Play Me An Upbeat Song, Mr. Pianoman

My Husband & I newly married.

I have always used music to soothe a broken heart.  There was a guy I was mad for back in college who only had an eye for my friend and to him I brutally sang a lot of Fiona Apple in the shower.  Or the first boy I ever kissed who decided his senior year he'd rather "be free like a bird" (a rare breed called the Horned Raven I believe), and for him Deep Blue Something's "Breakfast At Tiffany's" was the lyrical razor blade of choice.  For the breakup with my first love I listened to Dave Matthew's "Two Step" nearly two million times.  Then along my 1000-mile Camino hike this summer, Adele's latest angst-y offerings set fire to my 'leave love's past behind' heels.

Music is a wonderful retreat.  It can allow you to wallow if you like to muck around in the pain a bit.  Or it can help you get over someone - there's not a one of us who hasn't sung out loud the ultimate Clarkson anthem "Since You've Been Gone" to an imaginary Mr. or Ms. D-Bag.  Since the dawn of music, we've been rhythmically lamenting love as a species. 

But this begs the question: What do you do when you're happy in love?  After 30 years of the ups and downs of romance I have found my soulmate.  I simply can't relish in Lana Del Ray's new bittersweet album like I should be.  You'd think missing my Belgian husband during this green card process would spark it in me, but I really just need a damn pick-me-up!  Where are the non sullen love songs?  Do they even exist?  Maybe I just need to start thumbing through my grandma's old records to the crooners and Motowners of old.  Even when Bobby Darin sung about killing his love by holding her under water, he did it with such a cheerful, aw-shucks spirit you couldn't help but feel elated for the guy.  There was such an upbeat spin on depressing lyrics back then... Sigh.

Really, though, I'm not looking for love lyrics necessarily.  Just some suggestions of happy-go-lucky music ("The Dog Days Are Over" can't be it, can it?) that will let me revel in my new found true love.  I'm all ears... but only if it'll put a smile on my face.

Within My Means

My birthday weekend gluttony.

What's exactly does 'living within one's means' entail?  This is a concept I surely must learn, as money seems to be flying out of my bank account like expletives from Roseanne's mouth (if you haven't watched her new reality show "Roseanne's Nuts", set on a nut farm in Hawaii, you are truly missing a fine piece of mind-numbing television.)  I suppose in simplest terms it means you must only spend what you can afford with your mind always toward savings and the future.  I'm sure Suzy Orman has the phrase tattooed in a tramp-stamp. 

How is it that I can be 30 and still living above my means?  Who do I think I am?  Do I really need a closet of clothes I've only worn a handful of times a piece?  Do I really to pay for a month of tanning to get this terrible farmers tan off my back in time for my beach vacation?  Do I really need a beach vacation after being gone for three months on the Camino?  Do I really need to pay $2300 to fix the dent in my car I got pulling out of the parking lot after watching "Harry Potter" (isn't a dent like a cool scar but for your car)?  Did I really need a birthday facial and pedicure on top of my hotel weekend with the girls?  Do I really need to spend a bit more on the studio apartment in the towers when I can get a one bedroom for less in the villas?  Did I really need that sushi last week?  Or the Jamba Juice today?  Do I really need to buy new trail runners (aren't there people somewhere who just run barefoot)?  Do I really need to fill my life with fun experiences and beautiful things I can't afford? 

The answer is quite frankly, ye--- NO!  I don't need them.  But I really really really really want them!!!

I Deem Thee The Decade of the Bizarro!

Your author in her 'yute'.

Thursday, July 14th, 2011.  The day that will stand in infamy as the day Blackheart turned 10 x 3.  (If you're intoxicated reading this, that's 30.)  As Dylan Thomas wrote, "Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light." Amen, brother.  Why should it be that when we women (and I say "women" because studies show that men don't consider themselves old until 58, while woman consider themselves old at 30... gross) are supposed to suddenly feel that our youth is past us when we click over to this fine decade?  Youth is relative.  Working in elderly facilities, I have overheard 90-year-olds call 60-year-olds "kids."  If I live to be 109 like my great grandmother, that means I will be a kid until I turn 80! 

Now, I'm not saying to hell with maturity.  Maturity is a fine institution.  I'm simply expressing a simple truth - that turning 30 is not, and never will be, "old."  "Old" is wearing adult diapers and watching "Wheel of Fortune" with the volume turned to full blast, while your dinner gets fed to you with a straw.  30 is simply a bench marker.  It says, "I can now afford to have fun"... and "I am good in bed" (practice makes perfect)... and "I can discuss books and theater and politics without sounding like a naive, pretentious ass."  30 is a badge of honor, not a cry for help.  My uterus isn't going to suddenly shrivel up and die nor will crows feet attack my face as I lay sleeping, having nightmares about not having yet set up an IRA.

So, what will the 30s hold for Blackheart?  Well, I've decided to deem this "The Decade of the Bizarro."  By that, I mean, I want things to get weird.  Really weird.  I want to try new and wild stuff.  Stuff that seems like a really bad idea at first.  I want to befriend people on the fringe with names like Ursula and Blaze and Dirty Mike.  I want to taste food that freaks me out.  I want to travel to places where crazy sh** goes down.  I want to watch movies that make my eyes pop and my mouth gape open (starting with Trash Film Orgy's midnight film "Humanoids of the Deep".)  I want to say out loud all the weird stuff that pops into my head.  I want to write without censorship.  I want my mind to be blown over and over and over again.  I want magic and fireworks and whimsy.  Your 30s shouldn't be a "slowing down period" or "a time to grow up."  They should be a circus with you in the spotlight wearing a glorious sateen top hat while gripping a lion tamer's whip.

On that note, anyone know where I can by a sateen top hat?

I Birthed A New Blog!

Wanna see the spanking new baby blog grow up?  Then follow The Camino Gypsy Chronicles, which will take over for The Blackheart Chronicles from April 9th until July 4th, give or take a week or two.  I promise, you won't be disappointed.  Golden-hearted Momma K and a snarky Blackheart walking 1000 miles through France and Spain with only three changes of clothes?  I mean, honestly, can you think of anything more entertaining?  Well, other than the this blog, of course...

Alpha Male

From Wikipedia: "The term "alpha male" is sometimes applied to humans to refer to a man who is powerful through his courage and a competitive, goal-driven, "take charge" attitude.  With their bold approach and confidence "alpha males" are often described as charismatic.  While "alpha males" are often overachievers and recognized for their leadership qualities, their aggressive tactics and competitiveness can also lead to resentment by others."

I took this picture today while on a sunny Sacramento walk.  The framing is a bit off, as the taking of said snapshot was a hurried endeavor.  I was afraid the Alpha Male in question might come running out of the house in his boxer shorts, gold chain and trucker hat and demand to have my phone.  Sure "alpha male" might describe someone with a take charge attitude - a leader with charisma - but for some reason, I can't picture him running out in his Calvin Klein briefs, Ferragamo tie and cappuccino. 

Now I've known a lot of alpha males in my life; however, none with the audacity to refer to themselves as such, none the less, engrave it on a car window for all to see.  I mean, it truly takes some nerve, of which, rather than criticize, I tip my hat.  In fact, I had a discussion the other day with some lady friends of mine about our own alpha female status.  We're all the courageous, powerful, feral types, priding ourselves in our ability to grab life by the balls.  However, never would I have 'Alpha Female' screened onto an American Apparel t-shirt or have it tattooed above my butt crack.  So to you, proud Alpha Male, I say 'bravo'.  Why leave people guessing when you can just put it out there.  In fact, it would be nice if all guys did this with window decals.  Some possible examples:

• Gentleman
• Protector
• Bread Earner
• Shower Farter
• Player
• Player Hater (a man who wants to settle down)
• Stoner
• Outdoor Enthusiast (would certainly turn my head)
• Amateur Chef 
• Perpetual Student
• Gym Rat
• Momma's Boy
• Sport's Junkie
• Metro Sexual
• Risk Taker
• Thug
• Sensitive
• Recent Divorcee
• Bar Tender (avoid!)
• Smart Ass
• World Traveler
• And my personal favorite... Dinner Bill Payer

The Scent of Love

As I completed a training walk this morning I couldn't help but notice the abundant display of red hearts and cupids spewing forth from store windows.  Uh-huh, it's that time of year again - Valentine's Month.  My favorite Valentine's memory?  Watching "My Bloody Valentine" in 3D and making a mix CD for girlfriends entitled "Valentine's Day Massacre."  In case you're wondering, yes, Track 1 was Tina Turner's "What's Love Got To Do With It."  Funny part is that on both of these aforementioned V-Day's I was in a relationship... (someone's got issues, no?)

So in celebration of this chocolate-y, sparkly, ooey-gooey love fest, I thought I'd share with you a recent CNN Health article entitled "The power of smell in picking sex partners" sent to me by a friend well-versed in the art of love.  Not only are sexual scent preferences dependent on gender, but also on region... and to hilarious degrees.  According to findings here's what women are most attracted to in the following cities:

1.      New York – coffee 
2.      Los Angeles – lavender (f'in hippies)
3.      Chicago – vanilla
4.      Houston – barbeque
5.      Atlanta – cherry
6.      Phoenix – eucalyptus
7.      Philadelphia – clean laundry
8.      Dallas – smoke/fireplace
9.      San Diego – suntan lotion/ocean
10.    Minneapolis-St. Paul – cut grass

The proof that men are led by scent is a bit less concrete, although the following smells are known to cause... ahem... some very specific physical changes in the male body:  lavender, pumpkin pie, donuts, and black licorice.  So, in an effort to make myself more alluring for the upcoming V-Day holiday I've decided to: 1.) Start wearing a sprig of lavender behind my ear; 2.) Burn a pumpkin pie candle in my boudoir; 3.) Dust my bosom with powdered sugar; and 4.) Drink Anisette cocktails.  Lock up your fellas, ladies, Blackheart is armed, dangerous and reeking of love.

My Future BF

Perhaps one of the hardest parts of getting used to singledom (once again) is sleeping alone at night.  Sure, at first it's nice to spread your wings or slowly spin clockwise over the course of eight hours or roll from side to side like a steam roller without fear of knocking someone off the bed or getting an elbow to the eye.  And, sure, it's nice not to be awakened by snoring or the sharp grinding of teeth or farting.  However, a few months down the line you begin to realize that, hey, you really only sleep on one side of the bed anyway and, hey, the teeth grinding was like white noise lulling you to sleep at night and, hey, you miss that manly arm snuggled around you as you sleep, hugging you safe and sound.  So what's a newly single girl to do?  Live with it?  Cry about it?  Pay her gay male friends to cuddle up?  Place an add in the Penny Saver?  Craigslist?  Heavens no.  None of those things.

Japan, the country that first brought the world used schoolgirl panty vending machines, now introduces THE MAN PILLOW.  Why I didn't come up with this in between my last two boyfriends god only knows.  It's sheer brilliance stuffed between a faux work shirt.  A woman named Suzuki in USA Today sums up its appeal ever so eloquently: "It doesn't squirm or thrash in the night, and you know it'll be there in the morning." If that isn't worth $80, I don't know what is.  Not to mention it comes in three colors and its manufacturer, Kameo, will soon offer both muscular pillows for women who prefer their pillow well-built and slender models for those who desire a "more sensitive, vulnerable partner."