Only Enough Blood to Run One at a Time

This is the point in the week where I give up entirely on coming up with a new post and instead point you to one written by a member of Moi's Posse, one so utterly hysterical and/or enlightening, I simply must spread da wuv.

This post was written by Moi's dear friend Wicked, a woman whose way-weird job (working with chillruns all day, yew!) is mitigated by her way-talented and gut bustingly funny ability to write about it.

Boys, this all about y'all. Girl's you'll find yourself doing a lot of ah-ahing. In between the laughter.

The Week of the Penii

Now excuse ay Moi; I have to go write about pizza.

Until You Walk a Mile in Another Man's Moccasins You Can't Imagine the Smell

I know, I've been lagging in my posts lately. That's because I'm glued to this computer 24/7 and not in a good way, i.e. to blog, comment and/or check the myriad of crap celebrity gossip sites I have to visit in one day just to attain that right level of smugness about Moi's own life.

And when I'm not working, I'm reading. Specifically, this:


Those who know me well know I am totally scent-obsessed. It started when I was a little girl. Because I had a habit of constantly wandering off on my own, when out and about my mother kept me near to her at all times by holding tight to my hand. A move that put me right in line with her own hand and wrist. (And by the way, helped my mother to develop some freakishly ambidextrous skills).

But other than keeping me safe, my mother's grip also introduced me to something else: her perfume. For years, she doused herself each morning with Ma Griffe, and for years I associated that smell with my mother. In fact, it would be a long time before I realized that her smell actually came from a bottle and not, as I'd assumed, out of the pores of her own skin. Which meant I could smell that way, too. Only I wasn't allowed. Perfume, she said, was not for little girls. To this day, I cannot smell Ma Griffe without being instantly reminded of my mother. Sometimes, if I'm really missing her, I'll drop by our city's local perfume shop and have the sales assistant spritz me some Ma Griffe on a scent card.

I'm sure you all have had similar experiences. Because, male or female, scent is one of our most powerful senses. And yet, our most profoundly mysterious. I never realized how much until I started reading The Emperor of Scent, which is, in a nutshell, the story of a man who tries to come up with the first scientific explanation for how and why we smell. Seriously. No one's ever been able to do it before. It's our greatest molecular biology mystery.

So, if you do nothing else within the next couple weeks, expand your brain by going to the library and reading the first chapter of this book. I don't know about you, but I love being reminded on a daily basis what complex, freakish organisms we human beings really are.

That's all. Go. Read. I'll be back.

Mute Monday: Weird But Good

In (dis)honor of tonight's Academy Awards:

Make Cake, Not War

Busy, busy. Like a bee. Only larger.

So all I've gone and done blob-wise today, is nick the Troll's apple cake recipe and post it over at my other blob, The Undaunted Baker.

Come on over, would ya? Because we need frostings, Party People, frostings!

No, No. Please Don't Design

With apologies to Ms R for paraphrasing one of her post titles, you wanna know my greatest fashion pet peeve? When celebretards decide that just because they've paid their dues taking years of advice from some underweight, over-tanned bobble-headed stylist, they're all of a sudden qualified to leave the cozy nest and design their own line of clothing and accessories.

When, really, they should just stay home.

It always ends badly, proving Moi's Fashion Dictum #456:

Celebretard + Fashion Dabbling = Total Disaster

Just look at the sorry ass state of today's perfume industry. A market that used to be dominated by big, bold chypre/aldehyde/leather frags has been successfully skinkified by a plethora of nose-numbing fruity florals thanks to Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, and Mandy Moore. You know the world as we know it is about to fold when Guerlain, maker of such masterpieces a Mitsouko and L'Heure Bleue, suddenly decides it simply must capture the celebrity-inspired youth culture and puts out a strawberry-infused juice inspired by Hilary Swank.

Instead of doing what we used to do, which is buttoning ourselves up and letting our perfume (think: Caron Tabac Blond and Chanel No. 5) broadcast sex, sex, sex; today, every woman under the age of 80 is trying to rock a Hot Topic crop top, while their perfume says: bite me; I smell like a watermelon.

Still, the perfume industry is the least of my worries. What really has my engine cranked are celebrity clothing designers.

Check out this offering from P. Diddy/Sean John's Fall 2008 Collection.


Now, I ask you: In what universe – gay, straight, or sittin' on the fence – would wearing this outfit not be an occasion for sending the wearer straight to jail, do not pass Go, do not collect $200, just sit your happy ass in there for a bit and think about what your utterly idiotic choice in clothing is going to do to the unsuspecting public?

About the only thing that sweater is good for is smuggling hamsters out of Syria.

How about this?


This sassy lil' number is from Gwen Stefani's Spring 2008 L.A.M.B. collection, which was dominated by, you got it, a naughty school girl theme. With some sequins tossed about here and there to keep the buyers at Neiman's from completely running screaming into the hills. They just got halfway there and said, "Meh, isn't Lindsay Lohan out of rehab by now?"

Look, I know, hell, I understand, that the vast majority of fashion design is about fantasy. It's okay if an outfit says, "If I were a countess slumming on Capri, I'd wear that dress." Or, "If I were a rock star, I'd for sure be purchasing those purple suede thigh high boots." Even, "If I were escaping from Bellevue, then I could see myself merrily skipping out the gates in that bubble skirt and shrunken cardigan."

But there's a big problem if your first thought is, "Wellllllllll, if I were from Mars . . ."

Some celebrities try to distract us by naming their clothing line something totally innocuous and unrelated to their celebrity. Like Jennifer Lopez's Sweetface and JustSweet labels. But she's not fooling Moi. I can sniff out a poorly constructed celebretard knockoff a mile away. With a raging head cold.


You can dress it up in shiny silver and cornea-searing apple green silk, but it's still a freakin' hoodie and tunic dress. And a couple of ho-hum ones at that.

And while I admire Kimora Lee Simmon's for her single minded dedication to grabbing life's gusto with both bejeweled hands (and of course her lucky ducky locking of lips with Djimon Hounsou), her Baby Phat design aesthetic is, to put it kindly, Über Trash on Wheels.


So here's another one of Moi's Fashion Dictums (#674):

The next time your fave celebrity comes along hocking their latest perfume/evening gown/camo cargo pant/bed linen, turn on your heels and walk away. Because, Party People, just as we do not want to go through life smelling like a bowl of fruit salad tossed with a hint of Glade bathroom freshener, neither do we want to look that way, either.

Mute Monday: Diversity

It's Interesting When People Die

Is it just Moi, or are you also sick to death of the whole cottage industry that's grown up around stories of despair? Every time some nut job packing a grudge and a Glock decides to let loose at a high school or college campus, our media grab hold of the story and shake it loose for everything it's worth. The thing's already bleeding and lying on the floor. But damn, if they don't lie down on it and beat it some more.

What I hate most are the questions:

Matt Lauer: Can you tell us, why did this happen? (Gee, how are we to ever really know? Shit just happens?)

Katie Couric: How did you feel when the gunman stormed the classroom (Scared shitless?)

Dan Rather: Officer, can you tell me how you felt when you arrived on the scene? (Scared shitless?)

One of a dozen similarly glossified CNN reporters: Doctor, can you tell me the situation in the emergency room when they started bringing in the victims? (Chaotic?)

Nancy Grace: Tell me, Mr. Psychiatrist, what can victims expect to experience during the first couple weeks after suffering a trauma like this? (Hours of meetings with lawyers to sue for bazillions?)

And then there are the photos. Of wailing mouths and mothers clutching and fathers accusing. Of blood stained hands and shrouded gurneys. Of people in charge with guilt in their eyes assuring us that they will do something, anything, to guarantee the world that this will never happen again.

Well guess what? There's no way anyone can guarantee that. We can't legislate it away. We can't psychoanalyze it all okay. What we should do is have the utmost respect for the victims and not turn their terrible tragedy into a circus.

Happy V-Day

Once I stood to lose her
And I saw what I had done
Bowed down and threw away the hours
Of her garden and her sun.

– Eddie Vedder

Snowed Under

Y'all have seen this child before. And no, it's not Moi's. Hush, now. You know better.

But I trot him out on occasion when I'm having one of those Life's Handing Out Lemons and I'm Not Even Capable of Making a Glass of Lemonade, Much Less an Entire Lemon Tart with Blueberry Coulis and Creme Fraiche days.

So because I have to scoot along and get some work done and fret over a few other things, I'm going to invite you all to post comments on just about anything you want. Anything at all. Tell me your favorite flavor of bubble gum. What you did this weekend. What's pissing you off and making you jump for joy. Rant away on any ol' thing.

Knowing you guys, it will all make Moi smile. And I need to stretch those muscles today something awful.

Mute Monday: Valentine's Day

You took a white orchid turned it blue.

Why won't you dance with me? I'm not no Limburger.

You're such a wonderful person; but you got problems.

What some call love? Well, that's like hypnotizing chickens.

I told you from the start just how this would end.
When I get what I want and I never want it again.

I might like you better if we slept together.

I dare not drown my sorrow in the warm glow of your wine.

You're perfect, yes it's true. But without me, you're only you.

Throw down your umbilical noose, so I can climb right back.


In honor of this V-D week; what's your favorite anti-love song?

Lazy Ass Excuse for a Blog Post #4 Bazillion

I have been wanting to do an "I hate PETA" post for like a bazillion years now, but this one really does all my work for me. If you give money to any animal cause, please, please, please send it to an animal WELFARE group and not, gag, one that positions itself as animal RIGHTS.

Click here for the difference (my, I'm bossy today).

And then here as to why PETA needs a brand new bag.

Time To Bake

Remember this post?

Want to know what it is that I DO with all that chile?

Then head over to the Undaunted Baker for a savory pie recipe to find out.

Because I'm an Equal Opportunity Hater

What's the definition of "insanity"? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting the same result?



Do the American people have the courage to do something completely different?


(For those of you for whom the video won't play, Moi's summary:

Thomspon, Huckabee, and Paul make some thoughtful observations regarding bloated gub'ment departments and McCain proceeds to make a burst-vein ass of himself in response. Naturally, 'merica's voting for the ASS.)

STUPOR TUESDAY

How utterly ironic that a woman who supports gun control has absolutely no problem shoving the barrel of a great big fat one in the smalls of our backs to force us to do something against our will.

Pop a Fresca, grab a bag of Cheetos, and see if you can stomach all eight minutes of this horseshit. Or, scroll over to time stamp 4:23, where she says it clear as day.



If you're really ADD, basically:

Democrat Hillary Rodham Clinton said Sunday she might be willing to garnish the wages of workers who refuse to buy health insurance to achieve coverage for all Americans.

The New York senator has criticized presidential rival Barack Obama for pushing a health plan that would not require universal coverage. Clinton has not always specified the enforcement measures she would embrace, but when pressed on ABC's "This Week," she said: "I think there are a number of mechanisms" that are possible, including "going after people's wages, automatic enrollment."

Bitch even has the balls to say that the means, no matter how uncomfortable, forceful, or downright unethical, are not as important as achieving and end - one unproven to do any ding dang good at that. Hmmm . . . can you think of any other regimes that regularly use the ol' End Justifies the Means argument?

Smells like Brave New World to Moi.

And I simply do NOT have an outfit for that.

Mute Monday: Pinnacle