So strange what companies make in other countries- Bic Lighters, Bic Pens- Bic Stockings?
Oh yeah. Fishnets.
Have always loved them. Since I was first cruelly aroused/confused by the divine deviant Tim Curry as Dr. Frank-N-Furter.
I took to wearing them as an adult- pairing them with knee high boots (which are now as common as tattoos and bad piercings). I never felt naughty in them, just liked them better than plain sheers or lame laces stockings. Loved them. Love them.
One woman approached me a couple years ago, a nice woman, one I rather liked and admired. She dropped one of those comments where you're not certain if you should be offended or not- I'll let you decide. It takes a lot to offend me.
Wearing a black wrap dress that graced a mere inch above my knee + black three inch heeled boots that kissed the top of my shin = a mere six to seven inches of netted flesh was visible, practically prudent Victorian like skin exposure.
Eyeing my knees, she said, "You know who originally wore fishnets stockings?"
"Liza Minelli?"
"French whores."
"Oh."
"Fishnets are the equivalent of a red light."
"So I guess I should carry condoms and small bills with me."
She walked away a little miffed. I walked away a little surprised at my response (my tongue sometimes speaks without consulting all things prim and proper. Okay- it often skips good manner protocols. Very often.)
Later that day, since I hadn't disposed of my beloved hooker apparel, she decided to divulge another lovely fact- one that didn't apply to me.
"Did you know that boys were forced to wear their jeans baggy and low in prison to show they were someone's bitch?"
Giggling because this kind woman was giving me prison rape data, I gave her a little home remedy, humorous history, "Did you know French women used to use half a lemon as a diaphram?"
"What?"
"Maybe that's why French men's faces are so puckered."
Using my sleazy covered legs, I walked away, proud I didn't crack the joke that was brewing about fishnets smelling like fish after the hooker's snatchery hatchery was emptied. See, sometimes I can bite my tongue.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Sunday, March 14, 2010
For the Love of Zeuss
Local monastery.
Olives, citrus and wine.
Actual Orthodox Christian monks live, work and worship here.
To enter you must be modest- your legs covered (no shorts), no cleavage or bare shoulders. And sorry, no photography of the building innards.
The door alone is stunning.
It's very quiet. Solemn.
Beautiful.
After being awed by carved stone, I returned to the car where this was parked next to me....
Please note the "Dragon Man" slithering over her shoulder.
I'm not sure but I think it's the myth Wearacondom Reptillius as to not Salmonella-ize the Virgin.
The birds are a nice touch.
Nice rack.
I'm not sure but I think it's the myth Wearacondom Reptillius as to not Salmonella-ize the Virgin.
The birds are a nice touch.
Nice rack.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Anti-Insertion of the Girl Gash Kind
WARNING: If you are male and inwardly shudder when thinking of all things menstrual or if you are easily offended then skip this entry regarding vaginal vulgarity.
All right.
Not a subject I’ve ever really liked talking about but this I found amusing.
Greek women are not encouraged to put anything into their snatch. Hence the supposed vast population of “virgin” girls who only have anal sex so they can be worthy of a white dress while walking awkwardly down the aisle.
So, when I had the female matter to deal with I went to the store. What did I find? The very environmental, cardboard/plastic tube inserter free so you have to use your finger, DIY OB brand. Please note the photo: a wall of pads but only SIX boxes of cotton on a leash. A trip to other markets and pharmacies fared no better.
Panic began to set in.
Praying to the cotton gods, I drove like a menstrual maniac to the 711 sized store on the Navy Base.
That shelf held two boxes of tampons. Scented tampons.
Who the hell wants perfume up there? Isn’t it sensitive enough without faux flower chemicals?
A debate began: OB vs No-one-better-ask-what-new-scent-I’m-wearing-thinking-they-can-sniff-my-wrist-to-get-a-better-whiff.
Back at the abode, cotton devices in hand, the laptop was booting up while I attended my girl bits. A few moments online I discovered I can purchase what I need and have it shipped. Ovary crisis averted for next time, I entered my bedroom and doused myself in designer perfume hoping it would not clash with the floral eau-de-twat-lette.
I believe that if men menstruated most would run to the emergency room every month, “Oh no! My abdomen is killing me! I'm bleeding! I’m gonna die!” Wussies. A nurse would hand them some cotton and say, “Either shove it in your underwear or your dick. You’ll live.”
All right.
Not a subject I’ve ever really liked talking about but this I found amusing.
Greek women are not encouraged to put anything into their snatch. Hence the supposed vast population of “virgin” girls who only have anal sex so they can be worthy of a white dress while walking awkwardly down the aisle.
So, when I had the female matter to deal with I went to the store. What did I find? The very environmental, cardboard/plastic tube inserter free so you have to use your finger, DIY OB brand. Please note the photo: a wall of pads but only SIX boxes of cotton on a leash. A trip to other markets and pharmacies fared no better.
Panic began to set in.
Praying to the cotton gods, I drove like a menstrual maniac to the 711 sized store on the Navy Base.
That shelf held two boxes of tampons. Scented tampons.
Who the hell wants perfume up there? Isn’t it sensitive enough without faux flower chemicals?
A debate began: OB vs No-one-better-ask-what-new-scent-I’m-wearing-thinking-they-can-sniff-my-wrist-to-get-a-better-whiff.
Back at the abode, cotton devices in hand, the laptop was booting up while I attended my girl bits. A few moments online I discovered I can purchase what I need and have it shipped. Ovary crisis averted for next time, I entered my bedroom and doused myself in designer perfume hoping it would not clash with the floral eau-de-twat-lette.
I believe that if men menstruated most would run to the emergency room every month, “Oh no! My abdomen is killing me! I'm bleeding! I’m gonna die!” Wussies. A nurse would hand them some cotton and say, “Either shove it in your underwear or your dick. You’ll live.”
Saturday, March 6, 2010
At least it wasn't an RV
Tick. Tick. Tick.
At least she was faster than most of the elderly drivers in the US. I'm always shocked at a senior's lack of speed- I'd think they'd want to get to their destination before they're dead.
Love the giant purse.
This reminds me, I need to buy Brazil on DVD since my tape is long dead.
John. Head. Restroom. Shitter. Loo.
Loo. I like loo. Skip to my loo.
Apparently named after pay toilets in England ages ago, the handle looked like the letter L and the two coin slots two Os. (That is not a checked fact but came from an English girlfriend who spent her youth hopping from the UK to Whidbey throughout our childhood.)
Loo. Around a group of little ones I use the word “loo”. If you say “bathroom” or “potty” in the middle of a collection of kids- there’s a sudden tidal wave of “I have to go to the bathroom!” Then you have to try and decipher who really has to go and who is giving in to that peculiar odd kid tendency to hide in the lavatory and stuff paper towels in the sink (and hopefully not the toilet) to watch water cascade over the side.
This was a water closet. The Barbie Dream House powder room has the same square inchage as this bathroom.
Airplane designers should take a lesson. After witnessing and using this little latrine, I came to believe that they could easily plan better so I wouldn’t have my shoulder pressed against the door as I stringently wash my hands. There’s definitely a better way to situate that damn garbage can so I wouldn’t have to touch it to toss in the paper towel. (I always retreat to my seat and feel gross until I’ve wiped my hands again using a babywipe and sanitizer.)
Anyway- enough rant. Time for a little admiration.
In the cities of Crete, many of the sewer pipes are old. Hundreds of years old. And made of glass. They were not made for tissue. Your used tissue goes into the trash can. GACK. This compulsive hand washer is hyper aware of sources of potential ick. I shudder when I think that people found “handy” ways to clean their southern orifices of the unfun sort of messes. Shudder and then wish to wash myself in the Silkwood manner: a wild fervor with wire brushes and harsh cleansing chemicals.
The plumbing here is ingenious in the MacGyver duct tape, paperclip and gum kind of way. I wish you could hear the gurgling. The noises, which percolate in three different tones from three corners of the tight room, are continuous. Thankfully there’s no odor to accompany this symphony of bubbles from the tangle of pipes that curl through crudely cut holes in walls and floors. It is unbelieveable I am not grossed out. That is astonishing.
It reminds me of a scene in the movie Brazil. For those who haven’t seen it- GO! GO NOW! Or at least rent it this weekend or add it to your Netflix que. Creepy, clever Terry Gilliam evoking the horror and humor with a “1984” (the book- not the crappy year) feeling. A huge dose of Big Brother (not the crappy show) and government truly having its way in every aspect- so good. So very good.
Now, Robert DeNiro has a small role, small but fantastic. I daresay one of my favorites. Yes, Raging Bull took my breath, the mob thing has grown old and okay- he’s even made me laugh. And Taxi Driver, that's on another level completely: the mohawk, a gun and Jodie Foster. Wow. Don’t get me started on that brilliantly depressing piece of heaven. Flawless.
Anyway, Rob plays an outlaw plumber who avoids paperwork. Sneaking to rescue people when the government’s endless red tape chokes them into madness- wanting nothing else but to flush the basin or take a shower. Rapelling in on a dark night, he quickly disembowels this complex wall of pipes, cords, cables and flashing lights with a joyous zeal. Gurgles, bubbles and smoke ooze as he twists them in such a manner you almost expect to see some sort of balloon animal as a result, but he tucks them back in and gleefully leaps away as the booming voice of the law begins to close in.
So, as I sat in this water closet doing none of your damn business, Robert- wearing the charming/mischeivious facial hair of an otter and a glittering white grin, was dancing among a tangle of black making me giggle. Giggle like an evil scientist in a lab- the gurgling of god knows what passing by.
Loo. I like loo. Skip to my loo.
Apparently named after pay toilets in England ages ago, the handle looked like the letter L and the two coin slots two Os. (That is not a checked fact but came from an English girlfriend who spent her youth hopping from the UK to Whidbey throughout our childhood.)
Loo. Around a group of little ones I use the word “loo”. If you say “bathroom” or “potty” in the middle of a collection of kids- there’s a sudden tidal wave of “I have to go to the bathroom!” Then you have to try and decipher who really has to go and who is giving in to that peculiar odd kid tendency to hide in the lavatory and stuff paper towels in the sink (and hopefully not the toilet) to watch water cascade over the side.
This was a water closet. The Barbie Dream House powder room has the same square inchage as this bathroom.
Airplane designers should take a lesson. After witnessing and using this little latrine, I came to believe that they could easily plan better so I wouldn’t have my shoulder pressed against the door as I stringently wash my hands. There’s definitely a better way to situate that damn garbage can so I wouldn’t have to touch it to toss in the paper towel. (I always retreat to my seat and feel gross until I’ve wiped my hands again using a babywipe and sanitizer.)
Anyway- enough rant. Time for a little admiration.
In the cities of Crete, many of the sewer pipes are old. Hundreds of years old. And made of glass. They were not made for tissue. Your used tissue goes into the trash can. GACK. This compulsive hand washer is hyper aware of sources of potential ick. I shudder when I think that people found “handy” ways to clean their southern orifices of the unfun sort of messes. Shudder and then wish to wash myself in the Silkwood manner: a wild fervor with wire brushes and harsh cleansing chemicals.
The plumbing here is ingenious in the MacGyver duct tape, paperclip and gum kind of way. I wish you could hear the gurgling. The noises, which percolate in three different tones from three corners of the tight room, are continuous. Thankfully there’s no odor to accompany this symphony of bubbles from the tangle of pipes that curl through crudely cut holes in walls and floors. It is unbelieveable I am not grossed out. That is astonishing.
It reminds me of a scene in the movie Brazil. For those who haven’t seen it- GO! GO NOW! Or at least rent it this weekend or add it to your Netflix que. Creepy, clever Terry Gilliam evoking the horror and humor with a “1984” (the book- not the crappy year) feeling. A huge dose of Big Brother (not the crappy show) and government truly having its way in every aspect- so good. So very good.
Now, Robert DeNiro has a small role, small but fantastic. I daresay one of my favorites. Yes, Raging Bull took my breath, the mob thing has grown old and okay- he’s even made me laugh. And Taxi Driver, that's on another level completely: the mohawk, a gun and Jodie Foster. Wow. Don’t get me started on that brilliantly depressing piece of heaven. Flawless.
Anyway, Rob plays an outlaw plumber who avoids paperwork. Sneaking to rescue people when the government’s endless red tape chokes them into madness- wanting nothing else but to flush the basin or take a shower. Rapelling in on a dark night, he quickly disembowels this complex wall of pipes, cords, cables and flashing lights with a joyous zeal. Gurgles, bubbles and smoke ooze as he twists them in such a manner you almost expect to see some sort of balloon animal as a result, but he tucks them back in and gleefully leaps away as the booming voice of the law begins to close in.
So, as I sat in this water closet doing none of your damn business, Robert- wearing the charming/mischeivious facial hair of an otter and a glittering white grin, was dancing among a tangle of black making me giggle. Giggle like an evil scientist in a lab- the gurgling of god knows what passing by.
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