If you read Leah over at militarywiferants, and you should, because she is fucking hilarious, then you may have read about my deep ‘sexy’ voice. I have been hearing it described that way a lot lately. Which is pretty weird for me. Because it is normally described as masculine, monotone, robotic.

I feel like I sound like this.

In high school I was in chorus. Unlike males, as a female you have to be a decent singer to be in chorus. Males get in because there aren’t enough; no matter how terrible you are.


My best friend, K, was in chorus. It was the only reason I joined. I was immediately put in the intermediate class which meant K and I got to sit in the back and be obnoxious together. We were both altos (that is the deeper female voice).


In chorus there is a hierarchy. The sopranos are always the sexy, Disney princess types. The altos were the sarcastic types.We always used to joke; the higher pitched the voice, the dumber the girl. They always used to joke; the lower pitched the voice, the more of a lesbian the girl. Sorry. We were little assholes.


My class had two male singers. One tenor, one bass. That was literally it. If one of them was sick, we had no male part that day. Until my chorus teacher realized I could hit their notes. And then I was put in their roles.


This was not the first time I played the part of the man. But, going by the above criteria, I was fucking doomed. I had super short hair, I was thin and flat chested, I wore baggy jeans and t-shirts every day, I had never had a boyfriend, and now it turned out my voice was actually a tenor and not even an alto.


Me at 16 looking smooth as fuck in a tux at my sister’s wedding.

I was basically a man. And definitely a lesbian. I never thought being a lesbian was an insult and it didn’t bother me being called one. It still doesn’t bother me and it still happens regularly. Also, I get called ‘sir’ a lot, even in person.


Every year, we would go to Disney in December and sing Christmas carols. It was called the Candlelight Processional. We would learn a bunch of Christmas songs and sing them. My favorite song in the group was always Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus from the Messiah. I am not even remotely religious. It is just a beautiful song. And fun to sing.

There were a lot of these type of jokes going on.

Because I was covering for the male roles, I didn’t get a lot of time to practice my alto parts. I tended to know the tenor or bass parts of different songs better than the alto portions.


Once we arrived at the Candlelight Processional, they arranged us in our groups by height. Being 6’1” made me by far the tallest female. This put me completely with the male singers. They were next to and behind me.

Basically me. All the time.

By the end of the night, I realized I had sung the male parts in every single song instead of my own alto parts. In fact, at the end of the year, part of our grade was to sing certain songs we had learned during the year. And I could only sing the male parts.

I actually keep thinking about how much I would love to find a chorus to join and sing in. I wouldn’t even mind of it was at a church as long as I didn’t have to sit through their sermons.

I love to sing. Even karaoke, but that is a story for another time.

Fossil Show

I am back from my vacation/blog hiatus. I ate a bunch of BBQ, discovered champagne, hung out with my sister, and watched some terrible horror movies.


The weekend before my sister came to visit I went to a Fossil Show. I don’t know if any of you guys go to things like that, but let me tell you about it. It is 85% men at these things. Almost everyone there is over 60. And it is overwhelmingly white. Just old white men everywhere you look.


Old white dude hanging out with a table of animal parts.

And then there’s me. I wore my Jurassic Park shirt in support of fossils. It got a lot of compliments. I generally don’t wear logo’d clothes because I feel like it is sort of an invitation for creepers to stare at my chest. But they stare anyway, so what the hell.

I don’t know why they put the logo right on the boobs.

I went with my brother and my father. We walked around examining baskets of discount animal skulls and so fucking many sharks teeth.


So. Many.

I bought a giant ass crystal for my sister because I am awesome like that.


Her actual new crystal. It is the size of a basketball.

And then we got to my favorite booth. The seller is a creepy old guy that has a ton of random shit. I see him at most of them gem and bead shows I go to (and I go to a lot). He never remembers me, which is just fine by me.


He sells lapidary supplies and cabochons and Native American jewelry (which is absolutely my favorite). But since I have been getting into embroidery, I have been interested in buying some cabochons for my collection.

If I ever get married, I want them to propose with a Squash Blossom Necklace.

My brother and I were sorting through his mess of a display when something caught my eye. It was a rough blue opal about the size of my thumb. I am not super into opals, I tend to be very picky about them. But this one was something.

It looked a bit like this.

I innocently picked it up, with no warning signs of the horror to come. I was showing it to my brother when the seller came over to us.


“That’s a nice piece of turquoise.” He told us.

THIS is turquoise.

It wasn’t turquoise, but whatever. Then he took it from my hand and said, “Here, check this out.” At which point he promptly popped it into his mouth.


He fished it out and held it back out to me so I could see how his saliva had brought out the colors.


But it was too late. I don’t know what kind of expression I had on my face, but it could only have been horror. I backed away from the table. I felt like my whole body was tainted. I felt…itchy.

Basically me.


My brother came swiftly to my side. He asked “Are you okay?”


“Did you see that guy? Did you see him? It was in his mouth. Who does that?” I was freaking out.

Adventure Time Freak Out animated GIF

Also me.


“Do you think he’s done that before with it?” My brother asked.


“Yes. Don’t you? I probably have Hepatitis now!” I was getting loud.


“Can you even get Hep from something like that?” My brother looked worried. Everyone in my family defers to me when it comes to diseases because I am the expert.


“Yes!” I whipped out my hand sanitizer and began compulsively spraying my hands. I was seriously freaked out.

Apparently drinking it is a thing. A very stupid thing.


Most sellers carry spray bottles of water that they use to bring out the color in their stones. I have never had someone put it in their mouth like that.


I walked over to another booth, far far away from that man. There was a young couple at the booth I happened to walk up to. The man started in on his little speech, but I was just staring blankly into the distance. I was shell shocked, unhearing and unseeing.


The couple I was talking to must have noticed something was off about me. They asked if I was okay. And the whole thing spilled out of me. They looked appropriately horrified and assured me that nothing at their own table had ever been in anyone’s mouth.

But the damage was done. I didn’t touch anything else for the entire rest of the show.

No touching!

Say it With Goats

My sister, J, came down this week for vacation so I am busy eating BBQ, watching horror movies, and drinking with her. I am having a blast so far!

I am in baby back rib heaven. Which is basically my regular heaven.

But I wanted to take a moment to discuss a pretty serious matter with you. Anyone that reads my blog should definitely also be reading Aussa’s blog.


She is getting married and we are all so happy for her! And we thought the best way to express our happiness was with goats.


So Leah came up with the idea to buy her goat plushies. Then I decided to bombard her with goat plushies because you should say everything with goats.

See: Goat

Now there is an Amazon Wish List that you can go to. The goats will be sent to me and I will send them to her. You know you guys want to be involved in this!

Surprisingly, I couldn’t find a goat skull on Amazon. What the hell, Amazon?

If we send her enough goats she may be able to stitch them into a wedding dress. You don’t want her wearing some boring old white dress, do you?

Picture this, but all goats.

But wait, there’s more. Debbie then came up with the most amazing, brilliant, kind idea in existence. Which should not surprise anyone that reads her blog as she is one of the most amazing, brilliant and kind people in existence.


Click on the link above to help her fulfill her super secret mission. Click on the Amazon Wish List link to bombard Aussa with goats. Click on the link to Leah to read her lies about my sexiness. And click on the link to Aussa because you love yourself and deserve to read her blog.

I’ll be back in a few days with more stories. And happy goating!


I had this brilliant idea a few weeks ago. I am not totally sure where this idea came from. I really don’t know where most of my ideas come from. It is the curse of being creative and imaginative.

Some of you may know that I am not a big fan of shaving. There is nothing wrong with other people shaving. I think everyone should do what they want with their own bodies.


I personally like to shave my legs, because it feels good between the sheets or when I wear trousers. I don’t like to shave my armpits or pubic hair. I actually think armpit hair looks sexy on me (and it is rare for me to use that word to describe anything I am even remotely involved with). And I get razor burn too bad on my pubes. Especially when I am sexually active.

Although, I would wear these. I bet they are warm.

Yes, sometimes people get weirded out by it. Never someone that I am actually having sex with. They never say shit about it. But casual strangers who really don’t have a right to an opinion of my body. Or my co-workers.


There is no legitimate reason why women should shave but men shouldn’t. If it is unsanitary for a woman to have body hair then it is just as unsanitary for a man. And if a man likes the feel of smooth, hairless legs then he should shave his own fucking legs.


But anyway. I wanted to jazz up my appearance a bit but, as mentioned, my boss is conservative and wouldn’t approve of me dyeing my hair. Not to mention I wouldn’t be able to donate it if I dyed it. So I decided to dye my armpit and pubic hair.

Women have body hair. Get over it.

Some people have told me that that is a very weird idea. Well, here is a whole tumblr about it. So, it isn’t that weird.

I had thought about doing it once in the past but was discouraged by a sales girl at a beauty supply store. I was determined this time. I decided to buy women’s mustache bleach to dye my hair blonde and then buy Kool Aid to color it something interesting. Like blue, or purple.

Apparently you can dye all kinds of things with Kool Aid.

I went to Target and couldn’t find mustache bleach anywhere. I wound up asking a very young employee. She didn’t think they carried it.


So I wound up back at the original beauty supply store I had started this whole journey at. It was like a some kind of beautiful, hair dye, circle of life.


The woman there this time directed me to the mustache bleach. I explained to her why I was buying it and she started dying laughing. She even asked if I would come back in to show it to her (my armpits, I presume).


I wound up buying both a lovely, vibrant blue and a fuschia. As I hadn’t had any luck finding unsweetened Kool Aid packets anywhere. And then, I had no excuses. It was time to dye.

I got the dark blue and the purple.

I made myself a wine slushie to help keep me entertained. If you want to make one yourself, just freeze some wine in an ice cube tray. It won’t fully freeze due to the alcohol content. Put the cubes in a wine glass and crush them with a spoon. Wine slushie!

It tasted better than a regular glass of wine too.

I applied the bleach to my tender bits and moved on to my armpits. It only took a few seconds for the tingling to begin and I realized something was terribly wrong. The bleach was strong. It was starting to hurt. I looked down at my crotch in horror. It felt like I was burning my fucking clit off with acid.


My hands were all gunked up and by the time I got them clean, the burning had subsided. Or I had burned off all the nerve endings and could no longer feel any more pain.


I applied it to my armpits and experienced the same sensation. I knew the directions on the bleach were for a normal woman’s body hair. Not for my stubborn, Eastern European hair. So I decided to leave the bleach on for twice the length of time as recommended.


And lucky thing too. When I finally got it rinsed out, I wasn’t even a blonde. I had a ginger crotch and armpits.


I laughed, and in my head I kept thinking of the phrases “do the curtains match the drapes?” And “do the cuffs match the collar?” They didn’t anymore.


I waited a few days for my poor, sensitive skin to recover before applying the blue.


One tip: Do not apply blue hair dye without wearing gloves. It will look like you have been fingering a Smurf.


And there would be no easy way to explain that to my boss. Especially after the whole vagina incident. I could just imagine the conversation.


Boss: “Why are your fingers blue?”

Me: “I was dying my armpit and pubic hair blue.”

Boss: *curls into fetal position and cries*


So I spent the evening sitting on a towel on my couch. Trying not to get blue on everything.


When I washed it off, I saw that it did a fantastic job of dyeing my skin. And a really good job of dyeing my hair.


My actual blue armpit.

But maybe don’t try this at home. Go to a salon and leave it to the professionals. Unless you’re me. Because I am totally going to try this again at home.


Seems like I haven’t complained about some guy asking me out and then being a total dumbass in a little while. And I wouldn’t want any of you to think that means it isn’t happening. It is. Regularly.


A few months ago, I was asked out by the FedEx guy. This is nothing against FedEx. They offer a great service. Their outfits aren’t as sexy as the UPS guy or even the USPS guy. But they are marginally better than the DHL guys’ outfits.

Oh. Hello…

This guy was decent looking and we had talked a few times. He asked if I could help him out with something related to my job. And then he gave me his address and number.


I got his issues resolved and called him on my work phone to let him know. This is when he began to get idiotic. As we were wrapping up the phone call he said, “So, can I call you sometime?”


“I guess.” I replied. I kind of knew where this was going, but I prefer to not make assumptions.


“On this number?” He asked.


“Uh. Yeah.” I replied. I was already not liking the way he was going about this. But he was still doing better than the previous 10 or so guys that had asked me out.


“Okay. Cool. I’ll call you later.” And then we hung up.


I actually didn’t really expect him to call because I was not being very flirty or friendly with him. That deters the majority of men who seem to want me to swoon at the honor of being asked out by them.


A few days later he called me.  I basically sleep with my work phone. It takes some work to for me to trust someone with my personal number.

Basically me. Without the stubble.

I was out at dinner with my brother when he called. At our favorite restaurant. I decided to answer, to be polite.

Love this place. It deserves it’s own post.

“Hey. I’m eating with my family right now. Can you call me back later?” I asked him.


“Sure.” He said.


Except instead of ending the call he proceeded to ask me a bunch of inane questions about my movie likes and dislikes. I don’t think pop culture tastes really mean much of anything in a relationship. I mean, he isn’t going to be a good boyfriend, or even good in bed if he loves Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind or Stranger than Fiction as much as I do.

What a great movie!

However, the movies he liked were the kind of stupid, immature humor I can’t stand. He had frat boy taste in movies. But again, it isn’t crucial to my life.


I told him again that I needed to get off the phone as we were interrupting my dinner. But he again tried to derail my ending of the call. “Do you have a boyfriend?”


I told him I didn’t. And that’s when he asked the dreaded question.


“You are really pretty. Why are you single?”


I hate this fucking question. It is rude and presumptuous. Like there can be no reason for me to be single unless I am seriously damaged or lacking in some crucial way. Also, like my physical appearance is all I have to offer. My personality could be shit and it doesn’t matter if I am seen as hot according to WASP-y Eurocentric standards. Also, apparently my only possible reason for existence is obviously to snag a man, so why am I not more desperate for one, right?


But, readers, I behaved. I wasn’t rude right away. Instead I replied “I am still single because I know what I am looking for and I am not willing to settle. I will be single until I find what I want.”


“Oh wow. You’re really blunt.” He said with a very judgemental tone.


I am very blunt. But I did not think I was being blunt, so I said. “You asked me a question. I answered it. How is that blunt?”


“It just wasn’t what I expected you to say.” He replied in some kind of weird, flirty tone.


“I don’t know what you expected.” I paused. “Do you have a girlfriend?” I feel this was a very fair question as he had just asked me my relationship status. Also, he had to have expected me to ask it. Right?


He responded. “Well….I have girls that are friends.” He laughed like he had just said something really witty.


I was basically done at that point. I got irritated. “Do you have ‘girls that are friends’ that would be pissed off at you for being on the phone with me right now?” I asked.


“Oh. Well. You know. I live alone.” He again said this in a flirty, coy voice. Like I was going to be so fucking impressed with him for his inability to answer a very simple question.


And I called him out on it. Because I do that.


“Okay. Well you are clearly either in a relationship or you want me to think you are for some reason. I don’t know what kind of game you are playing here, but I am done.”

Also? Mary Poppins is the shit with her badass attitude.

And I hung up the phone.


If you have read my life’s mottos, you know that when I say I am done, I legitimately mean it.


I didn’t give him a chance to explain his dumbass game playing. He tried calling me every week for months. Which is a separate red flag all on it’s own. We hadn’t even had one date. We had one phone conversation, that I had repeatedly tried to end. And that I hung up on him during.


He also texted me a few times. He kept saying he didn’t understand what had happened. Despite me spelling out what had happened.


I even ran into him at work a few weeks ago. He tried to get my attention with the, always classy, honking at me as I walked by. It should surprise none of you guys that I didn’t respond to him in any way during any point.

I actually think he has figured it out by now. But time will tell. I had one guy texting me for over three years after a single date. But that is a story for another post.

Steak Knives

I am sure all of you guys enjoy these stories. But, you may say, these stories are from years ago. What have you done to humiliate yourself lately? How can you say you are an idiot if you have learned your lesson? Well, number one: You are very presumptuous. Two: I am definitely still an idiot. And three: This story happened Friday night.


Being that it was a Friday night, I was out with my brother. (Where else would I be? A date? Ha!) We decided to go out to eat at the restaurant where I fell down a flight of stairs.  This restaurant is so fancy. It is the kind of place people go to dress up and celebrate milestones.

Actual balcony of the place.

Except my brother and I usually show up in shorts, flip flops, and dumpster t-shirts. Dumpster t-shirts are shirts my brother and I dig out of a dumpster near his house. It is almost solely the only thing I wear when I am not at work. And they are amazing.


But this restaurant does not treat us like the hobos we generally look like. And we always ask to sit outside. My brother, T, is loud as fuck and we generally discuss things that are inappropriate for polite society.

This is basically how we dress.

Friday night we were sitting out on the balcony. He doesn’t follow my blog so I was talking about my vagina post. Right before I said the word “vagina” our waiter walked up and I immediately stopped talking. He was new and I didn’t want to offend him.


But he seemed offended that I had stopped my conversation. So he dared me to continue my story. I started talking about vaginas again. The waiter stopped smiling and whipped his head around him, paranoid that someone else would hear. That’ll teach him to dare me to talk.


I ordered a steak and they brought me out a very fancy and sharp steak knife. It was a JA Henckels, which is the same brand I use at home. I can’t believe anyone trusts me with knives. Even myself, sometimes.

Look at these sharp little bastards.

When the steak came, the waiter decided to wait to make sure my steak was cooked properly. I hate having an audience when I am eating. I wish they would just walk away and come back or something.


In fact, I hate it even more when the manager comes over and asks how my meal was. You know what? If it was bad, you would already know. Let me eat in peace!


I cut a piece of meat, took a bite, and set my knife down on the side of my plate. What happened next was a series of events I could not possibly have predicted would happen.  Despite my ability to destroy everything.


I guess I put the knife too close to the edge of the table. It slipped off the table and clattered onto the balcony floor. Before I could even begin to reach for it, it slid between the wrought iron fence railings and onto the awning below us.


I breathed a sigh of relief. Sure, it was out of my reach. But at least it was on the awning and hadn’t hurt anyone. In fact, it was probably for the best that it was out of my reach.


And then, in slow motion, I watched in helpless horror as it slid off the awning and down into the busy parking lot below. Where we were seated over the entrance to this fancy and popular restaurant. On a Friday night.


Here is the whole set up. The table edge, the balcony, the awning, the parking lot below. And of course my sexy, sexy knee.

I didn’t even think to call out to warn the people below. I just sat there, struck dumb at the improbability of the whole thing.


Thankfully, it landed harmlessly on the asphalt. As soon as I saw I wasn’t going to inadvertently murder someone I began to laugh. I still had a piece of steak in my mouth, I had forgotten it was there in my moment of suspense. Now I was laughing so hard, I couldn’t chew it.


I could not stop laughing through the rest of our meal.


As we were leaving, I approached the manager. “Hello.” I said innocently.


He looked at me and squinted. “Why do I know you?”


“I fell down your stairs last year.” I explained.


“Oh, that’s right. How are you?” He eyed me up and down, looking for signs of my ailing back.


“Well, I feel fine but I just dropped a steak knife off your balcony so I am pretty sure I am going to be banned from here at some point.”


He laughed. “But nobody was hurt. So it’s okay.”

I walked out to the parking lot and looked up at where I had been sitting. I learned an important lesson. I should not be trusted near ledges. And I should never sit over the entrance of that building ever again.

My Crafting Adventures: Jewelry

I have written SIX crafting adventure pieces and still haven’t done one on my jewelry making. That all changes now. You guys know you love my shameless attempts at garnering compliments.


You guys might realize by this point that I am not a ‘girly’ girl. But I cannot leave my apartment without a necklace on. I feel weird and naked without one. I feel like everyone is looking at my neck. Even though I logically know they are not.


This one is a fossilized buffalo tooth.

By this point I have hundreds of necklaces. I have bracelets and have recently been venturing into earrings. My etsy is full of my jewelry for sale.


But everything I am going to post on here is from my personal collection and not for sale. It’s not even all of my personal collection. These only get seen if you happen to be looking at my neck. That is the curse of being a crafter. You want to save all the best stuff for yourself.


Jade dress robe weight that is several hundred years old.

My father has been collecting beads and making jewelry for over 50 years. His jewelry makes the things I am about to show you look like they were done by a child. A gifted child, but still. His work is fantastic.


Sometime when I was around 13 or 14, I asked him to teach me how to make jewelry. He and his first wife invented a form of micro macrame with beads and stones at Woodstock. They moved to California and gave away necklaces on the beach. I mentioned that he was a total hippie, right?


Charoite center bead.

So he sat me down and very patiently showed me how to do it. I practiced for hours until my hands cramped and everything I was doing seemed meaningless. Like when you say a word to many times until it is just noises and nothing more. And then I said, fuck this shit. I’m never going to get it.


I tried again a few years later based off my memory and I managed to spend several hours making a beaded cylinder of what appeared to be a cat hairball studded with beads. I savagely attacked it with scissors and hid my unholy horror of a creation at the bottom of a trash bin.


Turquoise of varying shades. I remade this one twice which is an incredible pain in the ass. But it was worth it.

When I was 17 and had moved away, I asked him to show me again. I was making simple jewelry now and figured I had developed enough hand/eye co-ordination to make it work.


My father sat me down again and showed me again how to do the weaving with the string and beads. And I again failed miserably. I could tell he was frustrated but I figured I was just too stupid to ever make it happen.


Shark’s tooth. I remade this one twice too.

I tried for about a year after that. Every once in a while I would sit down with a newfound determination to make it work. But it never worked. I don’t know where that well-spring of stubbornness and determination even comes from. But it appears to be ever-lasting.


Sometime when I was 20 I was trying for my fourth or fifth time to make this wretched thing work. It is so complicated and you have to hold your hands just so and it was one of those situations that felt so alien and awkward.


And then, for some reason, I did it backwards. I don’t know how I thought of it. Most likely, I had simply forgotten my father’s original instruction and just decided to make it up as I went (a common theme in my life). And it worked. I don’t know why, but it just worked.


Tibetan silver and copal. I especially like this one as it has amber in it and kyanite and a sterling silver dime as a clasp.

I thought maybe my father had been telling me how to do it from his perspective which would have been backwards for me and therefore I had been doing it backwards all these years which is why it hadn’t worked. But no. Doing it backwards was what worked for me.

I started making necklaces. They have changed over time in a way that is so obvious it is like carbon dating the layers of sediment in stone. I can look at something I made and know exactly when it is from.


I eventually showed my brother the stitch. He does it backwards too.


Here is a very simple one. Tibetan quartz and silver.

Even though the three of us use the same technique, same materials, same style. Our pieces are as distinctly different as our personalities.