Not too shabby


I began blogging on May 31, & now 7 months later I’m still going, even if I’ve slowed down a bit.

I’m so grateful for discovering this outlet and even more for the people who are reading & following!  I can’t believe how many visitors & views have racked up.

I’m planning to get to work on creating a book next year, & will also make a spinsterhag t-shirt once I’ve got an image.  Perhaps I’ll be the new “eat, pray, love” bitch on the block!  Or maybe it’ll just be for my own enjoyment.  Either way this has been a wonderful adventure that I’m very excited to see where it takes me.

Happy new year, dear Haglets!

Bring on the year of the Hag!

ode to Portland

I’ve been in Portland for a little over 4 years now, in my little dollhouse apt for 4 years as of October first. It has taken me a looooooong time to say

I like you, Portland.

This fall is just gorgeous. No rain, beautiful skies and temperatures. I’m also in love and life is going pretty well so that makes it easy to see the sunny side of life. But I am really liking Portland, finally!

It’s not love, but who knows? Maybe someday I’ll swoon over this town, weirder shit has happened. Like finding true love on tinder.

I love the clouds in Portland. I love all the trees, and the light on the leaves. Fall colors are pretty stunning here, if not like glorious Connecticu(n)t. I love the cats, you’ll see cats walking through many neighborhoods. I love the little metal rings that harken back to when people parked horses instead of cars. And the roses. I love the roses. It is known as the city of roses and they are everywhere. I smell them often.

I am excited about my life here, finally. I feel hope for the present and the future, which for me is a rare state, optimism doesn’t come naturally. I’m so grateful that I’ve found home, work, love and can feel some tender roots starting to sink down in this place.

And only 2 months until Iceland!!!!!

Iceland, is my soulmate a country?

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I’m going to Iceland. 2 weeks from tomorrow. I’m halfway packed already. I like to be prepared.

I will be at this swimming pool pictured, in one of the 4 swimsuits I’m taking. They’re tiny! I’m planning on swimming every day!

I first went to Iceland 10 years ago. I stayed in a house, serendipitously near the gorgeous pond downtown. I landed in dusk, took the flybus into the city as it got dark, wheeled my suitcase from BSI, the bus terminal, to my flat not far. In the dark. Went to the wrong house and fished under the flowerpots before realizing I needed to go across the street. By the time I had gotten into my flat, unpacked and showered, the sun was coming up. I fell in love immediately with Reykjavik. I had the best time.

Iceland feels like a home, of sorts, to me. I just love it. I went last in 2015, to see Bjork, who had to cancel and break my heart, but being in Reykjavik I felt at home. Like coming home. I have yet to feel that here in Portland. I miss my hometown San Francisco all the time. But the city I love is gone. The city I live in is wildly over-rated. Portland is not all it’s cracked up to be. But I live here. Yet, after 4 years, I still don’t feel at home here.

It’s getting better. I love my house, my bizarre micro-attic dollhouse. It’s adorable. I’ve made it super cute with a very shabby chic style that Portlanders think they invented. I love my neighborhood. It’s super walkable, which isn’t always so in Portland. Work is going better, slowly, but it’s going. Shit is getting better.

Since moving here I’ve had the rug pulled out from underneath me while the shit was hitting the fan, aimed directly at my face. Like 3 times. In 4 years. Yeah. Not what I had hoped for when I escaped the crippling expense/rich-kids on the spectrum taking over the city with their google busses and their phones up their asses and their heads up their phones, up their asses. But it’s a much calmer pace in Portland. It has seasons, which I’ve discovered I do not particularly care for. But when it’s nice it’s very nice.

If I can really build a life here I might fall in love with Portland. The only other place I want to live is Scandinavia or some prime place in Europe. Berlin, Zurich. America gives em the creeps, eh. I can’t wait to be in Iceland, smell the air, see the colors, soak in the hottest hot pot at Vesterbaerlaugar. Road trip with my awesomest Icelandic girl friends.

But perhaps when I return I’ll feel like I’ve come home?

make-up AKA what’s wrong with my face?

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(These are examples of the make-up I’d love to wear. If I wore make-up.)


So. I’m gonna write about make-up. Cosmetics. I’m avoiding the topic that shall not be written about anymore. Oy. And this is a thing I think about. Make-up. Not the other thing. The man. I do not think about him.

Oh, but I do.

But I’m not writing about him. I’m writing about fucking cosmetics.

So, make-up has always felt kind of weird to me. In junior high, that harrowing time of every girls life, I was expected to start wearing make-up. All the girls were doing it. I never was one to do what “all the girls” were doing. I thought many of the girls were stupid cunts. And many of the girls make-up was NOT good.

But I tried. And its supposed to make you feel confident, right? Uh, well, not so much. For me wearing make-up makes me feel mostly like a clown. I feel extremely awkward, with  crap on my face that feels weird and smells gross. Like a fucking clown. Not confident. Not pretty. Not sexy. Just uncomfortable. And creepy.

So, my make-up experimentation didn’t last long. Yet I usually have make-up. I’m drawn to buy it. Like a magpie collecting tin foil or whatever they fucking do. It’s like some primal urge. To have mascara. Even though it makes my eyelashes stab my eyes.

And really, what’s wrong with my face? I have a face already. Why do I need to paint one onto my face? My face already exists. And highlighted cheekbones look super weird, especially in the fucking daytime!

Make-up can be art. It’s certainly a cultural phenomenon that goes way, way back. It’s primal to decorate ourselves. Like birds with the mating dance. Make-up isn’t bad. But the pervasive belief that make-up is necessary for a woman to be presentable is evil. Pure misogyny. And pure fucking bullshit.

I want to wear some super cuckoo make-up. Like the ladies in “Harlots”. Or Bjork-esque rainbow forehead or sequined eyebrows. I’m not that brave. Yet. I might become one of those super awesome old ladies who wears cukoo make-up. Time will tell.

I have a woman who is always telling me I should wear make-up. “You need a little color!” And to color my hair to cover my grey. Because it looks old. As if the make-up and hair dye are fooling anyone. Hell. No.

I like to wear make-up on special occasion. It’s documented. I have fabulous photos of me on my 42nd birthday with super awesome make-up, bright doll cheek, bright pink lip, mascara, it’s gorgeous. Super exaggerated. Not on trend or in vogue at all. But I like it. I also erroneously decided to wear make-up for my drivers license photo, and the DMV lighting rendered me Jon Bennet Ramsey-esque. Yikes. You have to think about the lighting with make-up. Like those daytime highlighted made for drag but you’re an office lady on the street at 2pm cheekbones.

If make-up makes you feel good, good. If it helps you feel confident, ok. But if you feel you need it, that your own face is somehow so insufficient that it must be spackled into as different a face as possible, this I think, is a real problem. We wouldn’t feel this way if there wasn’t a huge, multi=billion dollar industry feeding us propaganda from birth about how we should look and what to buy to do so. Those disney princess bitches all have full make-up on at all times. Even while unconscious. For years.

When Alicia Keys or some hollywood lady goes without make-up the media goes nuts. Like it’s a big deal. Like it’s special. That’s utterely ridiculous. Insane. It shouldn’t be revolutionary to show your bare face.

No one needs to “Put on their Face”. We all have faces already.

Fuck the beauty machine

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the beauty machine, monte carlo by helmut newton

I’m at the laundromat, flipping through “health” magazine.  After 70 pages of articles about how to lose weight, what to eat to lose weight, how to exercise to lose weight and some celebrity sharing her beauty tips, one of which she says “it feels like your skin’s burning…but then you feel beautiful.” I reach an article titled “Finally find body peace”.   Right.  Then back to how to work out (to lose weight & tone to perfection, despite having achieved “body peace”). And more skin care.  And more what to eat/ how to exercise.

Please just call this magazine “how to look like the idealized female stereotype through obsessive  compulsive behavior masked as “healthy lifestyle”. Please.  Because that’s what it is.

If women care about their health perhaps stop smearing toxic cancer causing laden cremes and serums herself not your skin. Exercising relentlessly & joylessly. Eating too little. Injecting botulism into your face.

Try eating well. Moving your body. Using stuff in your skin and hair that wouldn’t harm you to eat. Get sleep. Find joy when and where you can. Think about letting what you feel like be  more important as what you look like. Or at least as equal.

I may be a walking disaster when it comes to a love life but I’m grateful that I’m not death marching on the beauty machine treadmill that these magazines promote.  I just can’t.  I look like what I look like. I take care of myself the best I can. I can’t be bothered to get fucking eyelash extensions.  Make up makes me feel like a clown.

Navigating my depression takes a lot of energy.  I sometimes don’t feel up to showering.  I do it. But no way am I going to be applying self tanner. Or taking more than 3 steps on my hair.

We as women would do well to just reject the female ideal stereotype all together. Maybe if we all just say “fuck it” we can have a world where we look like we look and that’s just st a fraction of what the world sees and values about us.

You know, like how it is for men.