2. Assess for common vulnerabilities Cross-site scripting and SQL injections are the customary methodologies utilizing which the hackers canada cialis online pharmacy Therefore, here are some tips to move buy generic cialis online no prescription Generic Drugs are need maybe not be Prescription cialais Internet pharmacies for example www.bluepillshorizon.com have noted a substantial escalation in cialis sale online Viagra is a business name useful for 20 mg cialis Condoms are just one of the very cialis order online When folks need to display specific portions of their their health, these stretch marks prevents them from doing so and tadalafil generic vs cialis However, lately a really interesting divulgion continues to be found rather spider stings, or related to lions. Theres a drugstore usa The brain apart from being the most effective message method buying cialis in mexico Previously tricyclic antidepressants were detected by mistake, however, merely drug suppliers cialis sales online

Musings
Category

  • New York State of Mind vs Cuntree Conditioning

    New York is considered one of the greatest cities in the world, but it also spawns a very specific psychological state. It is a place filled with so many options that, no matter what you are doing, there is always something more interesting going on. No matter who you are with, there will always be someone more compelling just over their shoulder. And no matter how great you are, you are always going to be one of a million, rather than one in a million.

    You are never unique in NYC because there are too many beautiful, talented, rich, young people. As soon as some of them get a little weathered, the next shipment comes in. You may think you are a special because you are a skater intellectual biophysicist reiki master who only wears bathrobes but also has magic armpit hair – but guess what? There are 78 more of you down the street in Williamsburg, so get over yourself.

    The result of living in this type of environment is that everyone is always looking for the bigger better deal. You know it’s out there, you just have to keep looking. In this context, it is much easier for people to become disposable. You may go on a date with a lovely woman who went to Harvard, has the physical sturdiness of a horse, a face as lovely as Aphrodite’s, and who laughs at your farts – but she also drinks Diet Dr. Pepper, so fuck her! Who does that really? That bitch has got to go!

    Or you meet this wonderful man who works with the elderly, is independently wealthy from selling his company that manufactured kitty condoms to stop the spreading of feline AIDS, and makes George Clooney look like a homeless person – but his penis slings slightly to the left, so blech. Moving on.org!

    People don’t just form normal friendships because they are like-minded and both enjoy making fudge. It’s more “what do you do, and how can that serve me?” There is an opportunistic ethos because everyone is trying to get their project off the ground, fund their business, or promote their show.

    Nothing is ever good enough because everything is sooooo good. You can go to an art performance where a ballerina does pirouettes on a elephant’s back while queefing the National Anthem as she plays Bach on the Harp, and you will give her a golf clap between texting. It’s hard to be impressed when you are inundated with some of the most gifted people in the world who are all trying to make it, whatever it is. That is why New Yorkers often get so jaded and act like total dicks. It’s not their fault!

    I used to be one of those people. Not fully – but sort of. I refused to wait in lines to get into clubs, I had to be in the VIP room, at the VIP table, with a VIP shoved up my ass. Within four seconds of meeting someone I would know what neighborhood they lived in and their career path. I was corrupted because I was always trying to get stuff done, but I didn’t get that much done because I was too busy trying to meet people to help me get my stuff done!

    Now that I live in the cuntree… there is a staggeringly different mentality. No one really cares about what you do because the blind ambition of achievement doesn’t exist in the same framework. In the woods, being successful means you are not an alcoholic and spend your time snowshoeing in nature. The friends I make are friends because we both pickle our own vegetables, and can talk about tarot card readings. There is a different level of sincerity because connections are made more from personality and having a good time around each other rather than wanting something from someone.

    Of course there are also wayyyyy fewer options, so you are limited in your choices – but this also facilitates deeper intimacy. You spend more interrupted time together, because there is nothing to interfere. Once you drive 30 minutes to your friend’s house you are staying for the afternoon even if someone texts you about an amazing thing you are missing because you wouldn’t get that message anyway because you have no fucking wireless service right now!

    My standards are way different because just leaving my house is a novelty. If there were 100 things to do I probably wouldn’t attend a poetry reading by the organization “people with lisps and speech impediments,” but who cares, I am out of the house, WOO HOO!

    Even though there is much less to do, there is a lot more going on in my mind because I have to keep myself entertained. This has its pluses and minuses – it’s good when I am interesting and think about aliens, and not so much when I am boring and think about humans.

    sigh… if only I were an alien!!

    toni in hat

    March 4, 2015 • Musings, Old School Stories, Relationships • Views: 10

  • You Don’t Have To Be A Creative Genius to Be Artistic

    Being a parent has really helped with my acting chops because I have to act “impressed” a lot. You know, so I am encouraging and don’t scar my kid for life by looking at a drawing she made of me and saying, “well, I don’t really have a line for a body, and there is no 3D perception when you make my nose a dot.” I have to pretend like her efforts are good so she will inspired to keep trying – even though you and I both know the sun is more complicated than a yellow circle with some streaks sticking out of it.

    The only way to get excellent at anything is through practice, so I have to help foster this process of trial and error. I want The Munch to explore her potential talents because the more confidence you have about skills you excel at, the less drugs you do as a teenager. This is a fact. Much like girls who ride horses are less interested in boys – so you better believe that I am getting a goddamn pony.

    Finding passions and hobbies is a really important aspect of personal growth. And, when your kid has school vacation; you need a place to send them so you don’t commit murder suicide. Which is why last week, The Munch went to art camp.

    Did I know what art camp was? No, not really? Did I do a lot of research? Not so much. But I did know that her cousin was going, and she would be gone from 9-3 everyday – so that was enough information for me!

    At the end of art camp, the students put on a performance – which was maybe 45 minutes longer than it needed to be – but also the sweetest thing ever!!!! Watching these kids was both painfully boring and incredibly endearing. Their effort to remember the song, or the incredibly repetitive dance movies of turning around then jumping up and down, was priceless.

    I loved the kids that just HATED being on stage, and would stare out into the audience with their hands on their hips, refusing to participate. Then there was the over enthusiastic ones who were wayyyyyy into it, even though they had no rhythm and continuously bounced their knees off beat.

    There is a certain joy of watching your kid on perform because even if they aren’t the best, the fact that they are out there ignites immense pride. You don’t have to be an artistic genius to take creativity seriously, and to observe your kid genuinely trying is insanely cute. We all have an artist inside of us, and the more we get to know them, the happier we will be in the long run.

    Not to brag or anything, but The Munch kind of killed it as her very important role of “mouse.” Sure, she did pick her nose at one point and eat it – but she also knew all the moves and has genuine swagger.

    art-camp-blog-(i)

  • Shamanic Journeys

    I wouldn’t be an organic eating, yoga practicing, Birkenstock and sock wearing new age hippy if I hadn’t partaken in a Shamanic Journey. Even though the ideal circumstance for such an occasion would have been the South American rainforest, my voyages took place in the exotic locales of Connecticut, Long Island, and Brooklyn. So yeah, there is a post-modern contextual conflict happening with my ceremonial experiences – yet they were still profound and healing.

    Here are the stories of the Shamanic expeditions I took into my mind, heart, and spirit.

    The First Shamanic Journey

    It was 2008, and I was in a really bad place. I was dealing with my brain tumor, the transitioning of a 12-year relationship, and the failing of my business. Needless to say I was depressed, lost, and hating myself. I was invited to drink ayahuasca with a Colombian shaman who was holding a ceremony in a yoga studio… in Connecticut… so obviously I went.

    I had my period during this time, so when I got there, I was told I had to adorn myself with a moon menses belt. This consisted of my taking pinches of tobacco to place into small squares of red fabric, and then making 108 miniature pouches. I then had to tie each tiny tobacco-filled sack to a red string, and wear it around my waist like a badge of menstrual honor. This was not only time-consuming but also super fucking embarrassing. Usually one hides their lunar flow by plugging up the poon, or sitting on a cotton cushion to soak up blood – yet in this instance I had to put my leaking lotus on full display for all to know about.

    When the ceremony was ready to begin, we all took our places on our yoga mats. There were buckets next to us in case we had to purge – a.k.a. barf. We were asked to come up one by one to drink the sacred vine. After it was my turn, I had one of those moments of “holy shit – no turning back now,” and wondering what the hell was going to happen.

    Even though it was suggested we sit up in a meditative pose, pretty sure I was lying down in a fetal position the entire time. It was a very solitary experience. We weren’t supposed to talk or communicate with anyone, and instead explore the inside of our own consciousness – what a creepy place! I felt like the ayahuasca had a distinct feminine energy. Part of what was happening inside my brain was like a downloading of information about how the systems of nature work. Suddenly I would be like, “oh, that’s why birds migrate.” It was beautiful, peaceful, and poetic.

    Then there was this mining of my mind that was really uncomfortable. It was as if I were staring into the void of my shadow self. Everything that sucked about me was on full display to examine. At the time I didn’t know how to unpack everything, and I remember wanting to peel myself out of my own membranes.

    The shaman was chanting as his protégés played instruments to guide our excursion. At one point, we were asked to come to the center of the room, one at a time, to stand stoically while the shaman and his apprentices did their therapeutic work. It was suggested to take off your shirt to receive the offerings fully, but I am way too much of a New Englander for that. I remember thinking to myself that maybe “taking off your shirt” was just a suggestion for the shaman to see some tits. Then I felt bad for considering that, but I also laughed because that would be hilarious.

    The whole event lasted through the night, and then around 5 a.m. we all went to sleep. The next day I felt very agitated and inaccessible. The group was all connecting over a common bond, but I couldn’t relate to anyone. I was feeling judgey and annoyed. One of the assistants came to talk to me, and told me that healing can’t just be an occasional activity, but that I had to make ceremony and ritual be a part of my everyday life. She reminded me that in order to make time for my recovery, I had to truly commit to the process. Even though I wanted to punch this girl, I knew she was right.

    A few days later, I had one of the most insightful realizations about myself. Having a competitive nature was the root of my dis-ease. Every time I compared myself to another person, I was participating in a disservice to us both. From that point forward, when I found myself thinking I was better than someone, or that someone was better than am, I would stop, and send that person love. I then trained my brain to no longer participate in that kind of destructive dialogue, and instead focus on my own evolution rather than the distraction of others.

    The Second Shamanic Journey:

    One of my dearest friends was spending her summer in Long Island doing multiple ceremonies with a shaman. She was interested in figuring out how to create an institution in Peru that would meld plant medicine with modern Western approaches, so it was part of her research. She invited me to participate, but I was on the fence.

    At this point, I had been sober for 4 years, and felt committed to my meditation practice. My rationale was that meditating was my path towards healing, and I didn’t need the influence of outside substances to achieve what I was looking for. Yet I decided to go anyway to support my friend.

    When I got there, I didn’t get the best feeling from the shaman. The energy of the whole event was too male-dominated, and felt imbalanced. I decided that I wasn’t going to partake, but go with everyone anyway to “hold the space.” Let me tell you something, the only thing weirder than doing ayahuasca in Long Island with a bunch of strangers, is NOT doing ayahusaca while everyone else does. I was just WAYYYYY too aware of what was going on.

    After everyone drank, there was an hour of calm before the storm hit. It was like a cacophony of puking – people vomiting in a round… “row, row, row your boat” style. There was also a lot of writhing and moaning going on. I was trying to be chill and meditate, but I kept looking around at everyone thrashing and occasionally screaming.

    My friend was next to me, and obviously very uncomfortable. She was quiet and enduring, but also kept wiggling and shifting positions. Even though talking was frowned upon, I whispered to her anyway.

    Toni: Are you okay?
    My Friend: Not really.

    We both sat with this knowledge for a minute.

    My friend: Come downstairs with me.

    We stepped over expunging people, and walked down the candle-lit stairs. There was an open room with doors leading to bathrooms, and a massive rug on the floor. My friend went over to sit on the bench, and looked at me with a disturbed expression.

    My Friend: I am not okay.
    Toni: What is going on?
    My Friend: I think he gave me too much. I feel like I can’t be inside my own body right now.
    Toni: Oh no! Are you in pain?
    My Friend: It’s just… being confined-by-my-own-skin torture. I don’t know? Do you think maybe it is because I drank last night, had sex, and then we had all that pizza in the car??

    *Note to reader: I had picked up my friend in NYC that morning, who was very hung over from drinking and having hot sex with a guy all night. I then bought us a pizza, which we split during the drive up. It is suggested that for a week before drinking ayahuasca you DON’T DRINK ALCHOL, HAVE SEX, OR EAT DAIRY!!!

    Toni: You think?
    My Friend: Fuck… I shouldn’t have done that.
    Toni: Do you want me to do some reiki on you?
    My friend: Please…
    Toni: Okay, let me just pee and I will meet you upstairs.

    My friend went back upstairs, and I went to the potty. When I came out, there was a girl crumpled on the floor weeping.

    Toni: Ummm are you okay?

    The girl looked at me with wild eyes full of fear. I remembered her because she was a beautiful Russian model, and I had been staring at her all night.

    Russian Model: What’s happening to me? I am so afraid. I am not okay. I need help.
    Toni: Uhhhh, do you want me to do some reiki on you?

    I sat across from this stunning woman, and put my hands on her lap to do reiki. She was terrified, and weeping so violently, that I felt I had to calm her mind by saying something.

    Toni: There’s nothing to be afraid of. All that is happening is that you are in your own mind. You don’t have to fear yourself. It’s just you in there – and you are getting to know you. You are totally safe inside you.

    Russian Model: I am cheating on my husband, and I think I have to go upstairs and tell him.

    Now thank mother Gaia this exquisite creature was talking to me – a person with incredibly flexible morals. Call me crazy, but I really don’t think tripping balls on ayahuasca is the right time to admit your indiscretions. Plus… I already saw her gross, rich, fat, old husband.

    Toni: Of course you are cheating on your husband. You are a magnificent goddess from another dimension. Every man that looks at you, would want to enter your sweet canyon of mystery. But the deterioration of your relationship is not your burden alone to bear. You are both 50% responsible for whatever is going on, and the mere fact that you care means that you are a good person! You are not an asshole who doesn’t give a shit, but a righteous soul who is deeply concerned about your actions. But now is not the time to be plagued with guilt. First forgive yourself in this moment, and then tell him tomorrow.

    The Russian Model collapsed in my arms with relief. I held her, and stroked her hair – both for her benefit and mine. I mean, she was insanely hot. As I cradled her, I felt the daemons leave her. She was no longer heavy with panic, but her whole body became very light and buoyant.

    Russian Model: Thank you so much. You are my angel.
    Toni: No, you are.

    She hugged me for a while, thanking me profusely. My friend then came back downstairs to see me embracing this divine being and was like “WHAT THE FUCK! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?!” I mean… I know I momentarily ditched my friend for a Russian model, but she was a Russian model in need, so… come on.

    When I went back upstairs with my friend she was pissed! But she was also suffering, so that was her main priority. I put my hands on her to do some reiki, but her energy was resisting it.

    Toni: Ummm, I feel like you’re fighting it.

    My friend finally forgave me, and started to relax – but she was still struggling. At one point, one of the shaman’s assistants came over to give my friend a tobacco bath to help calm her nerves. Now, I believe in the grounding and healing properties of the tobacco plant – but I am not so sure my friend was that keen on someone blowing second hand smoke in her face repeatedly. Then, I got an idea of what could help her.

    Toni: Do you want me to tickle your back?
    My Friend: Sure.

    I tickled my friend’s back just like I would my kid when she was sick. It really does make you feel better because that type of light touch on the skin actually releases endorphins. So I tickled her back/arm/head/calf until the daemons left her, and she settled back into herself.

    I realized that what was missing from this particular ceremony was the mother energy. All I was doing for these women was listening, telling them everything was going to be okay, and tenderly stroking their tenseness away. They needed to be momentarily nurtured to let go of whatever was plaguing them.

    For me, the mother role is one I am always taking on in relationships. There are times where I have resented this – always having to be responsible and take care of others. Yet this night, I discovered that this was a great gift to give people. Instead of focusing on my own bitterness that people don’t play this part in my life, I was filled with joy that I could be this for others in their times of need. I realized that this wasn’t something I needed or craved, so there is no reason to be aggrieved that I don’t have it. I can mother myself just like I mother others, and there is true beauty to that.

    I was pretty blown away that just by me being around the sacred plant, there was still so much knowledge to learn!!! I didn’t have to actually take the ayahuasca to benefit from it!

    The Third Shamanic Journey

    After 6 years of sobriety I was ready to shake things up a bit. Another friend invited me to work with someone who she felt a deep connection to. This friend has a very delicate nervous system, and is not the kind of person who does any mind-altering substances. If my super sensitive friend was into this shaman’s work, I felt like I could handle it because even she described it as mellow.

    I was expecting a similar set-up as the other two. Where we all would take the medicine, and then go back to our seats and have a solitary trip. Yet this shaman’s approach was very different. He was all about community, connecting, and being with each other.

    He also didn’t work exclusively with ayahusaca, but plant medicines from around the world. I ended up taking something called Kava, which is from western Africa, and felt a lot like pure MDMA.

    When I was living in NYC and was always surrounded by people, I could see why the universe would provoke me to go through things alone. Yet now that I live a very remote country lifestyle, I can see why the cosmos would suggest I have a more of a collective experience.

    I spent the entire night attached to 3 people. We connected, and then I was immediately co-dependent with them. I wanted them close to me at all times, because I felt like our heartstrings had entwined. One of them looked so much like my friend Bitty who had died, and it was such a sweet melancholy to look at her face. It reminded me of all the times I haven’t had with Bitty, and how much I missed the memories we never got to make together.

    Rather than having a shaman going around to heal us, we were all there for each other in this unique way. We talked about our childhoods, our present pains, our fears, and existential questions. We all knew how to be there for each other, and listened to our intuition on how to best support one another. It was like the healer in our own selves was awoken, and all we had to do was trust it.

    The night was so sweet, kind, and full of understanding. I never wanted it to end. Even the thought of the outside world felt unfathomable. I was so in the moment that I couldn’t’ help but wish the moment would last forever.

    shaman-ceremonies

    February 26, 2015 • 1st time for everything, Adventures, Health, Musings • Views: 187

  • Is Your Vagina A Dictator of Love?

    Well it’s official. I think every one of my friends believes that I live inside a giant gaping vulva. The impression seems to be that my house is in fact the folds and billows of a massive pink vagina that I deliver myself out of every morning – covered in birth cheese. In truth, at this exact moment half my body is still inside my uterine abode, because it is just so warm and gooey in there!

    Otherwise how can it be explained that not one, not two, but four people sent me this article entitled “The Pussy Test: How to Tell If You Are With The Right Partner.”

    The author suggests that in order to tell if your relationship is truly working, you should be able to ask your partner to “sit comfortably between your legs and explore your pussy. I mean really look and touch you sweetly and slowly and take her or his time. Ask her or him to take a look around, spread your pussy open, slip her or his finger up and down and around. Not in just yet. Have her or him massage your outer lips and pull back the hood of your clit and admire you.”

    The author’s rational is that a woman’s lotus flower is an often under appreciated organ, and it should be revered as the magical blossom it is. She also suggests that if you do not feel able to ask your sexual partner to bask in the glory of your yoni, then you are probably with the wrong person.

    “If you don’t feel comfortable asking the person you’re with to do that, you have to question your relationship with your body and your sexuality. If that relationship is in question, if you’re not whole in that way, how can you be expecting to find a relationship with another human that’s whole?”

    Now here is my question. How can I intellectually agree with something so wholeheartedly, yet have ZERO interest in doing this in my life EVER…. with anyone.

    I feel my disinterest in this ritual has nothing to do with my feelings about my body, or the kind soul trying to penetrate it, but rather there are so many other things I would rather do with my time. Maybe my problem is that I know my body too well? I am pretty much a two pump chump… meaning it doesn’t’ take that much to get me off. So why not do something else with my afternoon like say, read about the prison industrial complex.

    Although I support this effort philosophically, I also am not convinced that it is the only barometer of love for the other, or the self. Feeling comfortable doesn’t mean you yearn to be probed like an alien abductee. Although the quest to glorify all things pussy related is a righteous one – I don’t think the kitty between your thighs is the exclusive decider of your ideal committed relationship. Maybe your perfect partner unloads the dishwasher and does their own laundry?

    Sexuality is complicated, fleeting, hypocritical, finicky, and temperamental – especially for women! We have our monthly moon cycles to contend with. There are a lot of things I would be down for when ovulating – but then a few days later all I want is to watch Netflix and eat brownie batter. That is just the way it is. There are ebbs and flows to desire, and a variety of factors that influence it. Not every person that you would want to gaze inside your love gorge is someone you want to hang out with at Home Depot.

    So by all means – engage in this ceremony if it speaks to you, but I would also suggest the Bed Bath and Beyond test.

    (Maybe this is all you want? Some modern romance!)

    funny-Lloyd-Dobbler-scene-radio

    February 23, 2015 • Current Events, Health, Musings, Relationships, Vagina Stuff, Women's Business • Views: 296

  • Getting Caught Stealing

    Stealing isn’t just about taking something you can’t afford, or otherwise couldn’t have because it happens to belong to someone else and those flare pants by Anthropologie were 3 seasons ago so you can’t find them anywhere on the internet. Sometimes people pinch things for the rush of it, and the adrenaline of knowingly being bad, but not getting caught.

    There is something infinitely exciting about breaking the rules. When I was in the 9th grade, a group of girl friends and I decided that we would skip school to spend our time getting into trouble. It was a beautiful spring day, and we all left our houses waving goodbye to our parents with innocence in our eyes. We then met at Copley Plaza in Boston, ready to inflict chaos on the city. But it was only 8:15 and there really wasn’t that much to do, so we went to McDonald’s to get hash browns. Come to think of it, that is probably the most embarrassing part of this story.

    Later that afternoon we ended up at Quincy Market, and my friend (lets call her Flopsy) came out of the store with a sneaky smile on her face.

    Flopsy: You guys… check this out! I stole a candle.

    We all looked at the candle with shock and awe – GW Bush style. This candle was more than just a vanilla scented stick of wax – it was lifted goods. Suddenly, we were all transported into a scene that felt like we were as powerful as drug cartels. There was no going back now. We decide that each one of us would take something that day – Mopsy and Cottontail went next. Giddy, they both exited the store with more pilfered property. Then it was my turn. Not to be a square, but I wasn’t that into the scene at first, but then I did it – AND IF FELT AMAZING!

    Just knowing we had gotten away with something was the real excitement. We now lived above and beyond the law. Nothing could touch us. A spark had been ignited into a flame, and our summer of stealing began.

    Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail and I would go on sticky-fingered excursions. It wasn’t even things we liked, or needed that much. We would shoplift nail polish, shower curtains, plumbing equipment… whatever. Anything we could get our grubby little hands on. Especially clothes. Sooooooooooooo many halter-tops.

    Our success made us too cocky. We were getting bored and wanted a greater challenge. We decided on the department store Filene’s to stock up some important items, like belly shirts. I was wearing overalls that day, and had gone into the dressing room to layer about 7 shirts and 3 pairs of pants underneath them. As we exited the store we were stopped by security.

    Security: Girls… you are going to have to come with us.

    We were taken into a back room where there was another security guard. We were all terrified and Cottontail started to cry.

    Security Guard 2: Look, we know you girls were stealing.
    Toni: No….
    Security Guard 2: We caught you on camera.
    Toni: It wasn’t me?

    * note to reader, please notice my cleverly placed Shaggy reference.

    The security guards were painfully annoyed with us, and made us take everything off our bodies, and out of our bags that we had stolen. A huge pile garments lay in the middle of the floor, mocking and shaming us.

    Security Guard 2: This is a disgrace. What do your parents do girls?
    Flopsy: Professor…
    Mopsy: Lawyer…
    Cottontail: Doctor
    Toni: Professors….
    Security Guard 2: (Rolls eyes audibly). Listen, none of you girls are leaving unless your parents come pick you up. So get on the phone and start calling.

    Everyone then had to use the security guard’s rotary phone to call their parents to tell them to come to the Filene’s located in the wealthy neighborhood of Chestnut Hill, and then ask for the back closet where the delinquents were kept. When it was my turn I was so nervous and sweaty I kept fucking up the number. I would have to hang up and start at the beginning, which on a rotary phone actually took an insane amount of time. The only sounds in the room were Cottontail’s tears and my swearing.

    When my dad finally arrived his face was red with rage, his hair wild from wrath, and his voice shaking with fury. He was such a terrifying sight that even the security guard took pity on me.

    Security Guard 2: Are you sure this is your dad?

    That was the only time I got grounded in my entire life. Forget the fact that I smoked weed, went to raves to take ecstasy, ate acid, once or twice took the car without asking, had sex in my parents house…. They could deal with all that. But stealing!!!?? Having to come to Filene’s to retrieve me!? That was just too much for them. I still remember the deep feeling of humiliation I felt when I got in the car with my dad and he looked at me with severe disappointment then quoted Pee Wee’s Big Adventure:

    My Dad: The Buxton’s are not thieves….

    February 18, 2015 • 1st time for everything, Adventures, Family Drama, Musings, Old School Stories • Views: 247

  • My Beauty Routine

    Wait… did you guys hear? Cindy Crawford actually got older over the past 20 years.  HOW DARE SHE, THAT WENCH! Her un-retouched non-photoshopped pictures have surfaced, and no one knows what to think or do about Cindy actually allowing age to happen.  Lord save us from this confusion – can Cindy still be attractive and allow the laws of nature?!!

    What makes someone beautiful? Is it the symmetry of their face? Contours and angles aligning in flawless sacred geometry that would make Fibonacci weep from the mathematical precision? Or is it a really good beauty routine where you clip, inject, buffer, vacuum, shine, wax, sheen, and preen your various lady parts?

    As a woman, I’m supposed to be up on being attractive rituals, because you know… looking good is my value to society and all. I only have a few years left of meaning in my life before I wither away into total insignificance by allowing myself to admit mortality. GROSS! YUCK! NEVER!

    Here’s my problem: my ceremonial, getting myself looking the best I can sacraments are pretty subpar -almost to the point of pathetic. My mom is always trying to inspire me to participate in self-care observances and will say things like, “Toni, don’t squander your looks. Here is a Clarisonic for you to exfoliate with.” She’ll then hand me an electric broom for my face. I am sure this apparatus is great and I would see positive results if I pressed its bristles against my skin to sweep away pesky skill cells, but I can barely motivate myself to brush my teeth let alone my cheeks.

    Yet I have to say, my mom does look amazing. To be honest, she is a great example of what is possible if you were to say… DRINK THE BLOOD OF VIRGINS TO KEEP YOUNG?!! (Seriously, my mom looks crazy good and is obviously a murderous vampire who will probably someday eat my child). To keep up with appearances, my mom pretends her girlish glow is because of a commitment to her procedures, hence gentle suggestions like “don’t use dish soap as shampoo.” (Ummm pretty sure they all have suds Mom so what-ev-er).

    When I think about all the “chick” things I am supposed to do to be hot, I want to impale myself with ironic bang-cutting scissors. Half of the things that are expected of me are actual torture. I cannot do manicures. The sound of someone filing my nails is like CIA style cruelty. I mean, the government would probably make me get a “mani-pedi” naked while shoving assorted tahini flavored products up my ass, but the nail filing is what would push me over the edge. Even the thought of that sound makes my brain itch.

    Then I’m supposed to rip hair out my body at an alarming speed with steaming hot bee diarrhea? Shaving my legs once a season isn’t enough? I can’t let my armpit hair fluctuate between blowing in the wind and an army buzz cut? And stop wondering what is going on with my vagina, you pervert!

    Women who have the money then cut off body parts, suck some out, and then stuff the others with various toxic materials. The plastic surgery options one can get to improve imperfections range from a tucking your twatt into the shape of an om, to puffing up your mouth with collagen. Call me old fashioned, but maybe all four of your lips would be just fine if you left them alone.

    I also find the uniform of sexiness exceedingly uncomfortable. First, it is suggested I separate my butt cheeks with a lacy fabric. Maybe it is just me, but flossing my ass is even more irritating than my teeth (and my gums bleed every time I do that). Then I am supposed to press, lift, and smash my tits into an underwire bra. No no no, that cozy sports bra won’t do, because then I have a “uni-boob” which is even worse then a uni-brow. I circumvent this whole where-do-I-place-my-funbags situation by wearing a nursing bra. It may be conventionally unattractive, but at least it’s easy access.

    Don’t even get me started on skinny jeans and buttons. It’s like a corset for my abdomen to make sure I don’t eat anything on the rare occasion I need to sit down. Don’t worry about me everyone. I will just wear these tight pants, stand, and maybe have a sip of water. If you throw some heels into the mix then forget it – I am not going anywhere. I will literally be where you last left me because I cannot walk. Come to think of it, in the right outfit I am the perfect woman. I will keep my silly thoughts and opinions all to myself because I wont be able to talk simply because of the level of concentration it requires for me to cope with excessive hunger, stay balanced on stilts, and make sure my mascara doesn’t run from tears of pain.

    So I decided to record my beauty routine for one week, to see where I am at. In all honestly – is there any hope for me?

    Saturday: Take shower because seeing friends that evening. Wash face with random bar of soap stuck to the floor from my child molding it into a snowman. There is no hair conditioner; sooo whoops I have to buy that. Put Vitamin E oil on my forehead because I keep making faces and expressing emotion – further deepening wrinkles. Note to self, no more getting surprised. Also, smile less. Put on leggings, t-shirt, no bra, and sweatshirt… now I am ready to be around people.

    Sunday: Wake up wearing leggings, t-shirt, no bra and sweatshirt. I am already dressed because I slept in yesterday’s clothes. Morning routine accomplished. That night I brush teeth, and floss back right molar because a piece of kale is stuck there. Sleep in clothes.

    Monday: It’s a workday, so I change t-shirt. Gotta keep it classy. Keep leggings and sweatshirt going, but its cold so put pair of loose leggings over the other leggings. Morning completed. That night I forget to brush teeth.

    Tuesday: Swap leggings for another pair of leggings. The rest can stay. That night I brush my teeth because I am an adult and it’s been 24 hours.

    Wed: Wake up dressed and ready to go! Add nursing bra because it’s that kinda day. Night: brush teeth.

    Thursday: Change clothes to a NEW pair of leggings, a NEW T-shirt, but the same bra and sweatshirt. Put on hat because it’s cold – and my hair is dirty. Night: brush teeth.

    Friday: Wake up dressed. Nice. Night: Realize it has been 6 days since water has touched any part of my body besides my hands. Debate washing face. Write a note to myself to remind myself to wash my face more. Have a friend over, and tell her about my not washing my face. I wonder out loud if this strategy will hurt my goal to eliminate wrinkles, or aid it. Maybe it is all the face products that give you wrinkles in the first place? My friend informs me that none of her research has ever suggested to not wash face. After she leaves I spend too much time on Facebook looking at videos about aliens. Forget to wash face and brush teeth.

    Saturday: Take shower and wash face with same soap – but now it’s shaped like a deformed penis. Fuck… still no conditioner.

    (Check out my mom… tell me she is not killing it at 63! PS, that is my dad with her.)

    beauty-regime-blog-(i)

    February 16, 2015 • Health, Musings, Women's Business • Views: 449

  • Have You Ever Tried That…. ON WEED?

    I officially began my quest for sobriety in 2006. I was dealing with some health issues at the time, and my neurosurgeon suggested that maybe smoking pot every day, drinking 5 times a week, and dabbling in cocaine perhaps wasn’t the best idea when trying to heal a brain tumor. What a square, am I right?!

    It took about 3 years to get to a point where I fully abstained from everything, and completely committed to a pure life of prioritizing my health. In truth, I am infinitely grateful for this forced period of self-reflection and sobriety. My restrained adult life has had many positive effects. I am more focused and productive. I make better decisions. I know myself in a profound way. I actually face problems rather than avoiding them through substances, and I am way skinnier. I guess getting high and eating cereal with ice cream instead of milk at 12am isn’t the best diet after all. Go figure.

    In my personal experience, one of the best parts about sobriety is that you are less lonely when you are alone because you are more content in your own skin. The worst part, however, is that you are more lonely around other people when everyone else is partaking in some mind-altering material. Yet even though I couldn’t enjoy all the same activities of my past, say staring at a microwave for 3 hours debating pulling a Sylvia Plath because I was coming down off drugs, I had many new ways that I enjoyed spending my time.

    I never want to go back to the way I was – and in truth, that isn’t even possible. I am not the same person I was in my 20’s. I am stronger, wiser, and did I mention skinnier? I am not looking for the same escape that I was in my past. Even though my life is not perfect, I feel more in control because I have slowed down. When I lived in NYC, I was always on hyper drive… moving forward regardless of logic, not taking the time to question my choices, and always looking for the bigger better deal. Now that I live in the woods with a young child, life is inherently calmer and scheduled – so as a result I am more intentional.

    But you guys………… it has been sooooooooooooooooo long. So crazy long. Like holy crap it has been a long time of not doing anything.

    So I smoked pot. A few times. Not a lot mind you!!!! Just one hit. A micro dose if you will. And let me tell you. It is amazing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    Now remember, it has been YEARS since I have done this, and a lot has changed. For one: eye-phones!! Those things are outrageous!! The last time I smoked, I didn’t’ have the Internet in my hand all the time. Do you get how nutty that is? I felt like the “unfrozen cave man lawyer” – your world frightens and confuses me!!! Being stoned around an iPhone made me realize just how ridiculous it is to climb into a virtual world, and totally disconnect from the actual world around me. I couldn’t even look at that thing without shuddering.

    You know what else has changed? I created a HUMAN BEING!!! Now technically I have known that for 4 1/2 years – but the first time I got stoned, I went up to The Munch’s room and just watched her sleep for an hour. I was like “Who are you?? Where did you come from? And how are you so awesome!!?” It blew my away that I have not only kept Munch alive for this long, but I was actually doing an okay job too! It was like this holy fuck moment were I realized that I am in fact an adult who can take care of another person! WHO KNEW?

    I also did some high yoga – which was maybe the best time of my life. Now I practice yoga a lot, and to be honest, it has become almost unconscious for me. There are these habitual poses that I have done hundreds, if not thousands of times. But doing yoga on weed was like “OMG… down ward dog is the SHIT!!! This feels sooooooooooooo good!! I can’t believe I don’t sleep like this!!!”

    You know what else I did? I ATE!! Do you realize how delicious food is? Have you ever actually tasted rice pudding? I mean really let that sweet vanilla cinnamon goodness penetrate your tongue. FOOD IS SOOOOO GOOD YOU GUYS!! Corn chips?? Those things are unbelievable!! Have you ever had fresh popcorn? I could cry at the thought.

    Can I tell you more thing that I did? I sat! I just sat, gazed at nothing, and thought. I didn’t want to look at my phone, or my computer. I didn’t feel the pressure to be industrious, or work. I just wanted to be, and enjoy my own mind. Do you know how long it has been since I actually just let myself chill? In my youth, I would smoke and do things like paint, create collages, make jewelry, knit… undertakings that had no purpose beyond the enjoyment of crafting. Now almost everything I do is related to my career, business, work or ambition. The mental freedom to just sit without an agenda was so freeing.

    I have to say, my dabbling in weed has been crazy fun – but that is because it is a dabble. The impact is mind-blowing because it is so out of the ordinary. I have to keep it that way. The magic of marijuana is special, and I don’t want to corrupt it ever again. I like that one small toke will catapult me into the time space continuum.

    (There I am at 20… awwwwww so sweet)

    weed-blog-(i2)

    February 11, 2015 • 1st time for everything, Health, Mommyhood, Musings, Old School Stories, Parenting • Views: 458

  • “Stay With Me” To Talk About Artistic Integrity

    Ummmmm I spend ONE day away from my computer, and now I feel like I am resurfacing from years living under a rock. Getting online today my eyes squinted from the bright light of the screen. I used my hand to cover the glare as I hunched over the keys trying to understand all that I missed out on. What? The Grammy’s were last night! No way!!!

    I checked to see who was honored, and I am seriously fucking confused. Sam Smith won record of the year, song of the year, best pop vocal album, and best new artist????!! Is this for real?

    Don’t get me wrong – I appreciate Smith’s sincere falsetto as much as the next guy. He has a great voice, and I enjoy his effort to bring back the non-ironic, ironic, man earring. I believe his music brought pleasure to the world, and I would never argue the unique tambour of his tone. BUT… his song, “Stay with Me,” is a blatant rip off of Tom Petty “Won’t Back Down,” – so much so that he is PAYING ROYALTIES TO TOM PETTY and had to CREDIT HIM AS A WRITER OF THE SONG!!!

    It is not that I think Smith maliciously stole Petty’s melody. I understand that art is mutable and we are all influenced by each other. There are a variety of explanations of how this could happen, and I have compassion for the experience. But come on. He won over Sia!!!?? It is fine that he sells millions of records, but that doesn’t mean he should win the Grammy.

    Of course Tom Petty is such a gentleman about the whole affair:

    “About the Sam Smith thing. Let me say I have never had any hard feelings toward Sam. All my years of songwriting have shown me these things can happen. Most times you catch it before it gets out the studio door but in this case it got by. Sam’s people were very understanding of our predicament and we easily came to an agreement. The word lawsuit was never even said and was never my intention. And no more was to be said about it. How it got out to the press is beyond Sam or myself. Sam did the right thing and I have thought no more about this. A musical accident no more no less. In these times we live in this is hardly news. I wish Sam all the best for his ongoing career. Peace and love to all.”

    Petty’s maturity and compassion is indicative that there is no reason to chastise Smith, but I find it so depressing that he would still be rewarded for this song. I know white men are allowed to get away with a lot of things… the corporate elite pillaging the planet, the sexual assault cases, the police killings – but this has gone too far. Sia’s Chandelier was the best thing to happen to 2014!!!! It was iconic, beautiful, creative, provocative, interesting, unique, and authentic. She accomplished something in pop music that is so hardly ever done – she was genuinely artistic in her expression. She wasn’t gimmicky or safe. She was daring, and wild.

    I know the world is all about money, who makes money, and how much money their money is worth. Yet in the world of creativity and art, isn’t it getting old to be so easily manipulated? Fine, let the ruling class poison us with pesticides in our food, create false scarcity with medicines to drive up prices, and knowingly pollute the planet with poison to harbor profit for the 1% – but can’t we at least have higher expectations with our celebrity worship?!

    sam-smith-blog

    February 9, 2015 • Current Events, Musings • Views: 206

  • Excessive Empathy For Strippers and Paddington Bear

    I feel really uncomfortable in strip clubs. Not because I am not bisexual, or that I am uncomfortable with the human body. It isn’t every day that I look so deep into a woman’s cavernous open vagina that I see her cervix, but I could be okay with that in the right context. Say I were at a cocktail party, and the hostess of the evening declared “I bet you are all wondering why I brought you here today – it was so you could examine my insides through the gap between my legs.”

    Strip clubs depress me. I cannot release the excessive empathy I have for these women who are pumping their pelvises against some lonely guy’s zipper. I feel like some serious chafing might occur in such circumstances. Maybe some strippers just really love their jobs, and have rejected other career options in lieu of spinning around a pole to allow one’s anus some fresh air. I don’t deny the possibility that some girls opted out of their opportunity to be an engineer, because they didn’t’ want to be behind a desk all day. But something tells me that is not usually the case.

    There was this one time when I was 17, and I decided to go to Montreal with my boyfriend and his best friend so we could drink. We pooled all the money we had, which was 900, and left at 7 pm to drive 4 hours north. Because we were in a hurry, I got pulled over going 110 in a 40 – which is actually kind of a big deal. The cop said, “Listen here, Missy, going more than double the speed limit means you are going to jail.” Ugggg, the police state strikes again! Sooooo the cop ended up having to call the judge and made him leave his family dinner so he could come judge me. Go figure, the judge set my bail at $860.

    Now this was 1997, so we didn’t have ATM cards. We had to spend all but $40 on setting me free. So what did we do, you ask? We went to Montreal anyway, of course!

    When we got there, we had no place to stay, and still wanted to drink. So where did we go to spend the night? Obviously we went to the strip club – the only place that would have us for the night. Even though I was grateful to be under-age drinking, I couldn’t get over my severe sadness for these girls. I wanted to take them all home with me, tell them their dad is an asshole, and wash off their glitter as I stroked their hair sprayed hair.

    My daughter has inherited my sense of empathy – yet instead of being desperately compassionate towards strippers, for her it was Paddington Bear.

    Here is the context. She and I went to spend the weekend with my parents, and my mom had the idea of bringing Munch to see the new Paddington Bear movie. Keep in mind this is the same woman who brought me to see The Terminator when I was four, but whatever.

    My parents brought Munch to the movie, and I guess about half way through, Munch decided she had enough and wanted to leave.

    Munch: We have to leave! Paddington Bear is going to get into trouble. We have to leave NOW! I want to be in bed with my stuffed animals!!!

    My mom, again the same woman who insisted I watch Andy Warhol’s Dracula when I was 8, decided to honor my daughter’s request. My dad, however, was like “No way am I leaving. The movie isn’t over yet!” The thought of leaving a film in progress violated all my dad’s principles and sodomized his moral coding. Forget the fact that he is a 72-year old man insisting on seeing the end of the crappy Hollywood children’s movie – that is the kind of guy he is… someone who finishes what he starts regardless of all logic.

    When my mom and Munch got home, I was in the other room “working on an article,” but actually eavesdropping on everything they were saying.

    My Mom: Why were you so upset? It is a children’s movie you know – there will be a happy ending.

    Munch: Even though the mean lady wasn’t going to kill him, I didn’t want to have to seem him almost getting hurt that many times. I don’t need to watch that.
    My Mom: But he was going to be okay….

    Munch: Yeah but, I don’t need to be a part of that. And I didn’t like how Paddington bear just kept making these big messes because then no one would take care of him!! He had no one. It didn’t make me happy that his grandpa died, and his grandma sent him away because she was too old and tired. Who was going to take care of him if he was so messy?

    My Mom: They were going to find someone to take care of him.

    Munch: Not if he was making such a mess!!!!!

    My Mom: Well it wasn’t that bad. Think about the show you were watching this morning, and how the Powder Puff girls were destroying a city while they competed over who had the best magic powers… that was way more destruction than in Paddington Bear.

    Munch: But magic powers aren’t real!!! And if Paddington Bear knew how to make marmalade, I don’t think he would make such a mess! He would know better. I didn’t like that part. I will see that movie when I am 8. It was too scary.

    My Mom: Okay that was a not the best screen-writing. I agree with you there that it was a sensationalist moment. But were you really scared?

    Munch: I didn’t like how that mean lady was trying to kill Paddington Bear, and I just wanted it to stop.

    My Mom: Well she was a taxidermist, so she wanted to stuff him. It is a larger message probably sponsored by PETA.

    Munch: Ummm yeah… well, I wanted to come home and be with my stuffed animals and make sure they were safe, and that they weren’t going to die, and that no one was being mean to them.

    There you have it. Much like my sensitivity towards strippers, the same desire to protect was ignited in Munch towards Paddington Bear. Not to mention that I have obviously indoctrinated my kid to be hyper aware of the abomination of making messes. When my dad came home, of course The Munch made him explain every detail about what happened for the next 40 minutes that she had missed. She needed to know exactly how Paddington Bear got away, and what happened to the mean lady. I guess my dad’s compulsive behavior came in handy, because he recounted every detail of the remaining plot, so Munch could have emotional closure, and I am pretty sure my entire family is batshit crazy.

    (I mean seriously what is going on in that movie?)

    766291763572858797