Introducing the Dame...

Yes yes I know I probably should have updated my adoring fans (joke) the moment I became a mother but as with all newborns, mine is quite a handful. My nights consist of about three hours of sleep divided by about 5 hours of trying to keep the baby entertained and out of trouble. The difference between my new baby and most is that rather than crying when she wants to wake up mommy, she just chews on my face.

Introducing Dame Rexabelle Josephine McFierce., more commonly referred to as Sexy Rexy. Sure it may seem like a lot of name for such a little dog but believe me she owns it. She might be the only female I know who is more feisty than me.

She was born January 1st in Oklahoma to a 3 lb Yorkie father and a 6 lb Papillion mother. And no I don't know exactly how that worked out but apparently her pops likes the larger ladies.

When she was 7 weeks old (last week) she took her first plane trip to Utah arriving at the airport just a couple hours after I returned from my vacation to Seattle.

We've been together a week and so far we've gone through quite a lot. She's had her first bath, first nail clipping, first vet appointments, first teeth brushing, and first shopping experiences this week. She has only barked twice, once when I was on my bed and she couldn't reach me and the other time when I took her plate away before she was done.

She's quite the little melodramatic princess (like mother like daughter) and at 1 lb 6 oz you'd think she'd be timid and shy but she's far bossier than I could ever be. She hops around the place like a bunny, likes to chew on everything, loves visitors, and is the best cuddler. She's always the happiest curled up on my chest. Big surprise.

If you get a chance, come visit us… we're both awfully cute. Ha ha.

Here's the first pic I got of her. I asked the breeder to give me a size reference.

Lady Lessons

My second favorite Christmas gift this year was a little pink book with helpful hints such as "A lady knows when it's appropriate to eat the garnish or drink through a straw." As well as, "A lady always wears clean and fresh underwear," and, " A lady doesn't touch other people's children unless invited to do so."

I admit to not being the author's inspiration, I know nothing about being a "lady."

My youth was spent bouncing back and forth between ballet and tennis lessons, my adolescence consisted of sports jerseys, football statistics, and life on the farm, and young adulthood meant learning that it wasn't necessary to physically harm all of the boys in my life and my male torment took on another motive entirely.

Turning 18 brought about the desire to lose my childhood nickname along with my uni-brow and who knew that "one becoming two" was all that was necessary to birth my "feminine mystique." All mystery aside, I was still a work in progress.

I had gone from girl, to brute, to woman and no etiquette classes on the planet were going to put me through phase "Lady."

Years later, after trials and errors and extraordinary life experiences I'm quite capable of blending into polite society. My conversations can be intelligent, my table manners are perfectly polite, and no one can rock a pair of stilettos quite like I can and yet I'm still certain that "The Contemporary Guide to Common Courtesy" was not written about me.

I've been wearing the same fake eyelashes for two days.

I often refer to my apartment as "ghetto."

I'm not certain I can remember my real hair color. Brown-ish?

My vocabulary could make a sailor blush.

I have an irrational fear of mediocrity. And clowns.

I'm currently wearing white and it is well after Labor Day.

Sometimes garnish confuses me.

According to the book, should the Pope, a Prince, or the President show up I will most certainly be ill prepared.

I had a dream...

My dreams lately have been rather …shall we say….VIVID?

First round usually involves some faceless fecund couple popping out lethargic little ones like they had nothing better to do than procreate. When I'm lucky, I'm holding the hand of the moaning mother while the crisply dressed doctors sing to her in a language not my own. When I'm not lucky, I'm doing the pushing.

In the dream this task seems to me menial and of no great importance. It's as if I've run out of things to do in the office so in order to placate my bothersome boss I birth a blank faced baby into the hands of two imperturbably unsmiling male nurses.

The second dream option involves taking tea with Ibsen. Or Ionesco. Or some other random playwright that I don't recognize by face but know by aire of reputation. Our sandwiches have no crusts and my obviously gauche tendencies are impressing no one.

I break into an elaborate (albeit ersatz) version of something presumably Poe hoping that my decision to entertain and not ironize my tea guest is the correct choice to make. My date remains unmoved.

The third dream is obviously a dream of can-can dancers performing upside down not to adulterate their audiences by showing their skivvies but to entrance them with the sea of colorful ruffled skirts waving to and fro in a vibrant fury.

The sounds are muffled upbeat French cabaret and everything seems to be moving at half speed. This is by far my favorite of the dreams maybe because it never involves me.

The most important thing to note in each of these dreams is that at some point just after the denouement someone completely unrelated to the dream steps in, removes the hat or headpiece that one of the main characters is wearing and disappears.

Now tell me dear readers. What am I to make of all of this? Even my most detailed of dream translation books don't have an answer for me.


Perhaps my usually plentiful pool of good dream material is daring to desiccate. Maybe my muse is in mourning. Or possibly I just have a fetish for strangers stealing hats.

I'm at a loss.

Oi Vey

Never fear my noble readers (all two of you.)I shall return soon and believe me I have a LOT to say. Until then, give the new Hot Chip album a listen. It makes me want to shake it. Yeah.

Bruja Ha.

Could you, in good conscience, pay 4.5 € to go to a witch museum when you wouldn´t even shell out a measely two to going inside the famous Segovia Catedral? I sure could. And I did. But first...

Aqueduct: Friggin awesome. And yes I just said friggin. Built hundreds of years ago by the Romans, Spanish lore speaks of a deal with the devil that nearly took away the soul of a child. God of course brought out the sun early and sent the devil home one brick short of finishing the grand spectacle of an aqueduct. Seriously people, this is impressive, and not a drop of mortar was used. (See pics on my pics link)

Catedral: Well...the outside was lovely. And so was the wedding party issuing from it. But what are those things on their heads?

Alcazar: This was W. Disney´s inspiration for Sleeping Beauty´s castle and oh what castle it is. Now how to the school of artillery it is filled with cannons and weapons and armor. From the tower you get breathtaking views of the city.

Oy I sound like a guidebook. And next on the path...

The Brujeria - known by those of us who speak English as the witch museum.

Inside I found heads of vampires and blood bathing vixens, and dead faires and gnomes, and weapons of torture, and weapons of pleasure, and weapons of torturous pleasure, and every ingredient you could possibly imagine to put in a magic spell.

The witches I know and love from the Pacific Northwest think I too am a witch. Yet no where in my house will you find human remains in a jar, heads of pixies on a stick, chairs with spikes and leather wristbands, small boxes filled with erotic toys and potions.

Oh...um....ok well you will not find MOST of these within my house.

No no I am not a witch.

(lots of strange pics on my pics link)

Mercedes Y Carlota on the town!

My new Spanish name is Mercedes. Accept it and love it. I often go out with a blonde Florida chica whom shall now we known as Carlota. And every day here, I´ve decided, should be an experience and I should try something that I have not yet tried before, this is how lessons are learned right?

Well a couple days I ago I learned two very important lessons: (1) Mexican restaurants are kitchy cheaters and can not be trusted and (2) If you happen upon a he/she/it talking to his/her/itself, it´s best just to stop and stare and take pictures.

Story number one takes place in a lovely Mexican restaurant Carlota and I happened across while wasting time waiting for our napping directors to return to work. In theory this was a good idea as we´ve been craving spice, in actuality, it was good for not much more than a laugh.

From the ceiling hung a full sized VW bug and the seats at the tables were actual car seats torn from who knows where, the menues were on wheels. Photo op, photo op, photo op. We ordered quesidillas and chicken flautas. The woman warned us that it might not be much food (I think that´s what she said) but we didn´t listen.

She went to a little glass kiosk in the wall and pulled out the smallest tortilla I´ve seen in my life, put a piece of cheese and a piece of onion in it and fried it. We got two huge plates and enough food to feed an anorexic doll. Carlota literally licked her plate clean hoping to get every last drop. I laughed and took pictures (all the while crying inside from my lack of fulfillment.) Damned Spanish Mexicans and their curious ways.


Post "lunch" we headed toward Chueca in search of real food when Carlota discovered a gem in the distance. A man/woman/thing sat across the square talking to his/her/its foot. We tried not to stare at first but soon it was yelling at its right foot in a very animated manor. We were too far away to hear so we supplied our own dialogue,

"You´ve been a very naughty foot. You make me angry foot. Bad bad foot."

Then it would turn nice

"Oh my sweet foot, how I love thee. You make me so happy foot. You are my favorite foot. I would go nowhere without you."

Then, as if it were simply playing good cop AND bad cop with its foot, it would begin to get angry again,

"Why do you never listen foot? See how the other foot just sits there like a good foot should. Bad bad foot."

Fists were shaking, nostrils were flared, this was OBVIOUSLY a very bad foot.

By now we were crying we were laughing so hard and every person who passed by would do a double take at the foot and IT. I turned my back for one moment and when I turned aroud it had put its shoes on and donned a large black glove and cane which it was now waving around dangerously. We tried to get closer and it took off. We think it was a woman. A woman with a very bad foot.

I´m certainly grateful for obedient extremities. Ah yes, lessons learned.

C is for Canon

Yes yes I´m AWARE I have been neglecting my blog. But you see I´ve been off exploring, and socializing, and doing very important things such as licking cannons.

You wouldn´t want me to miss out on that now would you?