Hello Kitty Gets Her Groove Back

About five years ago, i was at a technical program review held in Hilton Head, South Carolina.  Autumn weather, but it was still rather resort-y and beach-y, and the perfect setting for the Dawg Boyz that i run with to get up close and personally in touch with their ‘stoopid’.

New to the community was a program manager who had just returned from spending several years as our Asian representative, living in Tokyo.  She was then about 50 years old, a tiny waif of a woman, with a penchant for wearing 1960’s era Chanel suits, tailored clothing, and feminine frills.  Perfectly accessorized, too!  

Bubbly and exuberant, she was welcomed into the group for an afternoon happy hour by the pool*.  Within minutes, she was regaling us with tales of her time in Tokyo.  How to perform tea service, cultural mistakes that many westerners make in Japan, and how much she adored life in Tokyo. 

But what really got her lit up?  She shared with us her fanatical obsession with “Hello Kitty” products! “I’ve got just about everything they make with ‘Hello Kitty’ on it!  I just LOVE ‘Hello Kitty'”

By this time, some of the Dawg Boyz were getting a little tired of her chatter.  Ok.  MOST of the Dawg Boyz were tired of it.  While i was busy yapping at the other end of the table, i heard one of the auxiliary Dawg Boyz ask “Do you have the ‘Hello Kitty’ vibrator?”

Brief pause in the chatterbox patter, but without missing a beat, she pretended not to hear him, and continued on about all of her collectibles, and how she’s going to build a display area in her house for all of them.

Not to be ignored, the auxiliary Dawg Boy asked again, louder “Well, do you have the ‘Hello Kitty’ dildo?”

Brief pause, while she re-set her registers, and prattled on about something else.  Knowing she was not going to like the direction of the conversation, shortly thereafter, she excused herself and found less obnoxious tablemates.

Tonight, i found myself chilling with “Hello Kitty” at a local establishment, as we awaited the arrival of a birthday celebrant from the office.  i was there early, and when Hello Kitty arrived, looking lost and confused, i invited her to join me at the bar for a drink while we waited for the rest of the crew to show up.

Really enjoyed catching up with her, she seems to have made a comfortable transition back to the US, and is happy in her new job.  As always, she was dressed in her signature style – 1960’s style conservative suit, complete with matching accessories and white fingerless dress gloves! 

Given that this event was being held in something akin to a local tavern, she was the best dressed person there.  By a long shot.  Me?  Black yoga pants, tank top, and baggy overshirt.  Sexy to the extreme…

As we chatted and finished up our beers, our waitress stopped by to let us know that the gentlemen at the table behind us had picked up the tab for our beers.  Mildly shocked by this, as i’ve entered the ‘realm of the invisible middle-aged woman’, i turned to thank them with a smile and tip of the beer glass.

They were a crew of off-duty construction workers, still dusty from a day of manual labor.  Turning back around, i noticed that Hello Kitty was showing a little bit of thigh as she sat at the bar stool.  Complete with a peek at a lace-topped thigh-high stocking!   She was cluelessly flattered by the free drinks – and i had to point out to her that it was obviously because she’d knocked their boots off!

“Your fashion rocks, sister!  Knock ’em dead!”

image found here

* Rather than pay hotel beer prices, a friend and i had gone to the local grocery store, bought a styrofoam cooler, a couple cases of beer, and 20 pounds of ice.  We were resourceful like that…

When you just can’t be bothered

You never know when the ol’ entrepreneurial light bulb will appear over your head.   After mentioning to one of my gentleman friends that he has strange taste in women*, we discussed a mutual affliction – our shared tendency to be attracted to older partners. 

He’s generally found younger women to be too needy, confused and prone to playing “head games”.  Never mind the “ticking biological clock” time bombs out there.    

Trying to pin down exactly what it is about younger men that often leaves me cold, i trotted out the “i like my men broken, bitter and thinking their best days are behind them” theme.  He noted that in their 30’s, men can still harbour the delusion that the world owes them something. 

daisyfae:  Exactly!  It’s when they have that sense of “entitlement” that bothers me.  And i just can’t make myself care about their silly dreams of “accomplishment”, purpose and all that crap…  Who cares?   

irish:  Men become much more grateful in their 40’s. 

daisyfae:  Less picky, too.  i like that.  It’s just not worth the trouble sometimes to fuss over clothes and makeup.  

irish:  Perhaps you need some crotchless sweatpants?   

And from there – as impossible as it seems – the conversation tanked further.  We crafted the concept for a new line of clothing.  In addition to crotchless sweatpants?  Bulky, fuzzy boots – left unzipped.  Velour tops that zip up the front – with a built in front-hook bra.   

The style that says “Hey, kid – come and get me!  Just don’t expect me to shave my legs.”  The swashbuckling confidence – she knows she can rock your world, even though her roots need another bash of Lady Clairol.  Bonus:  She’ll be done with you by 10 pm so you still have time to go home and play Warcraft with your imaginary friends on Saturday night….  

“Lazy Cougar”.   Sold exclusively at WalMart.   

Not pajamas – “Flannel Lingerie”.

  * That includes me, by the way…

Triple dog dared…

Yeah? So what?  i’m easy…. A few dares, double dog dares and “oh no you wouldn’t’s” thrown in the comment section on this post was all it took.   Oh, and being able to just barely squeeze myself into a fabulous black and green satin corset, picked up in California over a year ago. When it was three* sizes too small…

As always, this is dedicated to my corseted muse, the fabulous and entirely edible nursemyra.  If the stars align properly, she and i are going to bask in the Mediterranean sun together for a couple weeks next summer… always a good plan to have something to look forward to, isn’t it?


* Now?  It’s only about a half size too small.  Although it’s been a slow and unpleasant slog, aggravated by a skiing accident and the ensuing knee surgery, i’ve managed to drop just over 30 lbs since January.  Not quite done yet, i’ve set a goal to drop the final 20 lbs before Thanksgiving. 

Girls gone wild*…

For those of you playing along at home, you’ll remember that daisyfae is awful at decorating.  i moved into my new place in late August, but waited until January to even buy furniture for the living room – because i was counting on The Girl to help pick things out, and she was off in Beirut for fall term.

Vacuum Chamber

Vacuum Chamber

After she’d helped procure seating/tables, she offered to have a friend – trained in visual arts – put together a color palette so i could buy pillows.  And actual shit for the walls!  Woo hoo!  a Color Palette!  Prepared by another professional!  Feeling my ovaries, for sure!

This week, i bravely started to deploy Phase II of my Certified Color Strategy.  With a bottle of wine propelling me forward, i put a glaze/paint on the wall above the fireplace!  Much to my complete and total amazement, it looks ok.  This isn’t that hard… just develop a plan, and stick to it.  Better yet, have the plan developed for you…

The Girl and her friend apparently had taken some time over the weekend to work up my design suggestions.  Unbeknownst to me, she had taken a ‘boring’ shot of my living room on her last visit to town for a dental appointment.

Early American Asylum

Early American Asylum

Rather than just provide suggested colors, they worked up a collection of colors and decorative items that makes me anxious to get on with it all!  And i’m thinkin’ that Mr. Pickles the Wonder Dog is pretty happy as well…  Although why he’s not upset that Gollum has taken up residence on the deck is of some concern…

Come on 'a my house, come on a come on...

Come on 'a my house, come on a come on...

They’ve cleverly taken a page from my favorite source of decorating and entertaining advice, Ms. Amy Sedaris’ I Like You: Hospitality Under The Influence.  Brilliant…


* Sorry.  You ‘soft porn’ pervs looking for college-aged boobies are out of luck… Go back to surfing for “girl scout porn”.  You people are messed up.  Because of this post, i get at least 3-5 hits a week from some sock-stuffer looking for “girl scouts fucking”, “girl scouts naked” or worse… yeah, i know.  i’m the one who defiled the uniform.  glass houses and all that…

Guitar-Corset Friday (?)

Somewhere in time, Casey, over at the Anthologies of Awesome, suggested we have a “Guitar Friday”… perhaps a variant on “Corset Friday”, held at the one and only gimcrack hospital.  In the spirit of the incredible edible nursemyra, along with my desire to show off my new Gibson, here’s a go at “Guitar-Corset Friday”. 

And once again, for those of you scouting candidates for the Mother of the Year?  Move along… there’s nothing to see here…


Puffin Away

This is a love story.  Strange… Unexpected… Hideous and inexplicable in many ways.  But a love story nonetheless.

It started with my trip to Iceland in 2007.  Short notice (as are many of my international jaunts, it seems), i went for a long weekend with a friend.  What’s cool about Iceland?  Well, besides being momentarily bankrupt, they are a bit of a magical society – energy independent due to the stores of geothermal energy that can turn that island into so much volcanic dust in a heartbeat.  Certainly a case of making the best of a potentially really bad situation.

Oh, and even better?  Hot springs!  All that volcanic energy does not go to waste, that’s for sure!  The Blue Lagoon* is spectacular.  Speaking of spectacular… The women?  Stunningly gorgeous.  The men?  Umm… lucky to live on an island with the aforementioned ladies…

This, however, is about none of that.  This is a love story.  Indirectly about sheep.  Icelandic sheep.  Luscious and decadent of pelt.  And this renewable resource is the font of a famous Icelandic industry – wool.  Oh, yes… Icelandic wool is exquisite, and warm beyond belief.  And when i was not being thrown from a demonic Icelandic pony**, or trying to find the exact house where Bjork lives, i was smitten with a particularly ugly item, crafted of this sumptuous wool.

A hat, to be specific.  My initial thought was that it might be something that The Girl would like.  But within moments i realized she had more class and style than that… so i unapologetically bought if for myself.  Creamy ivory wool, accented by an ice blue border – with intricately woven Puffins along the base.  And ear flaps.  i mean, what the hell good is a winter hat without ear flaps?

There it was – homely yet practical.  All at the same time.  Just like me!  Screaming my name.  Loudly.  It was almost embarrassing… i had to buy it just to keep the noise down.

It’s been bloody cold this year, so  i’ve been wearing it.  Driven as much by necessity, there’s just something mesmerizing about this hat.  i am ruthlessly taunted by colleagues.  It is beyond “un-sexy”, it’s downright “anti-sexy” – and i believe it has shrivelled male reproductive organs from as far away as 30 feet. 

The first time i lost it, i was heartbroken – but since i knew exactly where i’d last seen it, a lunchtime trip to The Pub was all it took to recover my baby.

daisyfae: Did someone leave a really ugly hat here?

pub hostess: [walks to hostess stand, opens cabinet, extracts my hat from the bottom of a huge pile of hats] This one?

Last week it was another story.  The hat was missing as i left the office at the end of the day.  Knowing i’d had it when i arrived that morning, i mentally retraced my steps through the day – and came to the conclusion that i’d either dropped as i got out of my car, or someone had stolen it

Frantically scouring the parking lots, i came up empty handed.  It had snowed a bit, and it was possible that the hat had been scraped into a pile of muck-encrusted briny snow by the maintenance brigade.  For the rest of the week, i kept my eyes peeled – checking hallway bulletin boards where lost items sometimes appear, even asking at our visitors desk if anyone had turned in a really ugly hat. 

Paranoia strikes deep.  i began to wonder if perhaps my friends were playing a cruel trick on me.  Maybe – possibly in the interest of preserving organizational aesthetics – they’d swiped my hat.   i decided that the only proper thing to do would be to craft a “Missing” poster.  In my paranoiac frenzy, i planned to warn the thieves that i have even UGLIER headgear should this be a malicious act… i’d also bought a pig-tailed ear-band.  Orange, brown and blue stripes – suitable for wear…. um… suitable for wear in the dark, perhaps.   Could i “counter” such an act of terrorism with even greater hideosity?  The mind wanders when deeply distressed…

i worked my way through several stages of grief – and it was a grieving process, mind you.  i wore a different hat every day.  Recklessly wearing any hat i could get my hands on!  Sometimes (and this is shameful), wearing two hats at once.  i didn’t care where they’d been.  i was lashing out.  But by the end of the week i was approaching grim acceptance.  Puffin Hat was gone.  Long live Puffin Hat.  [sniff, sniff…]

Friday, on the way out for the evening, a friend arrived to pick me up… He was behaving strangely.***  Entering my condo, he stood outside the door of my bedroom, with a devilish look on his face.  Thinking he’d gone completely whack, i was assessing the distance to my phone should i need to call for backup.  He simply said “I want to be in the right position to make it easy for you to thank me properly…” and he proceeded to pull Puffin Hat from his coat.  Executing a standing leap of perhaps 10 feet, i was on him within seconds – rescuing Puffin Hat! 

We’d had lunch together that day, and on a lark, he’d stopped by the restaurant on the way over.  Asking after “lost and found” items, he located my wayward hat, and brought baby home to momma!

And all was truly right with the world… Much like Ralphie, from A Christmas Story, i slept with Puffin Hat that night… as the snow fell on a magical landscape, gentle music played, and there was a lovely fade to black…

Reunited and it feels so good...

Reunited and it feels so good...

* The mineral spa.  NOT the roach-feces encrusted poor excuse for a film with a marginally clad barely post-pubescent Brooke Shields.

** The fucking thing was posessed – a demon pony.  It had BLUE EYES.  No one else would ride it… but that’s a story for a different day…

*** Even for one of my friends…

T-shirt Friday: Galapagos Style

While banging around in South America, stumbled upon this gem in the airport at San Cristobal, Galapagos.  While my friends were loading up to head to the dock for boarding, i frantically snagged one of these…. with nursemyra in mind!

Happy T-Shirt Friday!  Not sure who else is playing along, but nursemyra is in the game…

Boobies rock.  Fully.

Boobies rock. Fully.

In case you’d like to read more about boobies, here’s a little bit more info.  Like all the critters in the Galapagos, boobies have no fear of man.  Or woman.   Took this shot from about 2 feet away…

Fearless Boobies of the Galapagos
Fearless Boobies of the Galapagos

Oooh – gnukid has joined in

Breaking news:  Sledpress and Renal Failure have popped in with t-shirt friday moments!


If it’s Wednesday? i’m in a conference room, surrounded by science people, trying to drink my weight in coffee to maintain consciousness…

Today’s event took me down a rather unexpected “character study” path… and i’m deeply perplexed. i’m hoping that both of my readers can help shed some light on a vexing phenomenon. i sure as hell can’t figure it out.

Let me start with a fundamental truth:  Humans are animals.  We are just as driven by the biological urges from our little dinosaur brains as any other animal.  This means that males of the species are driven to mate* – and as a result, will make an effort to be attractive to females of the species. 

So for the love of biology, please help me understand WHY an attractive man, a professor who is quite accomplished in his field, isn’t socially backward, and has a bright and engaging personality and a charming sense of humor would PURPOSEFULLY CHOOSE to wear a bow tie?!?!? 

No matter how attractive he is, how smart he may be, or how desperate i might get, there is no conceivable** circumstance where i would willingly exchange body fluids with a man who wears a bow tie with a suit.  To a meeting.  On purpose.   It just SCREAMS “I’ve got Mommy issues”… 

Deal breaker?  Oh, yeah…

Oh Dear, I've been RE-DORKULATED!

Oh Dear, I've been RE-DORKULATED!

* Women are equally driven to mate – despite how it may seem to some of you gents – but we are the “keepers of the egg supply”, and given that we are born with a finite number of eggs, we protect them.  Saving them for potential fertilization by men we perceive to be The Most Powerful Egg Protectors.  Yes.  i am a romantic.  Surprised?

** see what i did there?

Of all the things i missed in “chick school”…

i think that “Home Decorating 101” is currently the most desperately needed.  The genetically-coded shopping thing bypassed me as well, and was replaced with a near maniacal hatred of shopping malls.  And while i like shoes, shoe shopping brings no emotional orgasm.

The Barbie Dream Condo is coming along nicely, with the addition of the pool table, home theater/digital audio zones and plans for the custom wet bar well underway.  Never mind the fact that there’s no furniture in the living room.  The Girl will help me with that when she gets back in country next month.  My priorities are fine, thank you very much.

The most egregious decor in the newly purchased condo was the “fruit basket” wallpaper in the kitchen.  Beyond hideous, i removed it from the walls within a week of living here.  Figuring i’d eventually get around to painting.  That was a month ago.  Having no color sense, and not knowing the difference between “feisty autumn gonad” and “roasted pepper giblet”, i knew i needed help.  And i found it at the local Paint Emporium! 

Rather than go to the hardware store again, and chat up the burly-hot biker boy in the paint department – and risk household hideosity– i took the advice of a friend and went to the Big Time Paint Professionals!  If i agreed to buy at least $75 worth of stuff, they offer a free home “Color Consultant” service!  Woo Hoo!

A few weeks ago, the Color Consultant arrived at the condo.  Trying to gauge my tastes, she eyed various objects d’art*, and enquired about how i’d like to the place to feel.  Explaining that i like to throw parties, have no actual artwork, and wouldn’t know sophistication or class if it bit me in the shorts, she furrowed her brow and made some notes.  Spying the giant plastic Sea Monkey hanging from the dining room chandelier, as well as the 3′ steel sword by the stairs, she continued to scribble furiously – and headed out to her car to retrieve more paint samples.

Returning with a dusty box – which, in hindsight may have been labeled “Paint Samples – Cyndi Lauper 1985 Collection” – she said i seem to be the “eclectic, international party girl”  What she left out were the words “dorky, unsophisticated and juvenile”.  We walked through each room, she made suggestions, stuck little colored papers here and there, and wrote everything down for me.  At the end of the hour, she gave me my “Color Strategy“!  Do you hear that?  i had a COLOR STRATEGY!

Armed with the confidence that only a certified Color Strategy provides, i wandered off the the Paint Emporium yesterday morning.  It was finally time to tackle the kitchen**.  Taking three of the colored papers (for the kitchen and living room) to the manager, i explained that i was “Deploying Phase I of my Color Strategy”.  And i might have done so with just the hint of smirk.  He asked what finish, and which type of paint, i wanted for each color.  “Huh?”  Oh, and he even asked me how much…  Shit, i don’t know.  Enough to paint a fucking kitchen, for christsakes!

Confidence rattled, i returned home and set about painting.  Going from a “melted butter jism” color to a “festering mosquito bite red”, even i knew it would take a few coats to fully cover the walls. Painting away merrily, i was disturbed to find that the walls were really splotchy.  Maybe from the wall paper glue residue?  Crap.  Well, i had enough paint for three coats, so it would probably cover ok… Finishing the second coat, i knew i was hosed… Let it dry?  My walls looked like “Sunburnt Teenager with Acne”.  Shit.  Should i have used primer?

Returning to the Paint Emporium, wearing my paint covered t-shirt and looking a bit despondent, i noticed the manager and clerk exchanged knowing glances.  As if to say “Another Paint-tard…”.  The manager looked at the clock.  Hey… did those little shit weasels make a bet on how long before i came back to report disaster?  The manager set his strategically stubbled metrosexual jaw, and drilled in with questions about my “situation”.

After consulting with nearly every clerk in the store – and perhaps a few customers to assure my complete public humiliation – they gave me some tinted enamel primer, another quart of “festering mosquito bite” paint, new roller pads, and i was on my way. 

The best thing about oil-based primer?  Massive destruction of brain cells.  i hadn’t realized it was a problem until The Boy arrived with a few of his friends, and demanded that i quit huffing fumes.  My response?  “Hey, anybody wanna get high?”  He opened some doors and they scooted downstairs to avoid the toxic cloud in the kitchen.

Whew.  It turned out lovely.  My confidence rattled, but not completely shattered.  i’m not afraid of color… and i still have a Color Strategy!


* during our discussion, the only thing i plan to hang on my wall in the living room is the bedspread my paternal grandmother made for her marriage bed.  it was used once (Ewwww!) and is simply stunning.  Color Consultant?  Went nuts, said that with a 30′ tall wall, i’d be crazy not to mount it and display it in the living room… and off we went!

** Motivation?  Hosting a party for my fellow “professional degree” graduates Monday.  Somewhere between 20-40 people will descend upon me for a major throw down.  i thought it might be good to paint the kitchen first…

Truly frightening

What’s not to like about Halloween?  You get to dress up, and pretend to be someone (or something) you’re not.  Little critters come to your door displaying full-spectrum adorability*.  You don’t have to spend time with family, buy presents or cook things.  Oh, and there’s chocolate!

Me?  i dress up.  From the year of the Elvii**, to Xena to Marge Simpson, i’m a big fan of costuming for the holiday.  This year, a great Friday night party option dropped at my feet… Let the games begin!  Swiping the idea from the “barney huntress” from a few years back, i dragged my “partner in costume crime” to every thrift store in the city.

Successfully capturing our quarry – as many stuffed Elmo’s and Cookie Monsters as we could carry – we spent last Saturday night in my dining room.  Listening to tunes and decapitating our prey.  Skinning stuffed animals for their pelts?  Strangely satisfying.  Lost in our task, it was after midnight when The Boy and three of his friends emerged from the billiards room downstairs… to encounter my friend wearing a baby blue fur loincloth at the top of the stairway.  And nothing else. 

cookie monster slayer: Hey.  How ya doin’?

The look on their faces was precious.  Well, The Boy didn’t flinch.  Been there.  Seen it all before… 

daisyfae:  What?  Your parents don’t do this shit?

Apparently not.  We went on to explain the costume concept – cookie monster in his loincloth and me wearing nothing more than a bra and a red fur sarong.  As the pack calmed down from their initial shock, i mentioned that we were, in fact, “Furries“***.  This was met with instantaneous shock and disgust by the one member of The Boy’s entourage who knew what i meant!

J:  Oh my GAWD!!!  That’s DISGUSTING!  I saw that on CSI

The final result?  Quite fetching, don’t you think?  My favorite aspect was the Elmo pelt hanging around my waist – complete with working “voicebox”.  When i bumped him, or accidently caught him in the car door?  The headless little bugger would still chatter excitedly – sometimes even vibrating enthusiastically!

Elmo: That Tickles!  Toss Elmo!

Right.  “Toss Elmo into the Fire” is more like it….

Be Afraid.  Be Very Afraid...

Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid...

 More pics at the flickr site

* This was the first year i had ZERO trick-or-treaters on Beggars’ Night.  Sad.  i used to live for this – sitting on the porch, in costume, with a basket of full-sized candy bars for the kiddies.  And a small cooler of chilled beer for the parents… Even dressed up the damn dog.  Carved punkins like a madwoman. (sigh).  i moved to Oldsville this year.  No one drops their kids off to run the neighborhood at Geriatric Condo Central.  Fuck.  i may have to crash in with friends next year…

** The last year the kids let me dress them for Halloween, we were the Three Elvii – Big Elvis, Medium-Sized Elvis and The Littlest Elvis.  i made three matching white satin jumpsuits, with capes and sequins. We were quite the hit on Beggar’s Night!  Teaching your 4 year old son to say “Thank you.  Thankyouverymuch”  – complete with “lip twitch” – after receiving candy?  Perhaps reason enough that he’ll never let you costume him again…

*** Technically, we decided we were “Plushies”, rather than “Furries”, since Elmo and Cookie Monster are stuffed creatures, rather than cute anthropomorphic woodland critters.