The Vomitorium

I am a modern design enthusiast-slash-addict; like an out-of-control heroin addict, I collect design magazines like they're getting me high.  I am a modern furniture junkie.  My favorite couch is an Italian-made, Flexform brand, down-filled bedcouch called The Groundpiece, and it's a steal at $18,000 dollars.  The cost isn't the issue, though.  What I appreciate about it is how streamlined, clean, modern, simplistic and comfortable it is; if a cloud could hug you, this is what it would feel like.

Because of my affinity for all things modern, it's understandable--reasonable, even--why one of my biggest pet peeves are overstuffed leather sofas that were erroneously born out of the 1980's.  New Kids on the Block died out, so I am confused as to why these sofas continue to live on.  They're still manufactured and purchased by actual humans; they're like a swamp creature who will not die.

Are these sofas pretty?  Not really.  Comfortable?  Absolutely.  But I violently resent their comfort.  I resent being swallowed whole by a piece of furniture that is the visual equivalent to an overgrown marshmallow.  I don't want to sit on something that is completely without personality.  Wear the right kind of clothing, like silk or rayon, and you'll slide right off that slick monstrosity.  Are you wearing leather or--God help you--vinyl?  Better you just live there for the rest of your life.  Your leather pants combined with the leathery, un-cracked surface of that sofa will be like an an unholy adhesive; you will never leave that sofa alive.  And when these sofas multiply into enormous sectionals built from MANY overstuffed leather couches welded together in hellish matrimony, it sickens me to the core.  I'm sure there's a worse fate than sitting on an out-of-date, extra-large leather sectional...like when the aforementioned sectional has reclining capabilities.  At that point?  Kill yourself.

I appreciate the inherent comfort of these sofas; they were built for comfort, not style or beauty.  But there is no reason for this line of furniture to continue--no earthly excuse for people to spend their hard-earned American dollars on such painful, underwhelming luxury.  Comfort, in this case, has never been so uncomfortable.  I hope one day these couches are like the Stegosaurus of the furniture world:  harmless beasts on a one-stop journey to extinction.

Is anyone else bothered by children who wear shoes that morph into roller skates?  I mean, it's bad enough that most children are snot-nosed, whiny, and illegal to beat.  But now I have to contend with the same snot-nosed, whiny kids (who I can't legally abuse, remember) circling me on their tacky roller-shoes like stinky brainless sharks with too much forward mobility.  If children were biologically made to be faster than us on rubber-soled wings, then God (or evolution or Bob Saget or whoever) would have made their feet into tiny Transformers, no?  Click, click, chck-chck, BOOM:  rollerfeet made of steel.  That's how they should roll, pun intended.

I've had so many children come through the parlor in the last month or so; nine-year old girls having birthday parties, four-year old boys getting pedicures with Mom, seven-year old girls getting ready for the ballet, eight-year old boys absorbed in their Gameboys while they get a neck and shoulder massage.  We've had four birthday parties alone in the last two weeks, and they're making me ill.  Remember back in the good old days, when your mom made a cake for your birthday and cupcakes for your whole class?  Remember how your friends would come over to your house and play in your room for fun?  I think back on all of the simple things that made me happy, like colored streamers or a rented movie.  I do NOT remember my mother spending a few thousand dollars to take twelve of my friends to High Tea, cater a birthday party at a spa (paying for everyone's manicures and pedicures), take us out to dinner at some trendy restaurant and then back to our house for a karaoke-themed slumber party complete with gift bags.  And she never bought me Uggs or a Blackberry or a horse as a birthday gift; the party was usually the gift.  Her putting up with ten screamy girls watching Goonies until midnight was her gift to me; she even threw in popcorn and Coca-Cola.  I can't believe how spoiled kids are these days.  I can't believe I just said that in the same tone my grandmother would have.  So this is what it's like to get old.  Hm.  Feels pretty righteous.

I was surfing through my favorite IM convos today and thought I'd post some of my favorites--most of these were procured from conversations between myself and my boyfriend, or from my last job, a call center filled with goths.  Being a non-goth myself, I only fit in through the inter-office instant messaging system.  Here are a few:

********

Ian:  Little boy shows his to a little girl: "Ha ha, You don't have one of these!"  Little girl to little boy, showing him hers... "No, but my mom says with one of these I can get as many of those as I want!"
Me:  OMG.  It's true.
Me:  I don't know how you guys walk around with those, anyhow.  Glad to be a moody, sensitive, unreasonable, bitchy female. 
Ian:  I didn't say it...
Me:  Only 7 days out of the month, though.  Not CONSTANTLY.
Ian:  Right.  
Me:  Ask my boyfriend.  He'll tell you.  I'm perfectly reasonable the rest of the month.  And NO, I'm not holding him at knifepoint right now, and he's not scared, and he's not crying.  He WANTS to tell you how great I am!  Isn't that sweet?
Ian:  The police have been notified.
Me:  I know where you live.

********

perciplex: shrug, i pee in the shower to save water.
bonmotmaven (me):  you do not.  you pee on ME for your own entertainment, you godless sonofabitch.
perciplex: also to save water, think of the environment.
perciplex: would you rather i was peeing on the last baby panda?
bonmotmaven: you wouldn't pee on the last baby panda.
bonmotmaven: you'd be too busy eating it.
perciplex: well, still.  i would be sharing it with you, and you wouldn't want it marinated in urine.

********

Me:   i proposed that we all take 5 foot sticks and beat the shit out of eachother, go home, and die.  that's my plan, anyway.
Boss:  sounds fabulous.
Boss:  the beatings shall continue until morale improves.

********

Me:  Can we have babies now?
Boyfriend:  Like baby alpacas?
Me:  Well, no--human babies, but maybe a hybrid of some kind.
Boyfriend:  Like a baby human/baby alpaca hybrid?
Me:  (laughs)  YES.  TOTALLY.
Boyfriend:  Just think about how profitable and soft they would be.
Marika:  *stare*
Justin:  Which is the complete opposite of human children.
Marika:  (hysterical laughter)

********

Me (on IM):  So your new girlfriend is Jewish?
Melissa:  YES, and I don't want you to do your whole "Hooray for Hitler" speech around her.
Me:  =(  If loving Hitler is wrong, I don't want to be right.
Melissa:  This is what I'm talking about.

********

Me:  (out of nowhere)  Are we going to break up?
Boyfriend:  Nope.
Me:  What if I want to be alone?
Boyfriend:  Well, too bad.
Me:  What if I don't ever want to see you again?
Boyfriend:  I would suggest a blindfold--or perhaps two eye patches, if that's what you'd prefer.
Me:  (laughter)  Oh really.
Boyfriend:  Yep.
Me:  What if I hate your guts?!
Boyfriend:  Then I'll get new ones.  Better ones.
Me:  Awwwww.

********

And one from my drunken brothers, who I collectively call "Los Retardos":

Sam:  Yeah, I should totally go over there and be like, fuck you.
Brock:  And you'll be all, "you can lick the fucking dick cheese outta my CRACK."
Sam:  WHAT?
Me:  Omigod, Sam, why do you have dick cheese in your ass crack?
Sam:  *slurrs*  Wha--why? 
Brock:  Why NOT?

*snorts, table laughter, giggles all around*

Brock:  *sways, thinks*  No seriously, why not?
Marika:  This is going in my blog.

*********

Truthfully, that particular convo went into three blogs, but no matter.

My boyfriend and I went back to high school a few months' back.  We spoke to the kiddos on Career Day about what we do for money, like putting out fires or flying planes or hand jobs.  Lucky you if your career involves all three.

We had to write biographies on what we did after high school.  Think about it.  What we did...after high school.  If you're anything like me, it was a short list that looked like this:

*Shots
*Bong hits
*Fraudulent check-writing
*Carbs

Add to that list some honorable mentions, like "lying to my parents" and "faking orgasm", and you've got yourself a clear picture of my early twenties.  But you can't say that to a bunch of high school students; they aren't ready for the reality of eating Top Ramen until your skin reeks of it.  So we came up with this tepid description:

After graduating from Gig Harbor High School in 1994, Marika floated in and out of various jobs, not quite knowing what to do.  She has been a prep cook, a bouncer, a college dropout, a Subway employee, an administrative assistant, a math tutor, an AmeriCorps member, and a stay-at-home mom.  Six months after the birth of her son, she decided to attend beauty school and became a nail technician.   She has worked for a number of prestigious spas in and around Seattle for the last eight years, enjoying the rapport that comes with creating relationships with clients and co-workers.  The two things she loves most is blogging and working as an educator to nail techs in her current job; she also looks forward to finishing her four-year Interior Design degree in the near future, so she can focus on more creative endeavors and feed her uncontrollable furniture addiction.

And here's my actual biography:

After BARELY graduating high school a million years ago, Marika sponged off her parents for as long as humanly possible.  She worked shitty restaurant jobs, with an exciting stint as a Certified Sandwich Artist at three different Subways.  During these years, she did a lot of drugs and dated a lot of losers, which would end up being a delightful pattern for her in the years to come.  She woke up one day to find herself impregnated by an overweight, Jewish sous chef with no future that she didn't even like.  But with nothing else to do, she reluctantly--and loudly--gave birth to her beautiful son, Oren, who was the light of her life for at LEAST six months.  After that, she went to beauty school, Seattle, and rehab, all in the same year; all three were a lot of fun.  She dated, hooked up, married, divorced, lied, cheated, hated; she fell in love again and kicked happiness in the shins, repeatedly.  Now she's content in her current job, even though she works on sketchy feet for 12 hours a day. And one day, she will get off her fat duff and get back into school, right around the same time she quits smoking.  So what's the moral of the story?  If you work at Subway, you will end up in rehab.  That's a fact.  The End.

This is almost too long, but it's what I did for Christmas.  This isn't even "writing", this is just "word-barfing".

I haven't posted in forever, mostly because I've been so busy having goodwill towards man and all that crap--but Christmas is over, I got my loot, and I'm back in the business of being me.  Here is a not-so-brief look at how a Vaughn holiday is achieved:

Friday, 4 days before Christmas:

Worked ten hours or so at the parlor; our last group of the night was having an office Christmas party.  I did the nails of "Dave", the delightful heterosexual male dipped in tattoos, piercings, and wild, swishy hand movements.  Dave was a former mechanic (now lab technician) who talked rough and tough like an afro puff, especially when expressing his inebriated sexual desires for the "hot male doctor" in their midst.  Dave (who in the same sentence told me he was ex-Army and that he'd done a stint as Frank in The Rocky Horror Picture Show many years ago) had a girlfriend, and beautiful taste in music, and--after I was finished with him--sparkly red toenails and charcoal-gray fingernails.  Dave was one of those guys that is a big fat fucking question mark--personally, I thought he was a poof, but he didn't care, and neither did I.  Talking to him was like sitting in the warm and boozy lap of Dina Martina during a particularly humorous monologue. So thank you, Dave.  You started out my holiday season with a bang.

Saturday, 3 days before Christmas:

Worked a bit--then headed to Ballard Goodwill with the Esq to prepare for Mike & Lisa's Tacky Christmas Sweater party.  We both bought sweaters that were like Muppet/bathmat hybrids; the Esq's sweater was beige (and way too small for him, so it was more like a three-quarter-sleeved, mock turtleneck halter top with a sheep-like texture...I know, hot), and my sweater was bright fucking turquoise.  I looked like a fat and fuzzy Cookie Monster.  It was awesome.  The party was fun--my little brother came with us, mainly to entertain us through his interactions with Kate, who was drooling over him all night.  I'll post pictures after I figure out my new camera (the Esq and I bought a new digital camera for us, and by "us", I mean "me").

This was also the day that a special someone left a little blue Tiffany's box inside of my locker with a big red bow!  Inside?  Yummy earrings that I haven't taken off SINCE.  Oh, you think the Esq is this sweet?  Think again.  Thank you, Anthony, for knowing what I wanted for Christmas--the gays always get you the good stuff.

Sunday, 2 days before Christmas:

Work.  Work.  Work.  I wore my heels all.  day.  long.  Eight hours.  That's like, 400 hours in Heel Time, thanks.  Hung out with friends, partying the night away at our place; went to bed around 3 or 4 (?), but didn't care because "it's the weekend!"/"it's a holiday!"  Oops.  I should have known better, because we had a shit-ton of shopping to do on Monday, plus a Christmas party...aaaaand--

Monday, ONE day before Christmas (also known in some elite circles as "Christmas Eve"): 

--of course I get called in for a work emergency.  8:30AM our phones start ringing.  Within my fog-filled brain, I KNEW it was bad, so I didn't answer it--but, like a fool, I called back.  I went in for some potential investors and a fuckton of children--ohmygodsomanychildren--then proceeded home so we could Power Shop for Christmas from 12:30PM to 630PM, non-stop.  Epic.  We went home and got busy wrapping presents, then headed to the "Strays on Christmas Eve" party that Sara Rose threw at her new house.  I LOVE her new house.  It's the teeniest piece of house-y perfection that ever, ever was.  I'm jealous.  A bunch of people came over--there was wine and cheese and music and dancing and good conversation.  Nothing says "Happy Holidays" like doing The Robot to old-school Madonna after drinking a bottle of wine.  Nothing. 

We got back at 1AM (officially Christmas!) and collapsed into a defeated yet happy heap on our bed--

Tuesday, Christmas Day:

--only to have our goddamn alarm go off at 7AM.  Then 730.  Then 8.  Santa brought me the gift I had been waiting for all month:  my period!  I actually expect Santa to deliver this gift to me every month until I am sterile.  Thanks, Santa!

We finally got out of here around 830, drove to GRAHAM (GRAHAM is in ALL CAPS and BOLD because it is FAR AWAY and GROSS), scooped up my kiddo and headed out to Gig Harbor to do Christmas with my parents.  Here's a rundown of how it went:

11AM:  Grandma arrives.
12PM:  Breakfast--mom makes baked brie in phyllo with raspberry filling from scratch (from fucking SCRATCH!) and other foodie goodness.
1PM:  It snows.  Everyone freaks out.  Gifts.  I fall asleep on the couch in front of the fire.
2PM:  We pack up and head out like a fetus.  A tired and bitchy fetus filled with cramps and baked brie.

Drive, drive, drive, drive...we arrive in Bothell around 3PM to do Christmas with the Esq's family.  We are all weary and filled with the type of enthusiasm normally reserved for the undead.  Here is the rundown on their Christmas:

4PM:  Stockings.
430PM:  Balls.  You know, those...the crepe-paper balls that have tons of fun stuff on the inside--you just have to set aside three hours to unravel it.  The Esq's dad makes them every year and I think they're just fantastic.  There was a lot-o-loot in them, including money, which I could definitely use. 
5PM:  Gifts.  Forever.  Gifts.  For.  EVER.  There were so many gifts! 
6PM:  Christmas Dinner, which was filled with delectable ham, green bean casserole, and mashed potatoes.  Just what the doctor ordered.

Oh, did I mention what the Esq got me for Christmas?  How silly of me to forget.  He built me my very own computer.  *beam*  I asked for jewelry, but this is better.  WAY better.  I've been needing a new computer since...since the late 80's, methinks...and now I'll have a cool-looking one that is faster than lightning and MINEALLMINE. 

Anyways, for those of you who stuck it out to the end of this rambling thingamajig, I hope you had a very Merry and a Happy Hoohah and all that jazz.  It was a wonderful Christmas--I got really good towels from Pottery Barn, and a huge gift certificate to Amazon, plus the computer and an upcoming vacation from my mom (she's whisking me away to who knows where!)--I mean, it was just a really nice Christmas.  We had a great time with both families, and will have a ton of fun tonight when the Esq takes us to Gameworks (his gift to Oren).  My gift to myself this year is motherfucking Weight Watchers (mostly because I've been watching my weight, and the "watching" doesn't seem to be as effective as "diet and exercise") and some new walking shoes--although the Cheesecake Factory and its' HIDEOUS decor have been calling my name for quite some time.  Hm.  Conundrum.

Who do you want to be caught under the mistletoe with this holiday season?
Submitted by An Ebony Epicurean. 

1.  Johnny Depp; hey, he's a classic.  Actually, I think "Captain Jack Sparrow" is the appropriate answer.

2.  Ricky Gervais.  No, I'm not kidding.  I need a Brit on my list and he's the one that makes me laugh the most.

3.  Ana Metronic, from the Scissor Sisters.  Hawt.

4.  Dwight K. Schrute, from The Office.  Only if he was whispering sweet nothings to me about beets and karate.

5.  My boyfriend.  I know, yawn.  But still, he's a favorite, every year.

***Honorable mentions:

-Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, as long as he doesn't talk or drink.

-Professor Snape from Harry Potter.  I like men who are into the Dark Arts.

-Christopher Walken, because hellooooo--the guy can sing and dance and he isn't gay.  That's impressive.

What's on your holiday wishlist?

1.  A baby.  The kind you can eat.  Or a baby panda.  The kind you can eat.

2.  Peace on Earth.  ....wait, let me think about that one.

3.  My Ipod charger, wherever it is.

4.  A maid, possibly a blind one with no judgment about how my socks smell.

5.  To write enough crappy novels so I can retire at an early age.  (Officially, #5 is going to just be "Royalties".)

6.  Jewelry, the sparkly kind--or perhaps a Bedazzler, which would make EVERYTHING sparkly.

7.  Clean dishes.  See #4.

8.  Longer hair.  This hair-growing process is killing me.

9.  A raise without the extra work.

10.  Good health, which is being brought to you tonight by 2 Black Orchid Iced Teas, one Apricot beer, and a shit-ton of cigarettes.  The healthy kind.

I never have anything on my holiday wishlist, is what I'm saying.  I want my son to have a good Christmas, I want my family and friends to feel loved, I want to lose 100 pounds by tomorrow.  That is not too much to ask.

Posted on my other blog:

I know you're out there, you diehard fans of Jack Fucking Johnson; you can't hide from me.  There are LEGIONS of you people, all across the world, who are downloading his totally fey music and "kicking back" to the sounds of your motivation going straight down the shitter.  For those of you who have yet to experience the wonder that is Jack Fucking Johnson, let me bring you up to speed.  Jack Fucking Johnson is a singer/songwriter who will touch your heart with his mind-numbing vocals and 'smooth jazz' appeal; it also helps that he's not completely ugly--but his 'good looks' are on par with his 'good music':  he's a mastermind of the mediocre, a laid-back blend of blah and bland.  He will lobotomize you in ONE SONG, he's just that good.   He's smart, and stealth, and is coming to your town to eat your face and devour your soul after it's been weakened by his music.  He is the Devil.

You can hear Jack Fucking Johnson's music while you're chatting away with your girlfriends at the nearest Starbucks; you can hear him on soundtracks like Curious George The Movie and Grey's Anatomy, Season 49 Compilation Disc; you can mellow out to his groovy sound at various get-togethers, like a frat party, or my parents' Thanksgiving dinner, or the ER.  Jack Fucking Johnson is versatile, and therein lies his demonic appeal.  He looks like a younger version of Dave Matthews, if Dave Matthews was a environmentally-friendly surfer with a secret crush on John Mayer.   I like to think that he calls his guitar his "instrument of pleasure".  See, that's how he breaks your mind and bends your spirit:  he violently rapes you with his stupid, feelgood music.  Do YOU want to be violated by Jack Fucking Johnson?  DO you?

No, I'm not trying to be mean--I'm trying to save your everlasting soul.  I was in your shoes once, too, although I was having a weak moment at the time.  I had gone down to see my parents, and was weary from my entire life blowing up in my face; I needed a home-cooked meal, the hot tub, my dad's advice and a solid nap on their comfiest couch.  My dad built a fire and put on some background music--something for my tired mind to focus on while I was spilling my horrible guts all over my childhood living room.  I didn't quite hear the music, couldn't tell if it was a man? a choir? folk music? a monkey?--but I could tell it was calling to me, like a siren's song. I was too tired to resist, and was instantly lulled to sleep by a combination of my dad's rumbling voice, the warm fire, and Jack Fucking Johnson.  I woke up in a panic, and not the good kind.  I knew I'd been had.  The good kind of panic is along these lines:  "Oh my goodness, I'm late for the awards show that is honoring me tonight!"  Or, "Golly gee, Johnny Depp wants to have sex with me and I only have 52 condoms!"  THAT is good panic.  Bad panic is more like, "The undead are after me!" or "Why am I naked in front of all these people?!"  Another one might be, "Oh my God, Jack Fucking Johnson has infiltrated my head and is ruining my life with his genre-defying, craptastic music!"  Well, I shake my fist at you, Jack Fucking Johnson!  I bested you and have forever struck you from my musical future!   I understand, your music is "chill" and "cool" and "hip"; it's non-threatening in all of its' folksy, New-Age glory.  Your smooth voice and smooth skin make up for your musical contributions to society, but it's not enough.  It will never be enough.  I have to save my SOUL from you, Jack, and that's my number one priority.  I made it through the likes of John Legend (who I actually like) and John Mayer (who is whatever, I don't want to get into it), but I'll be damned if I sit here and watch the eyes of my loved ones--intelligent, warm, funny people--GLAZE over after hearing your music like they've been snacked on by a vampire; how can they prevail over someone like you?  Who will protect them?  Who will send them the right message?

This is my hope for all of you Jack fans who have fallen off the wagon:  save yourselves.  Buy real music.  Do not be fooled by his laid-back nature and warm, brown eyes.  Sure, he seems innocuous, and his music can be the cheap Rite-Aid salve to heal your every shallow wound; but I want better for you, for all of you.  I'm thinking of not just your future, but the future of America.

What were your top 10 favorite songs or albums of 2007?

I'm modifying this question to fit my needs, because I usually don't listen to 'new' music.  So it will be easier for me to answer, who were your favorite artists to listen to this year?

Neko Case (all)

Ray LaMontagne (Til the Sun Turns Black)

Mark Ronson (Version)

Stevie Wonder (all)

Dolly Parton (all)

The Cocteau Twins (all)

The Smiths (all)

Anna Netrebko (foreverrr)

The Beatles (LOVE and beyond)

Madonna (Confessions)

Amy Winehouse (Back to Black)

Guitar Hero soundtracks (all)

Radiohead (Kid A)

Scissor Sisters (all)

Corinne Bailey Rae

John Legend (all)

Iron & Wine (latest)

Justice

Aesop Rock

Spoon (latest)

Daft Punk (all)

Goldfrapp

Royksopp (The Understanding)

Awesome

Kanye West (latest)

Charlie Brown Christmas (always!)

   

What are your irrational fears? 
Submitted by Dan Culhane.  

My irrational fears are pretty cliche, but some of them are interesting.  Here are my favorites:

-I'm afraid my boyfriend doesn't want to marry me; when he says/acts/shows me he does, I don't believe him.  CLICHE.  So I think my marriage fear (or fear of unwedded anti-bliss) is now turning into something like, I'm afraid that I will never stop harping on him about this retarded thing and will continue to sabotage our relationship until he leaves me and I am horribly right.  INTERESTING.  Fucked up, but interesting.

-I'm afraid my feet will never stop growing.  Because they haven't, and I'm now being led around by the idiotic feet of Krusty the Klown.  Not the dainty, geisha-worthy feet of the small and tiny!  I have Orc feet from Lord of the Rings.  Hairy, enormous, demonic trolls doing dirty work for the evil eye of Sauron in Middle Earth have smaller feet than mine.  That may be interesting, but it's also ridiculous. 

-Girly fears that will never die:  fear of sharks, snakes, spiders, the texture of fish, and toilet seats.  These are mindlessly cliche, except for one small thing:  I'm not afraid of the toilet seat itself (I'm well aware that I won't get the Herps from sitting on one), but I'm afraid that I'll sit on it at the wrong angle, it will violently slide sideways, and I will land in the toilet.  Interesting.  So maybe I'm actually afraid of toilet water. 

-I'm deathly afraid of writing a novel and becoming one of these authors:  John Grisham, Nicholas Sparks, Danielle Steel, Michael Crichton, Alisa Valdes Rodriguez, and Toni Morrison.  I know, Toni threw you off, right?  I've tried three of her books and they're just not for me; mostly because I enjoy books that aren't hard life lessons about "coming of age", "coming of age as a young black girl", "coming of age in a time when young black women were the Devil", and "coming of age as an old black woman who made it through a long life filled with racism".  Boooring.  Talk about cliche.  Plus, if you're endorsed by Oprah, we having nothing in common--except that we can both read and write, just barely.

-I'm afraid of lobotomies, but I don't know why.  I've never been close to having the procedure done, so I guess that's why it's "irrational".  Think about it, though.  That shit is scary.  'Scalping' comes in a close second.

-I'm afraid I will lose all of my blog postings from the last 3-5 years, yet do nothing to back them up.  Self-fulfilling prophecy, perhaps?  I've started saving my favorites, but I really just need to sit down and do the damn thing.  Hrmf.

I have a blog posting from way back that is all about fears; I think I'll post it after I edit a bit.