Ummm.....Hi.

I've become a bit of an introvert lately. And I guess this blog has somehow symbolized another human being to me, because I've been avoiding it also.

But I'm back. And I'm ready to have friends again.

So, hi. My name is Angie. What's yours?

Oh, and I'm kinda shy.

And really weird.

Hope that's ok with you.

Wanna build a fort?

Or make some raw food?

Or go to the bookstore and look for craft ideas and do them?

Or go on a midnight bike ride and find a roof to climb up on and make a secret club that does secret stuff up there? Like throw things on people or play like we're in a spaceship?

Or paint something?

Or make prank phone calls?

Or dress up like a zombie and ride around town?

Or just come over and play with me?

Fashion Crisis

So I've been pondering the original purpose behind this blog, and realizing that I have made a mess of it. My intent was to make a list of goals, which I did here, and then publicly record my progress. I guess I've gone a little astray, as I don't even remember much about what that list said. I don't even know if it's still relevant to what I want today in my life, so I might even revise the list a bit.

One thing that I do remember is my desire to become a bit more stylish. I guess this one is on hold for a few reasons, the most important being funds of course. (Feel free to nominate me for What Not to Wear...) But another reason is that I still don't really know what I would like to express about myself- I mean who I would like to become more of. Last year it seemed all I wore was professional attire due to work. I guess what I wanted then was to make money.

Today I want to be comfortable. I want to honor my natural beauty and talents. I want to explore looking out more than looking in. I want to recognize quirkiness as perfection, and perfection as relative. I want to rediscover mornings as a time of meditation, instead of a time for alteration.

However, with that said, I want to find balance and harmony in design and nature. What I mean is that I want some alteration of the product that wakes up with frizzy hair, bad breath, and an oily face. I want some progress past my Uggs and hoodie sweatshirts. Yet, I cannot tell you how much I love the idea of waking up, throwing on the most comfortable thing in my closet, brushing my teeth, and walking out the door to start my day. I should have been an Indian. With a toothbrush.

Like I said, I do want to focus on being more "put together," whatever that means. I refuse to believe that I have to be uncomfortable to achieve it, so I am going on the hunt for designers that make comfortable clothes that are innovative and quirky and practical. I want to stay away from sports clothing, skateboard/surf designers (Billabong, will you please confine yourself to 16 and younger? Get your logo'd sleeves and candy-colored accessories off of the twenty-somethings!), and pu-leeze- no spandex. I have been down that road and I don't want to look back, unless it's for exercise or sleepwear.

At this time I will open up the suggestion box for contributions. Again, I'm looking for designers/labels who are

1. Comfortable
2. Quirky/Fun
3. Not exclusively fit for teenagers
4. Practical (especially for Utah winters. However, every piece does not need to fit this requirement.)
5. Modest

Some examples of a label I really like: Filly and Prairie Underground (although I would make some alterations to make their designs a bit more modest).

Fannie Brice - It's Gorgeous to be Graceful

This weekend I spend many hours laying around watching old movies. This clip is from "Be Yourself," a 1930 film starring Fannie Brice. Fannie has to be one of the funniest people who ever lived. I spent the rest of the weekend watching youtube clips of her.

As you can tell, I really need to get a life. Actually, I think I just got hired somewhere, but we'll see. I'm still waiting for the final call.

Well I hope you all had a fun Thanksgiving and enjoyed a lazy weekend like I did.

Why I voted for Prop. 2

And I quote, "KFC, that's foul!"

Confessions of a Stinky Woman

All apologies for the lack of posts as of late. School and a California trip are the culprits.

Due to a pressing school assignment, I have to keep this short and sweet. But I feel like I need to get something off my chest. Or at least that region. You'll understand in a second.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

Wait...

Ok.

Here it goes.

My confession.

Right.

Now.

I don't wear deodorant. I haven't in about 8 years or so. I've never had a problem with BO, and I've always believed that the chemicals in deodorant are bad for the body- especially when you put those chemicals on a place that absorbs as much as your armpits do. My mother had cancer twice (ovarian and breast), so I don't take carcinogens lightly. I also think that anti-perspirants are horrible. I mean, if your body wants to sweat, let it sweat. The good Lord made us that way for a reason.

Well, I mentioned that I've never had BO. That is, until now. Suddenly I have noticed a slight, well... you know. And I'm horrified by the thought of being stinky.

Just a side note here: I think I'm starting to smell because I'm too poor to eat as many fresh veggies as I used to. The lesson here is: Hamburger Helper= stinky pits.

Ok, so last week after an especially long jog I was breathing in myself and I decided enough is enough already. So I decided to search for an all-natural deodorant. I've tried Tom's and some weird purple crystal concoction, but didn't like either very much.

I google searched "natural deodorant" and this is what I found.



A diamond in the rough. A miraculous miracle of a product. Aluminum Free, Paraben free, Phthalates free, Proplene Glycol Free, Cruelty Free and Vegan.

And it smells like creamsicles. Yum.

I am in love.

This deodorant is made by a breast cancer survivor. She makes a skin cream and a hair and scalp revival serum also. Her story is pretty amazing. Here's the link to find out more.

Cimarron

Lately I've been experiencing an intense nostalgia for all things from my childhood. It started with a sequence of dreams about the first house my family lived in- a home I grew to 14 years of age in. After that, we moved to the "rich" side of town, aka California Park.

California Park is a housing development built on a man-made swamp of a lake, which somehow gave the developers an excuse to give each property a half-scoop of backyard. It's like, they thought that we'd all be hanging out at the lake after work and school. Hanging out with the dead fish on the banks. Who would ever want a pool, anyway, when you can take out a little paddle boat and make lines through the green film on the surface of the lake?

Anyhow, our California Park home was beautiful from the outside- a replica of an old Victorian complete with a white porch and swing. The inside, however, was undecorated for the most part due to the mortgage not leaving much room for that sort of thing. This whole scenario is in stark contrast to the old home. We'll call that one Cimarron.

Cimarron was a track home. I remember feeling like I had walked into another dimension the first time I visited Robyn, my friend who lived around the corner. Her home was exactly like mine!

How could this be? This is my house! How did you get one made to look just like it?

I didn't understand that all of the homes in my neighborhood were examples of one of three Drake Home models. Later I enjoyed visiting my "other homes" to see the endless decorating possibilities.

Cimarron wasn't much to look at on the outside, and even the inside was a cozy middle-class cliche of mauves and floral wallpaper. My mother's rattan shelves displayed her unicorn collection and white porcelain praying hands. The entry way let to an arch-framed Japanese Room, as we called it, that housed oriental-print couches and Japanese figurines galore. The crowning jewel of this room was the Geisha doll that stood forever posing in her glass case. The fans on the wall seemed to be the backdrop of her stage, and I would sit watching her quiet performance, dreaming of a Japan who's sky consisted of fireworks and dragons. Also in this room was my parent's reel-to-reel. I gauged my maturing body by how well the oversized earphones fit on my head. About the time I no longer had to hold them to my ears was about the same time I could sing Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven all the way through.

Years later I would loose a friend in a car accident who's favorite song was Stairway. In remembrance of him, I would sit for hours in the Japanese room listening and crying. The static on the song would always make me think he was trying to communicate back somehow. I would listen and pretend he was telling me that he was fine.

My favorite part of Cimarron had to be the backyard. It was a child's paradise, complete with a pool, hot tub, deck, swing set, playing field, fruit trees, and a secret garden for tea parties. At night I would go explore my kingdom while my parents slept. Possessing courage only children have, I would walk around the pool with eyes closed, feeling my way on the narrow edge with my toes. I would run around the yard and spin in place while looking up at the stars, pretending the whirling was getting me closer and closer to space. The swing set hung from the moon, as far as I was concerned, and all I needed to do was kick off a little harder to find out.

I miss the magic of childhood. I want it back.

What things do you do to recapture the magic?

Or am I the only one who thinks about these kinds of things?

I'm Not Normal

Last night I realized something: I am not normal.

Or at least, I don't think I am. Maybe you can tell me?

Let me explain:

Since childhood, I have been plagued by an irrational fear of situations that really only happen in horror films. This fear is set on a circadian cycle, resuming every night around around 11:30 or so. It used to start at sundown, but now I have a husband who's mere presence wards off these strange happenings. That is, until he falls asleep. At around 11:30.

Thinking back, I can blame a common origin for most of these fears: The movies It, Nightmare on Elm Street, Psycho, Child's Play, Poltergeist, and The Exorcist. I think these movies have influenced me more than any single bit of media I've ever been exposed to. My nightly rituals are so rigidly structured due to these movies. Let me share some with you.

I have a bottle of visine in my medicine cabinet that I use almost every night. I don't have dry eyes. I don't wear contacts. I use it to soothe my eyes from the soap.

The soap?

Yes. The soap. The soap that gets in my eyes every night. From washing my face. From opening my eyes while I'm washing my face. Because I'm too afraid to hunch over a drain with my eyes closed. Because the It lives down there. And he will kill me. And then he will make my blood shoot out of someones sink. And I really don't want anyone else to have to buy endless bottles of visine. I think it's already a product that's way too heavily used. I mean, they haven't proved it but I think it might be addictive.

Moving on.

I go through towels like mad. I seriously waste so much laundry detergent on towel-washing. Because I always have to soak up the water on the floor after my showers. Because I take showers mostly without the curtain drawn. Because that way I can see Norman before he can take me by surprise. Because I'd rather know I'm getting stabbed then have to watch it as a blood-squirted shadow on the side of the shower wall.

Speaking of being snuck up on, I refuse to showcase any of my porcelain dolls in my house. They are out in boxes in the garage and that's where they will stay until I sell them on EBay. Even the collector's edition doll that my grandmother left me in her will. I don't care. These little demons will get no mercy from me.

Let me tell you a story.

My brother, who is 8 years older than me, once had a clown doll. He loved to squeeze the belly of this doll, which caused an eery, echoey laugh that haunted me in my sleep. He loved to sneak up behind me when I was alone and squeeeeeeeaaaaaze. I can't say that I blame him, for the reaction that he witnessed was the same every time: a high-pitched scream and crying.

Is this the reason for my irrational fear of dolls?

No, my friends. There is much more to this story. Quit interrupting me and I'll get to it.

So, the years went on and the clown joke kind of faded as I got older. Mind you, I was always afraid of that stupid clown, but I just had too much pride to admit it. So the day came when my brother packed the clown away in a box to give to the Salvation Army. I was so relieved. I watched the clown being placed in the box, and a weight was lifted from my chest as I realized that I never again had to hear that shrill laugh.

Several weeks later, I came home from school to a very angry brother.

"What the hell?! Why did you do that? How did you do that?"

"Do what?" I asked. I thought maybe he found out that I'd gone through his room, again, while he wasn't home. I always found the best stuff in there.

"That stupid clown! Why did you take it out of the Salvation Army box? And stick it in my closet?"

"What? I didn't! What are you talking about"

"And how did you get it to laugh again? It's been broken. That's why I was giving it away."

"No. Is it really in there?"

At this point, I followed him to his room, where, lo and behold- the clown is sitting in his closet. With that sick smirk on its face.

My brother picks it up, and it laughs.

"Huuuaaaaaaahhh. Huuuuuuaaaahhhh. Ha-ha-ha-ha..."

It sounded creepier to me than ever before.

"Yeah, it sounds broken. It's all slow sounding and creepy," I said. "But I promise, Chris, I didn't do it."

"Really? That's so weird. Well, I guess we just can't get rid of this thing."

He threw it over to me, where I reluctantly caught it, setting it off yet again. I turn it over to see if something's wrong with the electrical.

Sure enough. No batteries.

I'm not joking. No batteries.

I will never buy a doll for my children. I don't care if it pees itself or cries for its momma. I will decapitate it. I will. I will stab it with a dang knife while it's eyes blink for mercy. As far as I'm concerned, they are all Chucky's offspring.

You know what else I show no mercy for? Televisions. I have not owned a television. Ever. I have never bought one, and the only reason there is one in my house right now is because Mark just brought his in from storage. And it has never once been turned on because we don't have cable so we will only use it for dvd viewing and we don't have a dvd player so we watch movies on our computer, which I believe is entirely friendly and non-poltergeist possessed. But I'll be honest, I still don't trust the thing. I wouldn't be surprised if I came home one day to fuzzy static. And let me show you what I would do to either of them if that ever happened:

Because poltergeists can't talk through a pile of glass.

As for the movie The Exorcist, I won't speak of my fears surrounding that. Or my experience. I won't do that to you and I won't do that to me. Besides, they say fear gives it more power.

I'm going to take a quick break to read scriptures. Excuse me.

Ok. Much better.

So, to sum this post up, I guess I pretty much just realized last night that not everyone checks the front door a bazillion times before bed, as well as the closets and the laundry room. Not everyone insists on being wrapped in a cocoon by their sheets, with strict attention to the feet. Not everyone alternates between thinking it's best to just close their eyes, wait- no it's not, I should keep them open, no, because I'll never get to sleep. But how can one sleep in a time like this....?!

I digress.

Happy Halloween.