Travelling Through The Decades

Posted Posted in costume, fashion, feminism, travel, Virginia Jones, women
 packing for travel comedy

Travelling through the decades:

30’s: I gotta get my nails and toenails done for my trip!

40’s: Doesn’t give a fuck.

30’s: I’m gonna take a little bag of jewelry curated to work with my outfits!

40’s: Doesn’t give a fuck.

30’s: Brought two styles of sunglasses for different lewks.

40’s: Own three pairs of the same sunglasses, Hollis by Oliver Peoples. Does not give a fuck.

30’s: Wait, should I buy a mini of my trademark perfume or should I try something new for the trip?

40’s: Doesn’t wear perfume at home, doesn’t give a fuck

20’s: Brought books.

30’s: Brought kindle.

40’s: Broke half a dozen kindles, now watches Youtube videos of kids kicking each other in the nuts on her phone the whole trip. Does not give a fuck.

30’s: Brought running shoes, dress shoes, and casual shoes for travel.

40’s: Brought one pair Chuck Taylor high tops and cannot possibly give a fuck.

30’s: Need room for my DSLR camera!
40’s: Bringing phone.

30’s: Need to carry on my laptop.
40’s: Bringing phone.

30’s: Bringing exquisite outfits for trip, is heartbroken she can’t bring more shoes.
40’s: I don’t know these people, who gives a fuck?

Wait, am I maturing and becoming more comfortable in my own skin- or am I just depressed?

Notes from my Final Bachelorette- Republished from LOVE.TV

Posted Posted in costume, love and dating, travel

How We Prepared Emma For The Adventure Of Marriage

Meeting The Crew  

My baby sister Emma is getting married, and we meet up in New Orleans to celebrate.  Her bachelorettes are a combination of big-city career women and her high-school friends, and of course her two sisters, who have already been married and divorced, but are trying to maintain a good attitude.  We’ve got single people, people in long term relationships, and lots of married women. Lots of advice, lots of perspectives.

Joni got married early and dotes on her two adorable kidlets.  She doesn’t always know about internet slang, memes, who’s president, or other minor trivia.  She’s a busy lady.

Amanda is a corporate woman, also with two small kids, who has just relocated to the midwest with her family.   

Sadie, our other sister,  is divorced with a kid. She’s looking for Mr. Right and has been frustrated with the men she meets on dating sites.

I’m divorced, childless, and happy about it.  I disliked being married and won’t seek it again.

Asha is desperately beautiful, partnered, and a doctor.  She’s seriously intimidating.

Marie is European, never married, and sometimes seems a touch naive.

“It’s not going to be one of those embarrassing Bachelorettes” we say to one another.

“We’re not going to have penis necklaces and straws.  We are sophisticated people. We went to college. We like art.  We’re not going to be basic.”

When we say it, we mean it.  

My sister is getting married to a lovely man.  I’m very happy for her. Men she has dated before have been toxic or distant.  This man is loving, handy, and seems to take real pleasure in making projects for her.  He is kind and smart and I am so excited to have him in my family.

The Adventure Begins

We start the first day with a fancy breakfast and doting waitstaff.  We are offered $24 bottomless mimosas, but we giggle and stick to tea.  My sister is wearing all white and a veil, which she assures us she will be wearing all weekend.

Marie points out that in Europe, the bachelorette party is called a Hen Night. Because so many of us are married and divorced, I identify more with Hen Night than Bachelorette, just busty busybody chickens clucking around.  Joni asks if the bachelors have a Cock Night. This is very funny of Joni until I realize she didn’t mean it to be. Marie says no, in Europe the men have Stag Night, and then, I guess, a chicken and a buck get married.  

bachelorette party

We break for after-brunch drinks.  We explain to Joni that sometimes people pee on each other in bed, and that eggplants are emoji for penises.  Sadie is swiping idly through her Tinder matches, explaining that her only demands are that the applicants have hair and don’t demand NSA hookups.  We explain to Joni what NSA hookups are. Marie wants to stop on the pictures with taut, hairless abs, but I tell her that if a guy leads with his abs, he’ll show them to everyone.  I want to swipe right on a cute artist named Will but Sadie stops me. “He doesn’t have a job and he doesn’t have a kid. I know that right now.” She dismisses him. I keep trying to tell her that, as we move into our fourth decade on earth, she might have to be flexible on hair.  “Nothing doing”, Sadie says. “I’m not matching with a bald POS like my ex-husband.” She tells us that, hilariously, he blamed her for his hair loss. “Look”, he said, “I wasn’t balding when we met.” I laugh, but I’m also sad.

We have a day of bachelorette adventure.  We drink terrible drinks. We dance to jazz bands.  Our bride is congratulated, over and over. We beam with pride. We drink. We take a ghost tour. We drink. We see a psychic, and drink.

We compare our psychic readings.  Asha has been told she’s very lustful, and not apologetic about it.  She agrees 100%. She enjoys sex, and resents how her mother talked to her about sex, that it was something men always wanted and that women never wanted, but which had to occasionally be tolerated. She has a healthy sex drive but spent most of her young adulthood feeling ashamed.

Sadie was told that, after a terrible marriage and some disappointing dating, she is still too angry to successfully partner with a new person, that she is a teflon pan on which no-one can find purchase.  

Emma’s reading is exciting and rosy, about her new role as wife and her new life.

My reading is mostly about career and goals, but at one moment the psychic cocks her head and asks, and you’re seeing someone?  And I say yes, and she says, and it’s good, and I agree, it is. It may seem like faint praise, but it is good, and I’m grateful.

Yelling At Clowns

The second morning, we head to the famous Cafe Du Monde for coffee and beignets.  A colorfully dressed clown crows when he sees my sister’s veil and he starts making her a penis crown out of balloons.  It is almost pornographic in its detail. This is not his first penis crown. We refuse it. “This,” I tell him, “is not that kind of bachelorette.  We are not interested in being covered in penises.” He spreads his hands and pretends to be offended. “And besides,” I continue playfully, “all penises are pretty much the same.  They don’t matter.” The clown angrily starts listing types of penises. “They can be big! Small! Curved! Straight!” We are grateful to be seated and get away from the clown yelling about penises.

I think we try to simplify down to penises because love itself is so scary and full of unknowns.  People can change, their goals and life veer away from each other, they can fall in love with other people or just out of love with each other, so we like to simplify it.  Penises it is. I get up to go to the bathroom and when I get back, my sister is wearing a penis crown. It has been given to her by a stranger. As we eat our beignets, we explain to Joni the concept of polyamory.  “Is that”, she asks, “legal?” We assure her that it is. What she’s thinking of is polygamy. If you don’t marry everyone, we tell her, you can sleep with as many people as you want. She smiles and shakes her head.

Girls Party. Beautiful Women Friends Having Fun At Bachelorette

SAME PENIS FOREVER

That afternoon,  we have a lingerie shower.  Suddenly, there are penis straws and a penis pinata and a sign that reads “SAME PENIS FOREVER.”  Where did all the penises come from? No-one knows.

My sister opens all her fancy underwear and we laugh and clap.

I ask the room for marriage advice for Emma.

Joni offers, “always give him a blowie on his birthday.”  I raise my eyebrows at the idea of an annual blowjob.

Asha protests.  “What if”, she asks, “ you really like giving them?”

Joni blushes and says, “Oh, I guess you could do more!  Just- not less.”

I tell Emma that you should always support each other.  You should always try to give them the best of your time and attention.  This, because it is not about sex, is boring the room. I also give them my Dad’s advice to me, which was never to do a chore that you don’t want to do for the rest of your life.  On some level, your spouse is a roommate that you hope will never move out.

Sadie says that although Emma has been distracted by the wedding, that’s just a fun party.  The thing to concentrate on is the marriage, that’s the long term project that will shape her life and her partner’s life.  Emma nods and smiles but doesn’t really seem to take it in. Sadie and I laugh together because this is the best advice she got on her wedding day, but didn’t recognize until years later.  Weddings are a lot of noise and dresses and expense, maybe to distract you from the profundity of sealing your life to another person.

Amanda offers that you should marry your best friend.  This is simple but profound. We all nod. Beauty fades and they lose their hair, but when you really like each other, you’ll get through the hard parts.  

“There is no long relationship”, I say, “Without hard work.  Everyone has to work. The idea that your relationship will be good without work is the biggest lie of all.”  Joni agrees and says, “it’s weird, all the movies end with the couple getting married and nobody wants to talk about what happens after that, which is the rest of your life.”  “That’s true”, interjects Sadie- “if a couple is married at the beginning of the movie, they’ll either split up and get back together, or split up and meet other people, or one of them is going to get kidnapped or die.  There is nothing interesting to Hollywood about a successful marriage.” After all of our deep thoughts on partnership, we’re ready to go out.

By the end of the second day, I am wearing a themed bachelorette t-shirt, a sash, and a light-up twinkly flower crown.  I now understand how dogs feel when we dress them up for Halloween.

We are walking up and down Frenchman street, being congratulated by fellow celebrants.  I get away from my sisters for a moment and rejoin them in a bar moments later.

bachelorette party

“Where”, my sister asks, “is your crown?”  
“I don’t know”, I tell them, but I do know.  It’s in the trash can outside.

We go sing karaoke, taking over a small room.  We sing all the songs about what we want from marriage, “Respect” by Aretha Franklin, “I Will Always Love You” sung by Whitney Houston, and Joni sings “Goodbye, Earl” by the Dixie Chicks, about friends getting together to murder an abusive husband.   I am not sure this is what we want for wedding wishes, but that’s what we’ve got. We go to a late night dance party hosted by one of the parade Krewes and have a great time before heading back to the hotel, picking our way through the streets strewn with beads and beer cups.

The last morning of the trip, I spend some quiet time with Sadie.  We talk about what we’ve learned from our marriages, and how we wish we could give Emma everything we know.  We love her and we love her intended, and that has to be enough. We separate, hugging and crying, to see each other in our matching gowns in a month.

Bloodmeadow Meets Comic-Con

Posted Posted in artsy fartsy, comedy, costume, fashion, film, gay, goth, Gothic, gothixxx, halloween, long beach, los angeles, travel

And now, a special report from the Lady Bloodmeadow, our Gothixxx correspondent.

Bloody Good Glasses by Ann-Sofie Back

Most demonic greetingf.  I found myfelf recently travelling to Fan Diego for the largeft Comic-Con nerd-feft that haf ever occurred, before the Aurora fhooting that may prove to be the Altamont of nerd culture.  I waf able to drive because I have finally gotten my Licenfe back from the Pigf,  becaufe I Promifed that I would not drive with the Dead-Eye in, but I was Lying.

Through Lo the many fightf, the fineft Cofplay to be feen was na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-BATPUG.

Af I traverfed through the convention, I could not help but feel that I waf being watched, monitored, by a force moft Finifter.

  I, myfelf had my Photo taken many Timef, although I waf not dreffed up af anything.  Towards the end of the day, it became Clear that Nerdf were afking for my photograph so that they could approach Me and not be Hiffed at.

Thif is a good photo of a Nerd-Herd.  They all Gather Together in the Ftreet and look for Giant Robotf or fomefuch.  The Beft thing about Comic-Con waf that it waf held indoorf, far from the punifhing rayf of the Fun.  The worft thing waf everything elfe.   I waf fubjected to a great deal of Noife and walked through many, many hot nerd Fartf.

Postscript: My last moments at comic-con were spent at a bar, where I was waiting for the idiot I had been dating at the time to show up to promote a Birdemic movie he had worked on, and while I was waiting a nerd was chatting up Bloodmeadow and when she denied the opportunity to go have sex with her he BIT her hard on the upper arm, and left a giant bruise. I don’t know why people say nerd culture is toxic to women.

Something Crappy I’ll Never Forget

Posted Posted in travel, vegan
swimmingbaby

I was recently sent to Sri Lanka for a work project, and I told everyone at home and abroad that my main plan was to visit the elephant sanctuary in Pinnawela. I was told that you drive through the jungle, and there are wild elephants hanging out, and that many of them were orphaned or injured by poaching and military action. This part is true, and also they go take a bath in the river at 10 and 2, and they’re fed from bottles and you can ride ’em (I didn’t), and they’ll have their picture taken with you, but the reason they do all that stuff is because there are dudes poking them with big, nasty bullhooks.

I swiftly fell out of love with the concept. It’s a mixed bag- it’s stupid tourist money that feeds these guys, and there’s the an old blind elephant being taken care of, and there’s an elephant who lost a foot in a landmine who also couldn’t survive in the wild. On the other hand, they’re just as penned in and abused as elephants in the circus. They also appear to have a breeding program going to generate the babies that stupid tourists, myself included, love. Yes, you do get to pet a baby elephant for tips, which feels good, but dirty. I don’t know how much more for a lap dance, but you’re advised to have a very strong lap.

elephantine

The first elephant I petted was this old blind man, with giant curvy tusks like a mammoth. After I petted him, an Australian lady took her turn and he bellowed and peed all over her. I said to my friend, Oh, I’m glad that wasn’t me. After he had a nice piss, he got an erection. I think he likes Australian ladies like Nicole Kidman or this lady, who was very tan and looked like jerky and yelled a lot. Against my best judgment, I took, like, a million pictures of it. I’m not proud, but nor could I help myself.

fambly

Here’s the herd in the river, cooling off.

hipsterphant2

Here we can see the red-headed, bearded hipster outside of his natural habitat of Billyburg, meeting an elephant while a prick holds a bullhook at the ready.

elephant14

It’s not that the elephants weren’t beautiful, or that the babies weren’t adorable and the dusty navy of blueberries. They were. It’s just that for an animal activist and vegan to drive three hours through the jungle to watch animals be abused is a real letdown. I realized how naive I’d been, and that just because a half dozen of my workmates had reported back that the sanctuary was great, of course it wasn’t. They don’t have animal rights in Sri Lanka, they barely have human rights. Still and all, I felt like a giant asshole.

Life Is About Learning, Or, Why People In Sri Lanka Think I’m A Whore

Posted Posted in comedy, travel, trivia
Photo by Dan Eccles

  I have been spending an educational and largely fun ten days in Colombo, Sri Lanka.  Part of the job involves going out and getting drunk at night, which is very helpful for addressing the international traveller’s twin ailments of loneliness and jet lag-induced insomnia. 

Last night, an expat Englishman pointed out to me that the name of this website, Badinia, means “I Want You”, in a very decidedly sexual way, in Singhalese.  This was very helpful, because it explained why everyone I had given my business card to had laughed delightedly.  Incidentally, that means my email address is I want you at I want you dot com.  It’s things like this that keep my mother up at night.