Not too shabby

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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!

Bananas

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I am recently obsessed with bananas.  Not eating them. More with wearing them, & finding banana everything.  I hunted down banana print fabric and made my dream “Pilates pants” finally.  I’ve made a small collection of banana print clothes, photos will follow as soon as elskan mín has time off to help me document my emerging clothing line.

And I’m completely bananas for elskan mín.  We are a perfect pair. I am grateful every day that we found each other. He makes me so happy.  He is helping me remember that I’m funny and fun. He loves me, even things I thought no one would love. He does hate it when I interrupt him, a terrible habit I have that I’m trying to stop doing and since I really hate making him upset I am trying to remember to listen better even when I’m so excited to blurt things out. He makes me like myself a lot and also want to be better at the same time.  It’s everything I was wishing for.

Even if it seems impossible keep wishing. Keep dreaming. Be patient or impatient but don’t give up all hope. Keep a shred. Love can happen.

Even to a spinsterhag!

Will love destroy my blog?

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Nothing fuels creativity like emotional fuckery and frustration, right? Artistic angst is pure gold, for sure. But suffering isn’t required for brilliant work. Case in point, Björk. She’s amazingly creative and profoundly positive. She’s never really had an Amy Winehouse-esque phase. She’s real, fully emotional and empowered always. Not that I think I’m on the same level as Björk, obviously. No. Duh. But I have been on a real creative roll with this blog, but now I’m in a relationship so I don’t have dating disasters or bullshit to report. I could describe how Elskan min & I hang out, staring at each other and smiling like people in love, cause we do and we are, but ew. Gag. No one wants to read that, right?

Even if I get married, my spinsterhag heart will always live on. My old-lady-don’t-give-a-fuck jedi-voo-doo is building. I can’t wait to see how weird I get with age. The “Advanced Style” ladies inspire me greatly, as well as Baddie Winkle. I can see my future and it is fabulous!

I want to keep writing but I fear that it won’t be interesting, without the angst.

This blog will evolve. Like me. People like love stories, right? You’d think that people would have had enough of silly love songs, but I look around and I see it isn’t so. Love songs fill the radio. I can write about love. I got love comin’ outta my ass!

Ok. Love will NOT tear us apart!

Be in love & carry on.

 

 

the four letter word

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I realize that my public online journal/diary disguised as a blog might make me appear to be a nymphomaniacal whore. Not the case. I am a woman who really, really, really loves sex. But I also want love. I love love. Love is the goal, right? The goal of dating?

Uh. It’s pretty much the only taboo in dating, really. You can’t say you’re “looking for love” on a dating site. Or really at a bar if someone chatted you up, old school style. It’s a scary four letter word. “Anal” is a friendlier 4 letter word in the current dating world. I’ve had lots of matches and dates ask about anal. About love, never.

And jumping/falling/obliterating into love can destroy your life. I’ve moved to 2 different countries, one was in Africa, for men. Africa. Yeah, love has made me do some crazy shit. So I’m trying to be slow. Sensible. Do things differently. Portland’s making me poly-curious perhaps. Fuck. But I’ve always liked a lot of sex and it’s hard to find one guy with enough fucking time. And ones whom I don’t drive into the cold arms of celibacy.

I do want a relationship. Love. Actual love. A partner in my life. Who also thinks the phrase “partner in crime” is itself a heinous crime. But I’ve never been in a relationship for more than 4 years. I don’t know if hardcore, 1 dick til you die, by the book monogamy is something I require or desire. I’m willing to give it a go. But I’m open to something less traditional. Perhaps.

I’m not super traditional, dude.

I’m not afraid of love. But why do we have to “fall” in, like a fucking sinkhole that opens up under your feet. Yikes. Maybe it’s something that grows, slowly, takes root over time. Not something you trip and plunge into, screaming “fuuuuuuuck” the whole way down.

You can’t hurry love.

You just have to wait.

Trust. Give it time.

No matter how long it takes.

Jacques Cousteau

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If you’ve ever wondered who/what/wtf is that stuffed shark in the photo, let me introduce you to Jacques Cousteau. My stuffed shark. And sleeping partner of 10 years.

When I was a very small child, like 3, I was obsessed with sharks. Obsessed. With sharks. Did I mention I was a 3-year-old girl? I’ve always been weird. It was my first obsession. Shortly to be followed by my second, Nadia Comanici and gymnastics. But sharks always stuck. They are dear to me. I adore them.

One day I was walking to the Lyon Street Stairs, in San Francisco. I walked there all the time, climbing hills and stairs in a perfect 45 minute cardio work-out that I loved doing. The views are epic. I always passed a toy store. But this one day I found myself pulled into the shop, walked straight back to this hidden basket full of stuffed sharks. Jacques was staring out from a sea of other inanimate, soul-less stuffed sharks. He was waiting for me. I grabbed him and hugged him close. I didn’t have my wallet with me. I took him to the counter and asked the person to hold him while I ran and got money. The person obliged but clearly thought I was insane, there was a huge basket full of sharks. They didn’t know that he was my Jacques. That he was extremely sentient, for a stuffed animal. I ran home, not literally but I walked very fast. I returned and purchased him. I carried him home in my arms, like a child. Did I mention this happened 10 years ago, when I was 35? Yeah, I have always been weird.

I’ve been sleeping with Jacquey ever since. I went to Iceland for the first time only a month after finding him and he asked to go. With his eyes, he can’t talk! So now he travels with me when I go on trips. Nothing makes people leave you alone on an airplane more than being an adult with a stuffed animal in your arms! Although I did once spend most of a flight hanging out with several children, who liked Jacques and me, in a blanket fort. Best flight ever.

I’d love to find a man to sleep with. Actually sleep. Sure, after hours of amazing sex. But it’s been over 3 years since I’ve slept with someone. Other than Jacquey that is.

I miss it. A lot. Having someone there, feeling skin on skin, hearing their breathing. Snoring. I’d be so glad to hear some fucking snoring. That’s how long it’s been.  Jacques is a great cuddler but he is very quiet.

And he can’t wait to go back to Iceland.

So that’s the story of Jacques. And my almost empty bed. He’s better than nothing. But damn, I want a fucking man in my bed. All night long.