Sugared Harpy

I went to a salon for the pinkening. Because I am a pansy who has never touched a bottle of hair bleaching anything before. That is probably wayyyy less cool than doing this at home with a bottle of Boone’s Strawberry Hill like all the young whipper-snappers are doing.

But, still. Awesome.

Despite how much I can’t stand the pinkification of all things marketed to women, I do own a pink camera and just dyed portions of my hair pink.

The pink camera is something I despise but it was the right price at the time. It works like ass. Like I expected it to. Because it’s pink and the manufacturer probably thought its pinkness would be all it needed to do to serve womankind.

The pink hair? Sanity is nice. Sanity is sexy.

I could have gone with blue or green but a reddish something works best with my skin and dark hair, so pinkish or a vibrant red were going to suit my need for fun, wild, hotttt, and yeah, distracting and sanity-saving.

I picked something called Atomic Red or Pink or Something ridiculous like that.

June has been hard. Ask NB about who has been crabby and needy. Of course, if he’s a smart NB he’ll say NO ONE. He’s still around so kudos for him.

June has seen a difficult birthday, Father’s Day, and a wedding anniversary with the man I’ll be divorced from in a month. The kids went away to Florida for a week with their dad. I now have less distractions than a usual semester brings.

I am also getting tired of all these god damned life lessons.

Lesson 4215:
Learning how to receive affection that is not of the obsessive, co-dependent variety.

Tis hard, I say. Hard.

So when a girl has been thinking about doing something fun and kicky for a while, and she’s off for the summer, and hell, she works in an ART department anyway, she might as well pay her gazillion dollars to the nice stylist and get herself colorful and happied up.

I’m calling it self care.

Other people exercise and eat healthily, I sit in a chair for a few hours while someone washes my hair and rubs my head.

Oh hey, by the way. That shirt I’m wearing (without a bra) in these pictures? It’s from the Arch Rival Roller Girls of St. Louis. Go see them. Seriously. Anyone whose acronym is ARRG is a friend of mine. I like all things pirate-related, so it seems. And buy one of their shirts because they make your NB’s eyes pop. Not because the sexy pin-up logo, but because your breasts will look amazing.

And great hair and awesome tits are apparently all I need to take care of myself. Dear fucking god.

This one is totally gratuitious because I see I have a waist. This pleases me.

Pink. SUCCESS.

Pictures to come.

An upcoming weekend trip might prove more interesting than I expected, based on this hotel’s review:

The free wife was convenient and the breakfast in the lobby the next morning was tasty.

Excusing what you see on this site, the moment someone meets me they realize fairly quickly that I am a Grammar Junkie.

I am not above correcting someone’s usage, telling them something is a shitty word for what they want, or correcting their spelling. Fun at a party, I tell ya.

I am TRYING VERY HARD not to do this so much. I know that’s annoying.

Horrible writing and dreadful speech hurt me inside (not just slang, I’m good with slang, okay I’m not good with “ain’t”, there’s no excuse for that shit). I actually wince. I don’t need anyone to be perfect all the time, not in the least, but arrrgggghhh I really just need to have a drink and chill out.

No surprise, I’m teaching my kids how to do things properly.

No surprise, my horror when Daniel comes to me with utter excitement one day. He had learned that when he’s playing on the computer there is a way to “shorten words when you type.”

Squick. Creak. Mama’s on shutdown.

“Mom, it’s like when you want to say “you,” you can just type a U! And “you’re” becomes UR! It’s awesome.”

I hates when people type like this to me. In emails or whatever, ouch pain draws blood.

The boys have been on vacation with their daddy in Florida. This is what I got on an adorable postcard from the boys today:

Hi Mom,

Me & Brett are r having a great time.

Love,
Daniel & Brett

Um, did my child just strike through an actual word to put R? Yes, yes he did.

Of course, there is no way to get pissy with your sons when they sent you a postcard while they’re away. None. All you do is get gushy and filled with love.

Just like that, the Grammar Junkie flitted away in a moment of happiness.

Upon applying for private health insurance…*

Contraceptive Coverage Option

If your application is accepted, benefits for contraceptive drugs and devices may be included in your health care coverage unless you check the box below. (Checking this option will not affect your premium).

For moral, ethical or religious reasons, I do not want benefits for contraceptive drugs and devices for myself or any family members.

1) Choosing this does not affect your premium.
2) You can decide for everyone else, including daughters (see: OR ANY FAMILY MEMBERS)
3) Why even have this option? Why the need to make a point of removing benefits, benefits are you still paying for regardless? Fucking. Gendered. Blah. Irritating.

*Which is what a nearly divorced, adjunct instructor has to do, of course.

Scents named after art. OMG.

Also awesome, the names of everything and the delicious scents that seem to have dark, delicate, sensual care put into them.

I have to decide on two, I limit myself to TWO. In my cart right now lives: Nocturne, Harlot, Seraglio, Hellcat, The Ecstasy of St. Theresa (a favorite piece in life), Calliope, and Madonna (Munch’s).

Two. Dammit.

*Thanks to Electrolicious for mentioning Black Phoenix Alchemy. I am in love.

I was going for a darker color on top this morning when I arrived at my hair cut and color appointment. And going for something like this on bottom:

I got this:

And this is what’s under and what does show through on my bottomist layers:

Tis pretty and oh my god gorgeous.

Tis NOT rocking the ’stablishment so much. But yes, super gorgeous.

I tried to be all punk mama and dye the ends of my hair pink.

And failed miserably.

Because I am a baby punk mama and didn’t want to use bleach and I picked a gentle hair color that totally did NOT work.

I fail pink.

But I totally win green!

First, I love that you love the new theme!!

Second.

My first name is a name I adore. Melissa.

It’s normal but not super common, it has a fun literary past and I like the sound of it.

And my middle is great because it might mean “torture” and I find that super fun.

My last name has gone through a few changes, though. I feel disconnected to all of them now and I have been pondering a decision lately.

I hadn’t thought about my last name throughout this awful divorce business. AT ALL. That is, until my mom called me one day and asked, “What are you doing with your name?”

Huh? Oh.

Fuck.

I didn’t know. I have had my husband’s name for nine years, my degrees and professional life are with this name. And yet, people (ha! women.) change their name all the time. The world magically continues.

So, my list of surnames are this: Maiden Name, First Husband and Children’s Name, Soon to Be Ex Husband’s Name.

What do you go with?

Mike and I have no children together, I have an iffy connection to his family, and I have no real reason to keep it. I will not go back to my first husband’s name, even though it’s the boys’ name because that just feels WEIRD and in ten years or less, the boys won’t even be at home AND they’ve never remembered me with their last name.

But I asked the boys how they felt about it anyway. I wanted to see their reactions and think about if I really needed to upset their world. Again.

Brett’s response, “I don’t get why you EVER changed your name. I mean, that was YOUR NAME!”

Oh. Huh.

Except at 18 when I was newly a mother and contemplating marriage with the baby-daddy, I didn’t feel particularly close to my father and his generic sounding, common name. And being so young, not being married but with a little boy, there was something to having a unified family name. Something attractive.

I fundamentally hate the notion of women being the only ones who change their names and I have known men who have changed theirs, but of course that’s rare. I hate the property connotation and having worked in geneological history as necessary for my master’s thesis related to portraits, I saw that wealthy women did NOT change their name throughout American (St. Louis) history. Neither do most celebrities. So “important” women don’t change it and that is fascinating to me.

However, name-changing is one of the few things gay couples can do to establish publically that they are family.

That unifying name change I did back when Daniel was seven months old lasted about three years. I divorced. And married again. At that time, I couldn’t see keeping Ex’s name when I was currently married.

Sigh. The drama now continues.

Hey! Did you know that if you marry the second time under the age of 25 that you have an awesome chance of second divorce? Awesome!

And hey! Did you also know that “It’s better for your relationship to be educated, religious, living in a good neighborhood, from a two parent home, and never raped, and have no children.”

Fucking duh. Did you know it’s always better for you never to be raped? I did.

Er, yes, names.

So now I have a name issue and I think I’m going to go all the way back to my maiden name. I flirted with going to my Grandma’s maiden name, it’s more ethnic and tells a story. But it feels forced and unnatural a bit since I’ve never used it. And it’s maybe too alliterative with my first name.

My maiden name is easy to spell, common, and it was mine regardless of my relationship with my dad then or now (better now).

As one of the boys put it, “You get to match Ashley!!”

I do.

If you have ever been a student and wondered if you mattered to your teacher, hopefully the answer is yes. Every student I have ever had matters to me, influences me, and teaches me a little more about what the hell I’m doing or need to do. Matters? Good or bad, the answer is yes.

This past semester I had my full share of student dumbassery.

I’ve also had my full share plus an extra helping of amazing students. The ones who challenge me and show me new things. Yes, it’s possible to show an art history teacher new things because have you seen the amount of shit humans can produce? It’s mind boggling and one wee person just hasn’t seen it all.

Natalie, who may or may not ever find this blog, is one such student. She was never afraid to ask questions, point out things, and when I showed an image from Aubrey Beardsley, she offered up his erotica, knowing that I encourage such things and that I don’t hold back sexuality in my classes. It’s an art class, guess what much of humanity is fixated on?

I am totally fixated on it too. It’s my primary study.

I knew of Beardsley a wee bit, but nothing of his erotica. Basically, the stuff I focus on is much earlier and I tend to dabble in other periods but not much and if I do, it’s often architecture.

So, naturally upon hearing her comment, I squee, “Ooooh. Do go on, dear student!”

We stopped class and got on the Google.

I have done this more than a few times. I’ve stopped what we were doing if the students had an interest in something and hopped over to ArtStor or Google Images to see what we could see. I’ve stopped class for Madame X, Dali or Duchamp, and many others. Do I do it all the time? Hardly. But if the discussion picks up and gets lively, hell yes.

If my students do nothing but just learn titles and dates, I’ve failed. I want them to realize that they are art historians, that they are art critics, that their own opinions fucking COUNT for something. I don’t care if the windbag next to them discusses the texture of Oskar Kokoschka’s “Slave Girl,” I want to them have their own opinion on it. Even if theyhate it. Even better, I want them remember that Kokoschka was awesomely nutty and that picture is probably of his life-size dolly he made to date when his lover left him. And then decide what they think of it.

But Natalie brought up Beardsley and his erotica. We went a-hunting. Then we turned off Google’s “safe” preference mode and really went a-hunting. I turned a few minutes of the class over to her, listening to her study of him and her interest. The class listened. I listened. Her enthusiasm was wonderful and then the discussion picked up even more.

I learned from her, and not just in that fluffy way teachers like to talk about. I really learned about an artist from her. I love that. And of course, I learned in that fluffy way too. Flexibility is good, it’s interesting, we all wake up a bit and liven up what is typically 70% lecture, 30% discussion.

I eventually redirected back to the rest of our slides for the day, but I’m so glad she spoke up. I’m happy I had a classroom culture where she could.

So, in her honor, this new theme update is for her. The masthead is by Aubrey Beardsely, called “Cinesias Entreating Myrrhina to Coition.” In other terms, “Myrrhina, Fuck Me.” Be this rape in progress, coy sexplay between consenting adults, or otherwise, Beardsley is known for making fun of sex and the powerfulness or ridiculousness that sex can be.

Here is the Beardsley I present to you, thanks to Natalie.

The full image is this:

Appreciating my cropping now, aren’t ya.