in contact with so many people? And how do you make those connections work for you?
Thank you! Well, I meet people by following my heart. I maintain connections by flexing my heart muscle. I don't think about making something work for me because I care about who I'm friends with and I only work with people nowadays who I believe in and care about. It didn't used to be that way, but I learned as I went and use a stronger filter now with who I can trust...and spend my time with. It's almost so simplistic one might think it doesn't work. But I guarantee it to be way more effective than hundreds of marketing dollars in the wrong direction: build relationships.

So what are you up to right now? I know you throw a lot of parties and DJ clubs, but you have anything else up your sleeve?
Right now I'm in the midst of launching my online store...it's an evolution from Chielle (the store I had in Denver) to a more personal voice of mine. I'm starting to create my own line of accessories/tshirts on the fly and this store will be host to personal random projects from painting/printmaking while showcasing my friends and talent I find from all over the world. I'm in the midst of putting together a new band which is my inspiration for all of these things right now...kind of the fuel that is keeping me excited.

There is a huge glass ceiling when it comes to female DJs. How did you break through, or do you still feel like you're not as successful as your male counterparts?
This is an interesting question. I was thinking about this last week about how I never viewed djing as the ladder that I continued to climb. There wasn't this peak goal of where I wanted to be...I followed it & became excited as it unfolded seeing where it took me. There wasn't this top tier that I had my sites set on. I found that the lifestyle of most traveling djs to be rather lonely, especially in clubland, and while I love connecting with people I didn't want to be where I saw these ladies (or men) at. There is no comfy couch at the top of the DJ ladder...you are always hustling. That just does not interest me. Nowadays in LA I work with promoters who appreciate what I do while djing to an audience that cares...I couldn't ask for anything more than that.

Any fabulous bands you want to tell everyone about? Who is on your top 5?
Right now I CANNOT stop listening to the song "Planet Health" from Chairlift from Brooklyn. Dam Funk 12"s are constantly spinning on my turntable, an LA funkmeister. I absolutely LOVE Earthless from San Diego. I just discovered Bugati Force's remixes from Berlin + Hercules & the Love Affair have been on repeat for awhile now.

Lastly, what advice would you give aspiring DJs or promoters?
Build community. Don't walk around the club looking for someone who can "help" you...it was probably the doorguy you treated like shit and they TALK. Don't drop people after you get an ounce of attention (but if you're phony and shallow like that do whatever you want and I guarantee in 5 years no one will work with you, much less care).

Be sincere. Communicate with those who support you...don't go for NUMBERS, go for those who care. If a "niche" doesn't exist for what you do...create it. Try different mediums...don't just identify as being a "promoter" or "dj"...have an identity (AND LIFE) outside of club life. Make time for long meals with good friends. Don't get too wrapped up in the gossip. Remove shady people from your crew or and walk hard.

Find out more about Miss Tea:
Sara's Myspace Profile
Danceotron
Sara Tea's Blog

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Randi Kittens Does The Zombie

2008-08-28T13:52:00.000-06:00

The long awaited arrival of my Randi Kittens video from Burlesque As It Was' 10th Anniversary Show! I wish you could see my legs, you miss out on my Watusi/Thriller dance move. And you also miss out on the giant sparkley 'Randi Kittens' gracing my pelvic area, although you can get a glimpse of my bow tie pasties on my Russ Meyer shake (yes, there is a dance move named after him).