I do not have a Monday outfit for you, for several reasons. The first of these is: today is Wednesday. And the second of these is: no one wants to see pictures of me in ugly sweatpants and a filthy, decade old t-shirt, my hair 24 hours unbrushed, which is how I looked for all of Monday.

Instead I have for you the picture of the ridiculousness that was me on Saturday morning. See, I had gone out on Friday night, already all high on self-pity and indignation. I forced E. to take me out to the Pour House, which was having some kind of herring season/spring break promotional event involving Jagermeister schwag, pretty girls in tippy heels and scandalously short skirts (you know they were short if I thought so) whipping Jello shots like softballs across the bar, and challenges from random strangers that ended with: "YOU'RE the one I want to do a body shot off of!" In other words, not the sort of scene I normally enjoy. I like to drink my whiskey in PEACE, thank you. The upshot of it all was, I declined the body shot from the itinerant herring tender, I split a Jello shot that tasted of cough syrup with E., who was actually still coughing, and I scored some WICKED SWEET giveaways. On top of this, I had been making rather cruel comments earlier in the day about Supersoakers full of Jager and the type of person who enjoys them... so I was forced by my own conscience to wear this in penance:

I am pretty sure spring break does not coincide with Sturgis. Also, these are the Rock of Love scandalpants.

So then the rest of the weekend happened, and if you are reading this, you probably already know that the rest of the weekend was the shittiest 36 hours of the last three or four years for me. All the studded leather jackets and bitchface in the world couldn't keep me from the melancholy that beset me.

So, for the second time in a mere six months, I impulsively laid my money down to flee. The first time I was flying straight into someone's arms; this time I will probably have to shop around a little bit. We'll see what charms Texas Rockabilly Revival holds; I am going this one alone, and so will most likely spend my time pressed up against a monitor, making eyes at a guitarist who is busy making eyes at the 24-year old with the cut-off halter top and tattoos across her boobs. At least I will get to watch Jimbo slap his stuff again, and see the Queen of Rockabilly before she kicks off this mortal coil. I won't say that there isn't a curious weight in my chest when I think about how the one person I would dearly, dearly enjoy sharing this with can't even bring himself to look at my Facebook page, but that is neither here nor there. Rock and roll will burn the sadness right out of you.

Speaking of impulsive... um. Turns out the day H. shows up with her locks shorn into a delightful yet manageable bob is the day I ferret out a 2 year old bottle of peroxide and go all Patricia Day on my bangs:

I am only wearing half my makeup, and half my clothes. I guess it's good this is a headshot.

I went a little overboard, maybe. But I needed to do something in order to crowd out the running monologue in my head, the one that says things like this.

I am not making any outfits for RAB Revival, by the way. I am just taking those scandalpants and that Jager shirt. And the highest pair of Hey, Sailor! stiletto heels I own. Maybe the red ones.

For what it's worth

Dear Z,

I don't know that you will read this; you have done a very thorough job excising me from your life, and I can't imagine that you would go subjecting yourself to a big ol' dose of my own self-aware self-promotion. On the other hand, we got pretty close, didn't we? and there was a lot of stuff I wrote on here that was more or less intended expressly for you. You always knew that. You are a smart man; I know you sussed out what was yours and yours alone. Which is why I can see that the last thing I posted could have felt like a kick in the gut.

I didn't intend for it to. I didn't intend anything by it, really, except blowing off steam the way I am most familiar with - by letting other, more talented artists (well, with the exception of the Sex Pistols, but in my defense, that's an Iggy Pop song) do my talking for me. I was so ANGRY - not at you, at myself, at my own emotions - and I was so tired of nurturing this thing, this pygmy mouse lemur, this incredibly vulnerable porcelain shell of love. I wanted nothing more than to grind the damn thing under my heel, to snap its spine and leave its bloodied carcass for the vultures, and go on being the cynical, jaded, lemur-murdering bitch I apparently long to be. I was exhausting myself waiting for someone to take it from me, and I was ready to take matters into my own hands, perhaps to drive my destiny myself for a little while.

You misconstrued my meaning, and maybe the time was ripe for that to happen - you certainly didn't flush the last seven months down the toilet over how a blog post got tagged - you ended up tagged as stupid boys more than once, remember? But I do feel bad knowing that it was the straw that brought the damned camel to its knees.

For what it's worth, the playlist from last Friday contains songs I hardly ever listen to. I have played it through, in its entirety as it exists on this blog, only twice now. I am putting up another little list for you to listen to, and I will tell you this: these are the songs I have been listening to over and over again since last fall. They are a much bigger part of the story of you and me.

Finally, I am just telling everyone (you know you are not the only one reading this) that primates are remarkably fucking resilient creatures, and they do not take kindly to mistreatment. Stupid zombie lemurs.

love,
-stella

Songs to strangle a lemur by

I said it was not going to be a tiresome fashion blog. I said nothing about it being a tiresome playlist blog.

I am tired of my lemur biting the hand that feeds it, so here is a sing-a-long while I cheerfully choke the breath out of this little fucker.

I promise this won't turn into a tiresome fashion blog.

I do have today's Monday outfit for you, as well as last Saturday's as well. The first of last Saturday's outfits, anyway. You know that by the time I left my house for a rendezvous with the blues, I was tarted up like a Rock of Love reject. (until I changed my scandalous pants, anyway)

Monday

I like that I look like I ought to be standing on the yellow line in the middle of a stretch of deserted highway, so I can rip off my neckscarf and flag the draggers into action.

Saturday
I think this is what Amelie wore when she was moonlighting in a wartime cabaret.

I always have that weird up and to the left headtilt because I have just been looking down at the camera screen to make sure the shot is decent. Mostly it is not, and I take several just to make sure you can see some or all of the details.

Here are a few of my most favoritest songs about cars, in honor of today's outfit. You will note these are, well. You know. Rockabilly, mostly.



Vroom.

I wish I were that girl.

I have never, to my knowledge, been anyone's muse. I mean, aside from a few painful high school poems and the song H. wrote about my being chastised for asking men to bring me drinks onstage. Just like anyone, though, I have been listening to the radio or the B-side of some scratchy cassette tape, and thought to myself: that's me! This song is me! And just like anyone, sometimes instead, I thought to myself: Dammit all, why am I not this girl? The misunderstood, gorgeous genius who causes sleepless nights and hopeless devotion and a SONG, an ode to my cleverness and wit and deep brown eyes... More than anything, I wanted to leave someone so profoundly affected by my loss that the only salve for their wounded soul was a bittersweet ballad about how he would never love anyone the same way again. Or maybe to seem so unattainable that the only way to win me over would be to pen a missive that would never be sent, only played. Preferably over the airwaves, where it would be heard by millions of people. Who would consequently buy the album, making artist rich. So he would be famous, and I would read about him in a magazine, and think: That guy! I forgot about him. I should give him a call.

When I was in high school, the Replacements were on their way out, which is a shame, because this album was the one that convinced me that boys could really mean it when they said they fell just as hard as girls. Whenever I am in doubt about it, I listen to this song and I wish I were her.

she opens her mouth to speak, and what comes out's a mystery

Jack White hardly seems the knight in shining armor type, but I'd let him buy me a beer and listen to my neurotic list of slights and wrongs.

lots of girls walk around in tears, but that's not for you

I do not want to be Joey Ramone's girlfriend. But I like that he asked.

do you love me best? what can I say?

Equal opportunity swoonage. Oh, Kathleen Hanna...

rebel girl, you are the queen of my world

Cake explains how we really all feel about "let's just be friends"

I'm really only praying that the words you'll soon be saying might betray the way you feel about me.

There are thousands of others - pretty much anything Elvis Costello ever wrote, for example - but I have to leave you a few to discuss in the comments. What songs made you wish you were the singer's object of affection?

How to make a really good sandwich

1) Start by preparing a batch of gorgonzola dressing. A basic buttermilk recipe with lots of black pepper and an equal amount of gorgonzola cheese blended in is perfect. If you MUST, you can go with some prefab stuff, but stay away from the plastic bottles of "blue cheese" on the non-refrigerated shelf. You will call me ugly names if you go that route.

2) Find some sturdy bread. I like mini baguettes, but a good solid sourdough would work, or pita. Just be sure that whatever you choose is going to have to integrity to withstand the filling. I would avoid regular sliced bread; it will break under the strain like your high school boyfriend did when you dropped him because he wouldn't wear a lime green silk waistcoat to prom.

3) Choose an assortment of vegetables. My last version included a perfectly ripe avocado, red pepper slices, a Roma tomato, leaf lettuce, and shredded carrots. Forget to add one of these veggies in the building process - I went with the carrots - otherwise your final result may prove unwieldy.

4) Slice some good medium cheddar cheese. I know you like other cheeses better, but you want to compliment the bleu cheese in your condiments, and something mild like Muenster is going to get lost, and something bold like a sharp cheddar is going to be too prevalent.

5) Assemble: A generous dollop of your homemade dressing on one side, a scant smear of a biting mustard (Dijon for me, but don't let it stop you from using stoneground or something) on the other. Avocado goes on the bottom, lightly mashed so it stays put. Then tomato, lettuce, cheese. The pepper slices, due to their affinity to slide around, go in the hollowed out top, where the dressing is, so they are kind of glued into place.

6) Slice in half unless you intend for the vast majority of the filling to be in your lap rather than your mouth.

7) Enjoy with a glass of fizzy water and some Kettle chips. I went with barbeque.

8) If you want, we can make these together and sit on the couch and eat them and read magazines and I will regale you with interesting tidbits out of my National Geographic about Peruvian mummies and you will finally have to tell me to stop talking about dissection while we are eating and so I will pout for a moment and then try to steal the Rolling Stone out of your hands. Then we will make a batch of cupcakes and you will try to borrow something, probably a shirt or maybe my new Chuck Klosterman book, and I will let you because I am THAT HAPPY that you came over just to eat sandwiches with me. Or we could rent a movie if you don't want to read magazines. It's up to you.

I sleep on the right side

So on the left side of my bed, in the spot where someone else would lay if he were around to lay in it, there is:

-the lumpy pillow. I need to have it, just in case I have a sudden desire to completely surround myself in fluff.

-seven books: Natural Acts and The Reluctant Mr. Darwin, by David Quammen; Killing Yourself to Live by Chuck Klosterman; the graphic novel of Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman; The Basic Eight by Daniel Handler; With Billie (a biography of Billie Holiday); Scar Tissue (the autobiography of Anthony Kiedis). I am in the middle of one of these and just starting another. The rest I have read at least once, but keep around to reference or read bits of before sleeping. Except the Handler - I have no idea how that even got on the bed.

-four magazines: Rolling Stone, Mental Floss, Old School Rods (don't ask), and Star (REALLY. DON'T ASK.)

-my ukulele

And on my nightstand, to my right:

-a mason jar full of pens.

-all my remotes.

-my iPod speakers.

-two candles, one orange blossom and one bergamot and lime; two lighters, one green, one lavender.

-a glass for water, currently empty.

- five books: Oliver Twist, a rhyming dictionary, 100 Poems from the Japanese, collections of Millay and Cummings.

-three different types of balm for skin: Badger Balm, Lubriderm lotion; the tattoo stuff from the place.

-four different types of balm for lips: Burt's Bees; Kiss My Face Cranberry Orange; Schweppes Tonic Water; Besame Lipglaze in Crystal.

-my empty and long neglected glasses case.

-an assortment of jewelry from the last two weeks, since getting back from Seattle, including my sparrow necklace, two pairs of black hoop earrings, and my fantastic vintage Bulova watch.

-a huge stack of CDs people have burned for me that I have not put on a spindle yet.

-my journal, which is used only for jotting down ideas and phrases - I am not much of a diarist, and my lyrics notebook, which is used for everything from lyrics and song ideas to grocery lists.

-a grocery list with a doodle of a strawberry on it.

-a tourist guide to New Orleans (yes, still. shut it.)

-a bottle of nail polish in Stroke of Midnight, a very very deep red.

-an orange crayon.

-Post-it notes in bright yellow. Like not normal Post-it yellow, but school bus yellow. Dandelion yellow.

I feel like you now know everything you need to know about me.