Bustin' out at the Williamson Ranch

Peonies are a little bit like sex, the way they creep up on you and then suddenly they are exploding all over the place with these electric colors and their spicy scent. I'm a little uncomfortable with the fact that I just now compared peonies to sex. I am itching to start this paragraph over. But what's life if we don't push ourselves up to the edge once in a while? The fact that I do that to myself all the time just goes to show you all how dedicated I am to uncovering raw life.

OK, whatever Angelina. I'm not a prude. It's just that every time I talk about sex I either embarrass myself or someone else. Some of you may remember the last time I mentioned sex I pretty much maligned the entire population of dominatrices and sado-masochistic enthusiasts. Then I also made all thong wearing ladies feel judged, which is pretty much 95% of the feminine population. That's pretty impressive. Well, to be honest, only .000000000001% of the thong wearing ladies in this country actually read the post in question. But the rest of them would have felt judged if Dustpan Alley was a household name.

It is interesting to me what happens in my posts when I just follow my brain around. Most of the time I am a disciplined writer of hard-hitting business reports...(yeah, you can scoff now, I'm doing it myself. NO, not scoffing. LAUGHING AT MYSELF) When I'm not filtering, all kinds of surprising things come out. The one thing I'm really fighting at this very second is telling you all what awful thing happened in my dream last night. Not a happy dream, but also bizarre and all women would just squirm in discomfort if I disclosed it.

My basil sproutlings. What hopeful little buggers they are. I am keeping a keen eye on them lest they dry out and shrivel up, taking my dreams of fresh pesto with them. I have a whole other packet of basil seeds to plant, but these ones are the lettuce leaf ones and I suspect it's the same variety our local basil-wizard was growing and selling to Harvest "Fresh".

Gratuitous shot of the first label to be sewn in. This is not the spot the rest of them will be sewn into, because having to stitch it down like this doesn't show it off to advantage. Still, I had to show you.

Normally I write my posts mostly as a narrative to myself, a little like I might talk into a tape recorder if I was a really important individual who is always having stunning thoughts that must get recorded immediately, but sometimes also as a narrative to the folks who I know are reading my blog. There may, if I'm lucky, be people I don't know about who are reading this. But the ones I seem to be narrating to are those of you who frequently comment. I feel like I'm chatting with a bunch of friends.

Today I don't feel like I'm narrating to myself at all. Today I feel like absolutely every comment I'm writing is directed to you, my blog friends. Also to my friends (and maybe family? I can never tell if my family is reading this or not) who I knew long before my blog life began. Which, by the way, began almost a year ago. I think my first post was posted on July 1, 2006.

Anyway. I've been thinking about how careful I have to be now about what I say about local people and places. I've already found out how careful I have to be about what I say about other blogs in the blog world and their charming writers. There's a lot of fierce protection out there. I find myself censoring myself more than ever because I don't enjoy the kind of back-lash that I experience whenever I posit questions about places, or people, or subjects that people are guarding close to their bosoms. I can't help but wonder how film and restaurant critics manage to keep from getting murdered.

Everyone loves to hate a critic. The problem is, I feel like I'm an ideal person to be a critic. I want to do pieces on my local grocery stores, my local hair salons, and other local businesses. I've already leveled some critical stares in the direction of lifestyle choices and pretty much made myself a couple of life long enemies. Not only that, I have made fun of some bloggers that are protected from people like me by blogger laws in which guilty parties are drawn and quartered.

How much do I want you all to turn on me in a mass evil stare? How willing am I to face unfriendly fire for bringing up issues no one wants brought up? What would happen, for example, if I told you about the haircut I received this week? Is the woman who cut my hair reading my blog? If she's not reading it, what if one of her friends is? I'm not actually a mean person, I don't wish very many people actual ill will*. In fact, I actually really like the woman who cut my hair. She's quite charming, she's quite lovely to look at, and she does actually cut hair well. Just not the way I ask for it. (Although, it must be said that the reason I returned to her is because she gave me a fantastic cut the first time she cut it. The only good cut I've had in about three years.)

The thing is, I am not capable of telling people my unsolicited opinions to their faces. I mean, I will tell you the honest truth if you ask for it. And if I'm convinced you really want it. But when a hairdresser asks me how I like my cut, I cannot tell them I hate it because they made me look like Hilary Clinton before she got a good hair cutter. Why? Why is it so hard? Because a part of me cannot bear to make a fuss. I don't send food back in restaurants. EVER. I don't return purchases. I don't make formal complaints. I always assume it's my own fault that I am unsatisfied.

Yet obviously I need to air my feelings out. It's easy for me to get feisty in writing. Because this is where all of my guts have always lain coiled. In my pen. Since I was little, all of my strength has lived on the page because in my day to day life I am a quaking bowl of jelly.** I can say things in writing that I'd rather die than say out loud. My blog offers a great platform on which to air my opinions. Then it occurred to me that I'm no different than a paid critic, except that I don't get paid and no one respects my opinions. But what I want to know is, do paid critics get phone calls from restaurants they've given bad reviews to? Are they forced to defend their opinions to the very people they have critiqued? And most importantly, is everything they write something they are willing to say to people's faces?

So this wasn't at all what I thought I was going to write this morning.

Non-sequitor: We sold another Peace apron yesterday! Thank you Maya for the order! It goes out today. We really appreciate your support!

Well, I have to go wash the gnarly crap that is in my hair from getting it cut. Whatever product they used made my hair lose all of it's swing, it kind of made it dull and slightly sticky and all day on the first day I could taste the bitterness of the product in my mouth. Then I'm back to the store to make more progress on those aprons. Hopefully a lot. I am going to ignore the computer today because Max misses his mama. So if I don't make comments on your blog, please believe I will be back very soon!




*I reserve most of my ill-will for the Bush family and their particular friends. But I want you to know that my ill will remains distinctly non-violent in nature, according to my principals but much against my instinct.
**Except for rare displays of total bravery which always shock the shit out of me when they happen.