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Costumes Decor and More | Buttercup of Doom ep 60

bodep60-costumesdecor

This week through the haze of cold meds, I attempt to discuss costumes and decor, and the difference between racism and being offended by a costume. Definitions, rights, and silliness. Plus some fun things to check out!

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Sponsors:  Subculture Corsets & Clothing (and twitter)| Chuck Buda’s Bankrupt

Suggestions/Requests: a lot of you — thanks guys! (to suggest/request use the form or post on FB)

Mentions/Shoutouts and Linky-Links: Doorknocker Funny (click it, damn it!) • Roaming Millennial’s Hands Off My CultureTeal Pumpkin Project

Hashtag Hell: #nyQuil #costumes #masks #decor #sexy #misappropriation #appropriation #culture #bloodymary #trickortreat #racism #racist #offensive #halloween #humor #feelings #sumo #disco #indian #ninja #cowboy #pirate #rapper #rapeculture #soapbox #kkk #vampire #japanese #ignorant #geisha #disney #beliefs #blackface #skydaddy #god #intent #dialogue #education #allergies #candy #kids #tealpumpkinproject #roamingmillennial #doorknocker #subculturecorsets #chuckbuda #patreon #facebook #twitter #instagram #projectiradio #buttercupofdoom #podcast #kelliowen

Coming up: #paranormal #ghosthunting #halloween …and your suggestions

This Week’s Rating: PG13 (language) buttercup ratings system info here

Passages

butterfly-wordsWriters write. It’s what we do. Whether it’s a coherent tumbling of sentences that happen to fall into a pile of paragraphs and make sense, or it’s just a random thought bouncing along a breeze like a flitting butterfly—we write. We jot ideas onto postie-notes and the backs of envelopes. We scramble for our voice recorders and voice-to-text apps. We will stop talking in the middle of a sentence, eyes glazing over, as we wander off to some thread of the muse’s whim. We may or may not always come back from that last one, and we do apologize for the interruption. But it’s what we are and what we do.

And we have to react. We have to jot it down and get it out. Whether we’re exorcising it or just sharing (there is a difference, “Blood Type” blog coming), the snippets must go or we’ll go crazy. You can only have so many voices in your head before you snap—just ask Sybil.

The following is one of those moments. It has been sitting, untouched though often thought of, in the “Random Passages” folder for years. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know if it will ever be anything. But it’s there, like a lost child in an overcrowded department store. So for #throwbackthursday #tbt, I’ll toss out some ancient words originally scribbled on the back of a napkin…


CHILDREN OF THE GODS

The most dangerous things in the history of the world have been children playing with things they don’t understand. A child’s imagination was responsible for the original flood, as he pulled his hand through the mud and drowned the little pile of ants he had collected. A little girl’s whim toppled a mountain and destroyed a town when she wished fire would rain from the skies. And possibly most unknown, but with the most impact, was the little boy who made an entire civilization disappear with a handful of straw braids and his mother’s ink pots. By twisting magic together into one braid, and declaring what each was capable of, Carson destroyed Atlantis. And changed the future of the Earth, forever.


Thursday has become about sharing. Today I share with those who read my drivel, and nod to others who have the disease. But hey, you can all play along. Think outside the box for #tbt. Put the pictures away and share something else from the past. Here’s mine. What are your mental hallways harboring? Do you have ancient unheard words in your hard drive haunting you?

Guckles

gucklesMy love of pickles is not a secret (deal with it Nate). I have always loved them. Forever. Period. And as I giggled at my little Raynebow munching on one the other day, my mind went off into a whirlwind of thoughts regarding the little green treasures that excuse cucumbers for their existence.

I have been known to get just a pickle when the work crew orders from the local sandwich shop, and the delivery guy knows exactly who that for and smiles at my child-like joy. When I was a teen, my brother called them guckles (he was a toddler at the time). Not sure why. He could say “p” but in this instance, he preferred his own word for the happy dill treat. And going back even further, when I was six, my mother bribed me with pickles.

Yes, bribed.

And that’s where the whirlwind stopped.

My mother used to stop on the way home from work at some mysterious place and bring home ginormous pickles, individually wrapped just for me by a group of fairies living near the dill tree in the woods. Hmm… I was six. I believed this. She would then show me said pickle and put it in the fridge and tell me I could have it if I would just be a doll and rub her back (and/or feet) for a few minutes. I was the youngest masseuse to ever work without a license! And I had a lot of fairy-wrapped giant pickles Monday through Friday that year.

And looking back now, as an adult, the woman was brilliant! It wasn’t even about the pickles. It had nothing to do with getting tiny masseuse to work on her kinks. Nope. It was her walking in the door and being able to plot on the couch and just be still and quiet and let the day melt off her for 20 minutes. It was mommy time, not pickle time. Brilliant. Kudos to the woman I often refer to, with love, as crazy (what? she is!).

So here’s a fun wayback-machine question for you… thinking back now as an adult, did your parents ever trick you into something for “you” that was really for them? How brilliantly evil were they?

 

Adventures in Time

mammoth2Faith and doubt both are needed—not as antagonists, but working side by side to take us around the unknown curve.
~Lillian Smith

I clearly remember waking up freezing under, not one but, three heavy quilts on that fateful December morning in Wisconsin and mentally saying shouting, “Enough!” But, being the over-analyzing soul I am, I asked my parents to be my rock, my logic, and tell me why I shouldn’t move. They said no such thing. Instead, mom said, “Go! Go while you have the fire. Go before you wake up at sixty-five, still live here, and still hate it.”

Five years ago today I shoved everything I owned, two kids, and a cat into a huge u-haul with a mammoth on the side of it. I turned in my apartment keys, and handed the keys of the mammoth to my best friend (volunteered to drive the u-haul). I watched the sun set at a gas station near Ed Gein’s, said good-bye to my Wisconsin residency, and began the next adventure…

It’s been an interesting five years.

My kids have grown and flown the coop. The best cat ever, Chaos, ran away. I’ve loved and lost. I’ve made new friends and lost old. I’ve hit writing deadlines and missed life goals. I’ve learned. I’ve grown. I’ve aged. I’ve changed.

Life has offered challenges and provided pitfalls. Time has both slowed and sped up. The universe has played yo-yo with my emotions, suggesting I run while begging me to stay. I’ve seen divorces and marriages, births and funerals. I gained a new title, wear a new hat, gotten new ink, earned new scars—physical and emotional. And in the end, I’m glad I listened to my mom and took the plunge.

Because life is an adventure. All of it. Period.

Whether it’s going to the grocery store, or sitting on the porch, or hopping in the car and driving until you find a beach. It’s all unwritten. Merely outlined. And attitude is half the battle. I was raised by a crazy woman who blessed me with the right attitude—enjoy the little things, make memories, accept the adventure, and make it in the mundane.

So, happy anniversary Pennsylvania. Thank you for the much warmer winters, four actual seasons, and flowers on my birthdays instead of blizzards. I’ve finally realigned my brain to your night sky and get that even if he’s in the wrong spot, Orion is still Orion. I’ve loathed and loved, laughed and cried, but it all goes into who I am and who I become and how well I pack for the next adventure.

Though I really do miss that cat.

Intrinsic Value of the Existential You

pennyjarSelf-worth comes from one thing—
thinking that you are worthy.
~ Wayne Dyer

Have a yard* sale and you’ll find yourself putting little tags on everything—giving reduced value to things you once thought worth much more than you’re now willing to accept for them. At the end of the day, you’ll count the change you’ve received, the crumpled bills, and the smattering of things even the scavengers didn’t want. And you’ll be richer for it. For the items traded, for the people spoken to, and for the time, entertainment and adventure you put into the day—because life is an adventure with the right attitude.

I’m turning 45 this month. And it’s been an adventure all right. While I’m usually not one to evaluate my life on every birthday or New Year, I find I am this time. I’m divorced. My kids are gone. And I’m not where I thought I would be in this lifetime…at all, on any level. For a while, those thoughts made me feel very alone in the world. So I faced it.

I woke up that way a couple weeks ago as I said goodbye to an era—alone, in a motel room, absorbing my aloneness. And I found something rather strange in the quiet. Me. I remembered not everything that breaks is broken—you have to break a glo-stick for it to glow, you have to break a fortune cookie to get the fortune. And upon breaking me, I found me. Hi world! Welcome to the second half of me.

But the alone continued to sit at the edge of my mind for some time. I felt a little lost, a little scared. The screaming had subsided and the silence was a bit too much. Then a whisper started in the darkness. “Why don’t you do this…?” “Why don’t you do that…?” And I realized I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t old. I wasn’t done. I had just finally matured to the me-portion of my life.

I don’t have kids to worry about on a daily basis. I don’t have a partner to please. I just have me. I can stay in my pj’s all day and write on the weekend if I want to. I can play with my herbs and oils, research the family lineage, read a biography, blow bubbles at WalMart, whatever. I can eat nothing but salads for a week and no one can complain. I can come and go as I please. I can go places I’m interested in without worrying about it being entertaining to others in my life. And I can enjoy myself, alone or in a crowd—with friends, with strangers, or with nobody.

In the quiet, I remembered life is a giant yard sale. Things come and go. People come and go. Sometimes you’re the seller, sometimes you’re the buyer. But you are the only one who can put value on you. No one else gives you worth, only you do. Sure, for a the first portion I was being guided by parents, and the second portion I was guiding others and not worrying about me. But eventually there’s quiet. Eventually, there was just me.

I know my worth. I’m a mom, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a colleague. I’m a concert-giving rockstar in the shower, a dancing queen while cooking, a 12-year old laying in the grass talking to bugs, an old woman conversing with the moon, a mermaid in the water, a gypsy, a writer, and just a girl. My value is a jar of pennies. Some are shiny, some dull. Some are new, some old.  Some worth a penny, some much more. I’ve spent a lifetime filling that jar. I don’t need to count the pennies or show them to anyone, I just need to smile and know I’ve got them. I paid my dues. I’ve earned me-time. And it’s time for the true adventures to begin…

 

*Garage sale, yard sale, rummage sale… what the heck is wrong with this country that we need 3 different way of saying “buy this crap I don’t want anymore”? And thanks to those on twitter who helped** me decide which to use.

**And by “help” I mean told. Told with force and a waving fist. #loveyamouse!

Dear Santa

11-29_christmas_mailbox_t670The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.
~by Clement Clarke Moore (1799 – 1863)

“If you don’t believe you don’t get anything” That’s my mother’s rule, and it became my rule for my own children. Well, I had a couple rules actually: 1. believe 2. write a letter 3. give 10 toys to the children’s ward (you got so you give) 4. don’t ask for anything that has a commercial on repeat—be yourself & want your own things, rather than what they want you to want. Simple rules really. But that first one? The second? Those were the winners growing up, and no matter how old I get, I follow the rules.

I’ve been writing letters to Santa since I could hold a crayon. At some point, I stopped putting them on the fridge or giving them to mom, but I have continued, for decades, to address the north pole with my yearly plea for approval, reward for good behavior, and that one thing I just have to have.

I’ve been thinking about those letters a lot since I put mine for this year into the mailbox a couple weeks ago. I remember the smell of the kitchen the year I knelt by the stockings and wrote the letter to Santa when we lived in the house now torn down. I remember the wind howling outside as I wrote the letter the following year. And I remember that I asked for the same thing both years but didn’t get it. I remember being disappointed, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what it was I had asked for.

I’ve always asked for strange things. I blame Miracle of 34th Street. I rarely asked for something that could be purchased. I tend to ask for things only the universe, or Santa, could provide. Something magical, rather than something to send my mom into a rush of humans all being helped by an angry minimum wage worker who really just wants to get their own shopping done. One year I asked for world peace and a million dollars. Unfortunately, I was grown and gone and said this request over the phone rather than sending mom a letter—allowing her to hear the words rather than read them. And well, she’s my mom. Ever wonder why I’m weird? Blame her… I got this in the mail:

worldpeace

Yeah, she’s real funny…

I remember a lot of presents I’ve gotten over the years. I remember a lot of wishes and wants and requests. And while I still cannot remember what that was I asked for repeatedly so long ago, I know what I asked for this year. Another repeat request. Third year running, actually. Let’s see if I can get that Miracle of 34th Street response…

Dear Santa,

I’ve eaten all my vegetables and even re-tested some I previously shunned. I have been kind when I really didn’t want to, because my name is Kelli not Karma, and I know better than to try and do her job for her. I have tried really hard to shut my mouth and listen to others. You know what I want. And I believe in your abilities to come through…

~ Silly little gypsy girl

My mom believes. My siblings and kids believe (rules is rules). Heck, Audrey Hepburn believed in a lot of things (“I believe in pink. I believe that laughing is the best calorie burner. I believe in kissing, kissing a lot. I believe in being strong when everything seems to be going wrong. I believe that happy girls are the prettiest girls. I believe that tomorrow is another day and I believe in miracles.”)—I can only assume Santa was also on her list. Do you believe? And if so, what did you ask Santa for? Do you remember what you asked for as a child?

May you all get your Christmas wishes… Merry Christmas, everyone!

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