Phantasmagoria

Look into my eyes.....No! Wait! Hynotize your bad old self!

2008-09-16T20:46:00.003-04:00

This site has been sadly neglected, but it is mainly because we have had other things to do. Self-hypnosis was not one of those things. So, why did so many assholes feel compelled to tack on their own postings about self hypnosis. Really?

I find it virtually possible to site still for 5 minutes, let alone sit still, slow down the thought process and hypnotize myself. Why, if I had been able to hypnotize myself, I would have had no need for anti-anxiety meds. I would have no need to watch what I eat because I would use my super powers of self-hypnosis to not be hungry or to feel like I was going to regurge if I ate something other than a leafy green.

I was going to log in and delete the comments, which have been there forever (and it is MY bad that I just saw them), but really..how much of the blather would anyone have read.

Folks, don't post your marketing bits here. I won't visit your site there. Go away. Hypnotize your own bad old self and leave me out of it.

Christmas Tea Time

2006-12-01T21:50:00.000-05:00

The Christmas season is upon us and we decide to have a nice Christmas tea. I make the snacks and you arrive with a beautiful arrangement of stargazer lillies.

You place the bouquet on the kitchen table.

As my throat swells shut, courtesy of my allergy to lillies, you chuckle quietly and sip your tea...have a few almond cookies....that are loaded with aresenic. I believe we'll both be found with a blue tinge, will we not?

Happy holidays!

PB&J: Polonium, Brisance, & Jelly

2006-12-01T21:38:00.000-05:00

Okay, here's one: We're enjoying peanut butter and jelly sandwiches together. I like crunchy, you like creamy. You like grape jelly and I like seedless raspberry jam.

You've rigged my super chunk with a piece of C-4 that will explode spectacularly when bitten, appearing convincingly like a case of spontaneous human combustion.

You don't know it yet, but your Welch's has a half-life of 138.376 days.

Spy vs. SpyFriend vs. Friend

2006-11-30T18:17:00.000-05:00

Today, I was talking to Moseydotes on the phone and talking about how, in my next life, I will check the box that says I want to be sibling free. This led to the observation that, in the next life, she and I cannot be siblings because, based upon the observed behaviors of our sons, we would probably try to kill each other, to be found in a grisly heap of morbid drama that left the medical examiner unable to ascertain exactly whom was killed by whom, when, and how.

Now come the examples.

Bear in mind that I am more of a drama queen and Mo is, well - quiet. Secretive. Protective of her innermost thoughts. More likely to conceal.

Therefore - Behold!

Loud circus music blaring.
Mo is found with a harpoon with festive streamers tied to the shaft protruding from her head and I am found with a single gunshot between the eyes, while our lifeless hands clutch a harpoon and a small gun with a silencer, respectively.

That would be the outcome, if we were siblings.

Bad Bear! Bad, Bad, Bear!

2006-07-14T12:49:00.000-04:00

From: Me
Sent: Friday, July 14 2006 12:11 PM
To: 'JerseyGuy'
Cc: 'Lou Lou'
Subject: Bear Gone Wild
Importance: High

Okay, so maybe he’s not gay, after all. But dear God, it’s getting so I’m afraid to even open the closet door; and where the hell do you even find handcuffs that small?!? Well, I guess this does finally explain why Sally “Sunday Spanker” Ragdoll keeps disappearing from her place on the bookshelf...

But there are still an awful lot of missing things that remain unexplained ...

It Bears Explaining, But Bear With Me

2006-07-07T16:07:00.000-04:00

It all started on my very special nineteenth birthday when I was gifted with a declaration of undying devotion along with a pair of emerald earrings that were way too expensive for a guy to give a girl who wouldn’t sleep with him, and also a teddy bear. The whole undying devotion thing, well, that’s painfully complicated so let’s leave it at that; and the earrings were awesome and all, but that teddy bear … well … it’s special for reasons that only the person who gave it to me fully understands and all that it represents is lovingly, deeply and meaningfully sacred.

Which is, of course, why I have the undeniable need to fuck with it.

Humphrey Beargart turned twenty on Friday. That milestone having gone unacknowledged seems to have triggered merely the first hint of what could prove to be a deeper level of rebellion than any one of us suspects.

From: Me
Sent: Thursday, July 06, 2006 6:38 PM
To: ‘JerseyGuy’
Cc: 'LouLou'
Subject: as time goes by
Importance: High

I really don’t mind that you forgot MY birthday, but the little guy was pretty fucking heartbroken. He disappeared last week and I finally found him this morning passed out on the floor of my closet with a half-empty bottle of Cabana Boy. First off, he’s not even old enough to drink; plus—the ascot … the half-naked boy on the bottle—I’m pretty sure your lack of attention is making him gay.

Stay tuned, kiddies. Same Bat Time, Same Bat Channel.

All Glossed Up And No One to Blow (the sequel in which there is far too much information)

2006-04-07T08:00:00.000-04:00

Now you have to read Lou Lou's entry below before this one if you haven't already, and do not play games with me. Read it now or you will spoil everything.

Okay, welcome back. Here's the thing. I am not at all opposed to sex in any of it's non-missionary forms except for that one thing that I will patently never ever allow and I swear it's not for lack of the last guy having tried repeatedly unless it was just that he had really, really bad aim. Any objections I may have ever had to oral sex were brainwashed out of me in Navy Basic Training (seriously, they put you in this dark room and tell you it's just a "visual acuity test", and then you wake up the next morning and even the creamed chipped beef magically doesn't make you gag anymore and you can undo thirteen buttons in under five seconds using only your teeth).

But there are days, people (and when I say people, you know who you are) when even the most orally-fixated of us girls have had enough of the noggin nudgingings and whispery whinings and the lingering scent of warm peanut butter. And for those moments, I have only two words.

Lip Venom.

All Glossed Up and No One to Blow *

2006-04-06T22:06:00.000-04:00

First, let me give a holla to Moseydotes who came up with this delightful title. Where did it come from? Well, we are about to reveal why this is our topic du jour.

Today, my lovely box from Drugstore.com came, full of Aveda shampoo and conditioner AND a tube of Duwop Venom Gloss in the lovely shade of Poppy. Lip Venom Gloss, I say.

Do you know what Lip Venom gloss is? Well, it is lip gloss that has great color and shine and it has something in it that causes the circulation to hit your lips and make them nice and plump.

I shared it with Moseydotes this evening, assuring her that, if she waited for just ten minutes she would be understanding why I had a mental image of looking like Edwina from Absolutely Fabulous when she had collagen injections in her lips.

Lo and behold, the Lip Venom Gloss kicked in and Moseydotes and I began a debate about who thought up this stuff? It causes a sensation not unlike rubbing yourself with cayenne pepper. Where did the initial spark of an idea come from on this? Who designed this stuff?

A woman.

A woman with an unwillingness to perform oral sex?

Imagine this -

A heated encounter. Kisses against a wall, passionate groping, and then - that nudging downward for the inevitable. The solution? Lip Venom Gloss. Ten minutes post contact, I imagine that there would be some excruciating pain and discomfort. It would not be a happy occasion. It would not be an occasion that would be soon forgotten. It would not be an occasion that he would ask to repeat.

What we learned about the evils of organized religion.

2006-03-09T20:35:00.000-05:00

In the grand scheme of things, the reason that Moseydotes and LouLou are a dynamic duo of spinning, evolving brain power is that, although we lack the paper stating that we are educated women, we continue to educate ourselves - and each other - on a variety of topics.

Today, I called Moseydotes with the threat that I was going to vomit, having had a boxed lunch, gratis courtesy of a caterer that want my business. The boxed lunch was to die for and was packed to the point that there was not one bit of free space in the box. I'm on a diet, so it was a bad thing.

I shared with her that, this morning, I was catching up with my boss and we talked about the bad funeral. Now, first I said that I hoped that, should I go to join the choir in the vestibule before he does, he would say the meaningful words that were lacking at this weekend's funeral. He said, "That is why you should have a meaningful relationship with a pastor of your own."

I ranted to Moseydotes about how I do have religious beliefs, I do have faith, I am spiritual, however, I have a fear of organized religion because, when you organize religion, you introduce politics and politics are evil and I just don't have the ability to buy in that church and political structure necessary to run a business (which the church then becomes) can mix. On this, we are on the same page......and she suggested that I request, "Pray for me" whenever someone says I should commit to a specific religion...or question my lack of affiliation.

All of this was hurled at Moseydotes, after I shared that I had binged and would feel better if I purged. She, The Voice of Reason, said, "Well, Jeez, LouLou, you opened the door and walked right into that one." Yes, I did.

We started talking about whether there were rules that would prevent my boss from conducting the service, as he is a Catholic deacon and I am what I am. This led to a discussion of having hands laid on me...and then on a leftward jag to the snake handling, strychnine drinking religions, such as the Oneness Pentecostals, Church of God of Prophesy, and Church of God with Signs Following. I asked, "Which would you prefer? Snakes or strychnine?" Moseydotes decided that she would prefer snakes, because she could attempt to hold the snake's head away from her, but once you drink the strychnine, well......there it is."

We do this education through rapid fire Googling and information sharing and, in a mere five minutes, we became quite well versed in the churches of this genre. Amid quick quotations, the clicking of keys can be heard as we plow through the Net to find as much, as fast, and preferably with a humorous twist. It's what we do.

Moseydotes read of a church where Coke bottles, filled with kerosene with a rag stuffed into the neck and light it and you can have it shoved into your face. So, I was asked, "Burning kerosene torch or strychnine?" I am vain. I am afraid that I would have to give up religion at that point.

I shared this search for knowledge's bizarre course with my boss, whom I credited with the entire need to go down this strange route - This caused him to laugh and the end result was that I have been assured that if I kick off before him, he will, in fact, speak at my funeral. Well, that's a load off my mind.

And should you be rambling through them thar hills and come across a church with "of Prophesy" or "Oneness" or ""Church of God with Signs Following", think twice before wandering in.......

A Tree

2006-03-07T10:33:00.000-05:00

A tree was really what started it all, so a tree would be pretty damn appropriate; but that didn’t actually occur to me until after the fact. After it just came to me that it should be a tree—a tree of life, specifically—and then Lou Lou scarily included exactly a tree of life among the few options that she proposed a couple of weeks ago which just sealed the deal.

And when I say that a tree started it all, it was that one somewhere between Tel Aviv and Haifa that Rat crashed into and miraculously lived, landing him at a desk near me, leading us together to one particular dance club, where he met Lou Lou and then Lou Lou met me. All because of a tree.

And so a tree it will be, to commemorate twenty years of madness, tattooed right below the base of our necks perhaps. And my brother the artist is brewing up something sort of like this:

I promise that I shall haunt you if.....

2006-03-04T22:03:00.000-05:00

Today, I attended a funeral. It wasn't for anyone that I knew. I was along for moral support. This allowed me to really be neutral in the observation of the service.

The family utilized the services of their family minister, of unknown denomination. He rattled on, stumbling over horribly cliche' passages, prayers, blessings and observations. The deceased was known to be of great intellect. He was someone of depth.

I know that I retained a look of disgust through much of his babbling. I thought about how one deserves some type of commerative event that celebrates one's life and be damned with the trite observations, the same old stories, and the pontifications of those who insist on making it the "All About Me Show". When I die, please DO make it the All About Me Show and, if you go first, whoever you are, and I have a moment and inclination to stand up and rattle off a few significant factoids about your existence, then rest assured I will. Feel free to point out aspects of good persondom that I've managed figure out in life, and know that I will bless any tale of outright insanity that can bring some lightness to an event that is just too weighty and depressing. Don't send me out with The Doors playing, despite my one three-day trip on codeine based cough syrup in college whereupon my roomie and I locked ourselves in our dorm room, feverish and wasted, listening to "Waiting for the Sun" ad nauseum.

Play the Cure or Siouxie or My Chemical Romance and serve up gin and tonic at the reception because it would be the right thing to do. Rest assured that I will conquer my painfully introverted tendencies and climb up on my soap box to celebrate your own existence if called to do so. Don't let people drone on with that miserable Irish blessing. Find something obscure and true and don't paint me to be a saint because - well - God will get you for that, as will I. Let the people that you know are important to me know and have a wake that will bring down the house. And, for the record, I want to be the best looking one in the crowd wearing black.

It sucks to get dead, but it really sucks to get dead and have your own memorial service be about somebody else, be it your minister's bagel breakfast, your brother's inability to deal with his lifetime of issues with you or your friends' inability to articulate in a comfortable manner how bloody brilliant you were. Don't let it happen to you.

The Missing Piece

2006-02-16T15:30:00.000-05:00

So the question remains, who was the fifth person in the car? We have LouLou, Moseydotes, two West Point cadets and _______________.

Satan?
Rat?

There we no other females in our social circle, so this leaves a missing piece to the puzzle. Can anyone remember that very cold night of thievery in November of 1986?

The Island of Lost...

2006-02-14T09:48:00.000-05:00

Okay, I swear I don’t know where the question came from because I’m pretty sure we were talking about something else entirely there at Lou Lou’s kitchen table before she asked out of the blue “Did the West Point cadets sleep at our apartment?” But then there was the question looming in the air with a life of its own and getting all accusatorily “Damn, that whole year is still a huge blur for you two, isn’t it?” and everything. And the more we tried to figure it out, the less clear it all became.

But you should know it’s not like the haze can be attributed to anything like illegal drug use because we hardly ever did that sort of thing except maybe for that one time Lou Lou locked herself and Satan in her bedroom for a while then came out and ate an entire pan of brownies — and I’m not saying anything was going on in there that wasn’t entirely on the up-and-up, but they were really thin brownies because she’d already eaten about half the batter before they even made it into the pan.

Anyhow, the question of whether or not those two West Point Cadets had slept within anything like our reach then naturally led to a discussion of how many other opportunities we’d had -- and missed -- to (ahem) avail ourselves of possibilities that probably need not be expounded upon because ya’ll totally have minds at least as dirty as ours and you know it.

We call that whole “target of opportunity” business our Island of Lost… well, you know.

My end of the island is an exclusive resort with one truly adorable cocktail waiter; more than a few sailors getting totally shitfaced at the bar; and a guy lounging by the pool who shouldn’t really count because he’s obviously so gay.

Hey, it’s Valentine’s Day – a day to ponder fondly such things.

Who’s on your island?

Quick! Someone Stuff It Back Where It Belongs Before It Is Too Late!

2006-02-06T21:15:00.000-05:00

So, on Sunday, when I realized that my sister is still the same old unremorseful manipulative person she's always been, I called Moseydotes, aka The Voice of Reason and asked if she could be ready to go post haste. Paul was taking our Amazing Boys to play laser tag. I had come to the realization that I was the Old LouLou of 1986, with a pressing desire to connect my fist with a sibling's body part. And, as usual, I called Mo to talk me down off the ledge. The bloody mary quest was of necessity, as I am unable to drink in my own house since the sibling tried drunken babysitting for my son and neighborhood children. Mo had two. I had one. I wish I had two.

However, sporting my Docs, my Mo and cameras in hand, it was like so many outings of the past. Slightly imbibed, photography equipment at the ready, and escapism on our minds.

Not only were my tits frozen, but my ass was numb. That pedestrian footbridge was intimidating by its very bridgeness alone, never mind the fact that the wind chill over the James River was inhumane. Joggers in shorts sported red, blotchy chicken skin, which brought to mind two thoughts:

1. Girlfriend REALLY should go eat some cheesecake.
2. What idiot wears shorts when it's this cold?

The fact that I had to go through my entire wallet to find my driver's license to claim my much needed and well deserved bloody mary was a kick in the ass. I wasn't flattered. Desperation hung heavy in the air in those moments. LouLou + Vodka = the ability to salvage the day

I realized, while ranting to Mo, that I hadn't wanted to connect my fist with a human so badly since punching Rat in the chest outside Poseur's in 1986. I shared this with him today via email, told him that I didn't remember WHY exactly I punched him then, but extended a heartfelt apology. If I hit my sibling right now, I would have no regrets. Really.

Therefore, I concluded that I was as close to letting out the old LouLou as I'd come in many years and that I couldn't keep her out because, well, she wouldn't really fit in in my new, more spiritually based job. The part of me that is in touch with my inner LouLou realized on Sunday that I think we need another tattoo (WE meaning me and Mo) and that I rather enjoy bloody marys in the morning. The presence of Mo HERE in Richmond brings a rightness to the universe and a balance to my rather disturbed present mental state.

Full circle.......from club buddies to roomies, to enemies of sorts, to pen pals, to neighbors, to long distance sisters to neighbors in the same subdivision and godparents of our children. What a long, strange trip its been.

It's Two Bitches, Two Bitches, Two Bitches in One!

2006-02-06T09:36:00.000-05:00

Of the two of us, I'm the one who's big on idle chat: the punk-around-the-edges slacker chick who goes months without a haircut and rarely leaves the house with more than lipstick on my face. The one with an entire wardrobe of black t-shirts and jeans because you should never have to work too hard to pull it all together. I'm full of great ideas; but the way I see it, it's somebody else's job to make them happen. Especially when it's a weekend. And there are bloody marys to drink and things to get around to doing that may or may not get done.

She is the pragmatic one: the grown-up-goth girl roustabout who says what she means and means what she says. She wears makeup, gets regular hair colorings, and possesses clothing in actual colors that require coordination. She says she's going to do something and then she does it. In fact, sometimes when other people say they're going to do things and then don't; she does it for them. Even when it's a weekend. And there are bloody marys to drink and lots of things that need doing and will (make no mistake) be done before the weekend is through.

All of this is why it doesn't surprise me much that all it took was a mumble across my frozen lips whilst stomping beside her across the Belle Isle footbridge forty feet above the James River yesterday for this loverly little blog to spring full-formed from the ether of my best friend's brain. Overnight.

No accident that the background is black, nor that those are shoes up there of the big, stompin' combat boot variety. And if the intent at first eludes you, stay a bit and maybe (just maybe) interesting things will begin to emerge from the dust we stomp up and the shifting parade of images, real or imagined, that are the ghosts of our shared memories and the fleeting thoughts of our oft-interlaced days.

Welcome.