I listened to the pod "My dad wrote a porno"

Bildkälla: http://www.mydadwroteaporno.com

… and it’s epic.

Sure, I realize I’m about 18 months late to the party that started off like a little gathering with three friends and snowballed into a culture phenomenon, all thanks to a 60 year old man’s inability to write anything sensual all the while not letting that inability stop him from writing four, yes, four, books. The greatness of course resides in that his son Jamie, that was dealt the manuscripts because Rocky Flintstone, the name that his dad goes under as an author, and decided that this isn’t staying within the family. Shortly after that, he started a podcast with two of his most charismatic friends, and blessed the world with their magic!

I hesitated for a long time because you know, my inner secondary-shame nerve is so strong that I can’t take part in awkward humor without cringing off of my seat, but finally I got too curious and had to try it. 15 minutes into the first episode, I was hooked. I’m not gonna lie, there’s a LOT of cringing, face scrunching, laughing out loud, yelling “No!” while listening to this pod, and looking like a madman if I ever dare to go out in public with this in my ears.

Of course, there’s a certain kind of language that comes with the “erotic” territory which makes it maybe not that work friendly (unless you work in a tattoo shop that is) but the nature of the vernacular is eased up by all the other discomfort you will experience with the both the unreasonable storyline and the soothing agreements from James and Alice.

I’m on episode 12 of season 2, and it’s still equally funny.

My dad wrote a porno – Five out of five shame pillows. DO IT.

Kat von D Tattoo Liner

You know what it’s like. You’re sitting around at home, listening to some music, get into the groove. Putting on some eyeliner and all of a sudden, well well, maybe a little WINGED LINER PERHAPS?! Said and done, five minutes later you’re sporting the most awesome wings and proudly look at yourself in the mirror. Wink at yourself in the mirror. Then you put on clothes and go out. A gush of wind throws itself over you, a cold one at that, and you tear up a little. Oh well. It’s fine.

You get to the place you were going. Say hello to everyone, and they say hello back. You get a glass of water and catch yourself in the mirror. Oh. So the people that stared at you on your way here didn’t stare because you’re a feisty beauty but because they were busy trying to figure out if they have seriously Freudian relationships to their parents by analyzing your ex-eyeliner, having transformed into a veritable Rorschach test.

BUT! One day, this makeup lover walked into a Sephora in the capitol and had psyched myself up to pick up the Kat von D eyeliner that all of the internet is going on about. I bought a mini version of it and got BLOWN AWAY (much like my earlier eyeliner) by the fact that it held through everything on my skin. Summer sweat? Still there. Work? Still there. The oiliest days of them all so all the other makeup is gone? Still there. Rain storms? Still there. Slept for a couple of hours? Still there. A proper tumble in the sack? Well, the wings didn’t make it. But it’s my companion, from 8 am til 03 am, we hang out together.

It has a brush tip and it’s fine so it’s easy to make wings or details. The downside is that it can be a little dry and if I’m slow, I have to work it a little on my hand to get the colour flowing again, and of course, the price. It's not cheap but it's golden.

12 timmar and counting on oily skin

Interior update!

Jag vet jag vet! Alla har väntat så fantastiskt länge på att jag ska kasta upp bilderna på mitt fantastiska shagpad, men nu kan ni lugna er, dagen har kommit! Alltså, jag fick feeling och städade min lilla lya ett par veckor efter min plötsliga ommöblering. Det var fint i ungefär en dag, sen kom virvelvinden Ellet och gjorde som vanligt. Så det här ett litet ögonblick av min lägenhets existens. Let’s do it!

Ja, vad är det här? Biblioteket kanske!

Jamen ungefär sådär. Hallen och badrummet orkar jag inte visa pga blaha och supertrist med beigerosa plastmatta på väggarna. Men ska jag vara helt ärlig så är jag nog gladare i hur det blev än vad jag trodde när jag flyttade in. Nu får vi se hur länge den här konstellationen av möbler håller innan jag får ryck igen.

The demons come at night

During the day the sun shines. I laugh a lot at work, with my colleagues and their oddities. Fart around the afternoons, hang out with friends, chat with my gurl squad, study during the nights. Then the darkness lowers itself over the city, the sky turning dark blue. A halo of lighter blue enhances the contours of the city and reminds me of the coming light season, the one where the flowers start to grow and the new little leaves carry the shade of yellowy green.

I got to bed. I dream. I dream about everything that has happened. I dream about being a teenager again and that both of my parents are alive and still married, how I try and make them find each other again. I dream about old loves, the ones that I can’t miss because they were never mine. I dream about my ex-husband and his new and the child they’re expecting together. I dream about the house, how I’ve been torn from there and have to collect the remainder of my things.

I dream about how I’m talking to J about how we’re gonna settle mom’s old house now that she’s dead. I dream that I have to tell mom that rummages around in the kitchen, that she’s dead. I dream that I get anxiety over having to have that conversation with her, to tell her that she’s no longer alive and that we need to give away all her things. I dream of her being in the hospital and that she knows she’s going to die. I dream about her waking up and realizing that she’s still alive and still has death in front of her, crying in sorrow. I dream about my divorce. How I lost my job and security at the same time. About how I need to face old ghosts. I dream about soon being without somewhere to live and have nowhere to go.

Night after night.

Then my sleep is disrupted by the sharp light of morning. I get up, ruffled feathers from the night. Try to drench the memories with a bath tub of coffee.

I know sorrow comes in waves, and I know the waves are shallower and more regular nowadays. More like the seasons storms than sudden tsunamis. And I know that in the long run, I have to handle the grief of everything, no matter how I chose to do it. But I still can’t help but long for calmer nights, stillness in my dreams. The boring but safe routines of everyday life. Not having to face my demons every night.

This too, shall pass.

Grocery store dementia

Sometimes it’s nice to have someone that is just as bad as you are for company. Other times, it’s nice to have a friend that meet your weaknesses and make you stronger. The latter would have been preferred in the context of this post, because when my ex-roomie and I pass the little paddle gateways to grocery stores, something happens. I mean, we have both managed to survive thus far so I know we HAVE the ability somewhere, it just disappears when we’re together.

It’s like the cover falls down over the bird cage. The Homer Simpson brain monkeys start slamming their cymbals together. The Finding Nemo-seagulls stare mindlessly at things and yell “MINE!” when they see tasty things and put them in the shopping baskets. If we managed to grab any baskets, that is. Because most often we make it through half the store before even realizing we haven’t grabbed any baskets, or any food stuffs that we were supposed to collect. We’ve just been talking, looking at things.

When we’ve tried to focus on not talking as much, AND brought a list of things, even then things have gone to shits. Once, we even reached the register without having picked up ANYTHING. We had to walk all the way back and start over.

Like yesterday. We were getting sour cream. Sounds easy right? We were stood right in front of the shelf with sour cream. Looked at it. But from standing right in front of sour cream, to saying “Hey, over there is lactose free sour cream”, and making our way the ten feet over to the shelf with the lactose free sour cream, we’d forgotten all about the sour cream and my friend picked up a liter of milk instead. I looked on. Satisfied, we left.

So, now I sit here at home, without sour cream. And without milk. Because when I looked at my friend picking up milk, I didn’t register that milk was on my list too.

That little fact, I managed to forget.

With spring, comes the fear

It’s already begun sneaking up on me. Circulating in the periphery. Slipped away and dwelled in the darkness of winter before it suddenly attacks like a cat that’s hidden under the couch and throws itself after your innocent toes when you least expect it. Because when spring comes, so does the longing for my old house.

Last spring was a battle field between gratitude over having somewhere to live at all, and the anger and sorrow over losing my house and home. In the grey February storms, tucking my coat close to my body, I’m a little bit thankful for not having to put pieces of a roof that was torn out by the winds, and the sense of loss is lessened. But the other changing seasons are harder to handle. Spring comes and it’s time to start putting down seeds, growing plants. And I can’t be bothered to try even.

The contact with nature, that you were brought along the sun’s journey across the sky, how it’s path changed with the turning of the year. The big south facing window to baby pepper and chili plants in. The fact that the everlasting winds ripped the plants to shreds immediately when we put them outside that one time, well, that memory kind of fades away, and what remains is only the sun drenched patio with its mile wide views.

That one time when we had to abort a nice cup of coffee in order to run out and catch our green house before it blew right out over the fields a Saturday in April was something that just came along with the house. It was worth it. I know that the fierce January winds turned that green house into shrapnel before we even sold it but the new-old owner didn’t care. All he wanted was his house back. His house. My house.

The house where I could open the patio door and all that came in through it was sunshine and the sound of trees moving in the calm winds. The little coos of forest pigeons in the distance, the horny hoots of owls in mating season. The silence at night was deafening. When I moved back to my mom’s place I didn’t sleep properly for six weeks, disturbed by the sounds of the city.

Even my friends miss the house. There was something magical about it. Now in retrospect, I’m torn between the gratitude of getting the chance to live there for almost two years, and the sense that maybe I’d been happier now if I hadn’t experienced what it was like to feel that much at home somewhere, that I never had before.

Fresh and fancy

Jag sminkade mig fräscht igår. Ni vet, lagom med ögonskugga och fräsch hy, med rouge och glow i form av en svagt guldig highlighter. Jag vet inte om jag gillar det. På något vis så känns det som att jag vid fräsch sminkning mycket mer går patriarkatets väg än med min vanliga typ av smink, som utgörs främst av mycket mörk ögonskugga. Den där naturliga skönheten är ingenting man förärats med, och citatet “Men om osnygga kvinnor inte heller får sminka sig, så ökar man bara ännu mer avståndet till de naturligt vackra individerna och försämrar ytterligare för sig själv” ekar. Ett långt perspektiv, och ett kort. Orkar man ta det långa perspektivet och spä på sin ofördelaktiga lott i livet ännu mer? Jag gör inte det. Jag täcker det eviga röda, krafsar på en massa ögonskugga som får mig att se ut mer som jag känner mig inombords, och slipper iallafall frågor om huruvida jag sprungit nyligen som annars kommer som ett brev på posten. Men vacker blir jag inte för det. Det är bara ett par två av mina närmsta och en norska på Instagram som kallar mig vacker, och det duger bra. Fulsnygg har sitt värde det med. Och ligga får jag ändå.

Sminket i sig, vars främsta värde ligger i att täcka det röda som pryder mitt ansikte nästan varje dag och att dekorera mig, fyller ju dock två funktioner till som är mycket roligare att fokusera på, så det gör jag istället. Den inre skatan älskar uppsättningen med krämer och puder, pennor och samlingar med ögonskugga. Jag depottar och sorterar om, sorterar bort och lägger till nytt, imiterar nyutkomna paletter genom att sortera om de jag redan har. Den andra funktionen är den smörjande. Den där timmen på morgonen mellan att jag kliver upp och att jag låser upp dörren till verkligheten behövs för att lätta upp den lätt finska stämning som råder när en som nyvaken ska försöka argumentera med sig själv om att det är värt att kliva upp och ta sig an dagen, när belöningscentra i hjärnan desperat försöker med övertala en att somna om istället, lockandes med sexdrömmar och blytunga lemmar. En kopp kaffe och en på låg volym tjattrande sminkvideo på youtube förgyller fortfarande morgnarna och gör att jag hinner vakna ordentligt innan jag kliver ut i solljuset. Delar av min inre dystopiker hinner gömma sig i klädkammaren innan jag går ut, och det gör mig gott.

Och ett av mina favvokoncept är ju fortfarande “smink som killar hatar”.