Important Announcements

1.) There are only 2 sleeps until Christmas!

2.) As such, FitC will be a little bare this week. Unless I'm really inspired by something, there probably won't be a Weekly pic or a Friday Quote. Hope y'all don't mind!

3.) No, for real though, Christmas is the day after tomorrow!

In preparation, I've made Dulce De Leche candy, Banana Nut Bread and Peppermint Bark. All my Christmas treats involve a Ziploc bag and a hammer (crushed candy canes for Bark and crushed pecans for candy and bread), because I like to play Thor when I bake. All will be given as gifts and eaten on Christmas day, with a nice cuppa coffee or tea. What are your plans this week? I hope they are equal parts tasty and fantastic!

4.) It's not Christmas for me until this happens:

(To be fair, most of my major holidays involve David Bowie.) 

Happy Holidays, my fellow flâneurs! I'm sending love and good wishes to each and every one of you!

Weekly Flâneur: Christmas Time In The City

 Wishing you and yours the very best this holiday season. 

With love, always. 

Christmas tree at The Square, Trade and Tryon, Charlotte, N.C., 2012

Ways In Which I Am A Terrible Friend

Alternatively titled: Adulthood! How do I do it?

Most of my bad friend moments come from lack of income. I really do want to meet you at the bar, or see your favorite band play, but sometimes there's only $7.50 in my bank account. Sometimes my only way to be there with you is to text love and send emoticon smiles.

Every year at Christmas, my friends Jamie, Sokha and I get together to have a Dirty Christmas party. It's Christmas, but with more booze and tasteless jokes. This year we wanted to try The Wine Palette or Cajun Canvas, two of Charlotte's drink and paint studios. You bring your own snacks and drinks, and learn to paint a picture. Fun, right? But even after suggesting it, I had to balk and back out when I saw the $35 price tag. I have markers and sketchpads at here at Casa B. We'll have our own drunk drawing party at my kitchen table.

Back in April, my darling Ashley had a birthday. I bought the book Downpour in advance to send to her in London, along with a Vampire Eric necklace and a birthday card. I also wrote her a nice, long letter and included a badly drawn little comic. I was set. Super Friendship Participate badge earned. I wrapped up the whole thing in brown paper and took it to the post to find it would cost $50 to send overseas. No biggie, I thought. Next paycheck. I tossed it on the floorboard in the backseat of my car. I ran some errands, drove home, parked my car in my driveway, and forgot the package in the backseat. That happened to be the night my car was robbed. (Broken into right in my OWN DRIVEWAY.) Of course, Ashley's package, with all its love tucked inside, was gone.

Over the next few months, my steady writing gig ended and I was back to paycheck begging. My other main source of income is a company that, while wonderful and lovely in all other aspects, was in a period of transition that meant they were notoriously late in paying freelancers. (Happily, this is a thing of the past and they are currently nothing but lovely and wonderful.) I easily found the book online, bought it again, and searched for something quirky to replace Vampire Eric. By the time I managed to find the right gift, I was in limbo with checks. Once again, Ash's lovely little package sat unopened, tucked safely in my closet.

No biggie, I thought. Come September, I have a big story due. I'll get a fat check that will cover both my bills and Ash's gift in one fell swoop. Dust off hands and whistle on. Friendship badge will still be metaphorically earned. Expect, of course, the check didn't come in time. My bank account was low from paying off other bills, and I still accrued late fees. When the big check finally came, it was eaten up by bills. Ashley's gift sat on my shelf.

Now it's December, and I finally, finally have another steady (albeit temporary) small source of income and have pinched together my pennies for the holidays. I can send Ashley a birthday gift! Finally! Bless her heart. She's waited so long.

Which is why, after months of waiting, I don't blame her in the least to see that her latest purchase was Downpour.

Don't worry. I'm still sending her something surprising. (But if anyone wants to buy -- or donate to FitC in exchange for -- a brand new, wrapped, hardcover copy of this book, it's yours.)

I hate to be a bad friend. I hope that my friends reading this will sigh at my hopeless, headlong, arms-flailing attempt at adulthood, but still forgive, as friends do. All I have by way of riches is love, and that I will give to you endlessly and freely.

Fight

(In light of recent tragedy here in the US, my dear friend Brooke eloquently wrote the following passage on Facebook. She has graciously allowed me the honor of re-posting her words here. Many thanks to her, and to her inspiring presence now and in this time of sorrow and confusion. -- Natalie) 

Krishna and Arjuna Via Inanna Returns

Gandalf the Grey Via LOTR Wiki

A thousand faces. Click image to enlarge.

By Brooke B. 

Last night at midnight, literally as soon as I possibly could, I saw The Hobbit with friends. It's no exaggeration to say we were as giddy as little kids the entire time. And yet Tolkien's great genius, one that Peter Jackson ably captured in the film, is to weave story that simultaneously delights all the giddy children in the room and conveys to us, the adults, we who live ever more complex lives imbued with every possible shade of grey, something I believe children still instinctively know:

There is Bad in this world. It exists. We cannot outrun its reach or outshine its shadow. Dwarves cannot tunnel past it and Golden Eagles cannot fly over it and all the beauty of the Elves will not ease its ugliness, or the anguish that ugliness leaves behind.

So what to do? What do we do?

There was a moment in the film that reminded me so powerfully of recent discussions on the Bhagavad Gita that I caught my breath. Early in the Gita, Arjuna the Warrior, the greatest fighter of his age, lays down his arms in despair. He looks out over the fields of battle, sees all his family and his friends poised to brutalize each other senselessly, and he slumps to the floor of his chariot and cries out in anguish to Krishna that he cannot, he cannot, he cannot do this anymore.

Does anyone here not know how that feels? No. Not a one of us. Particularly not today.

Krishna's reply runs counter to every New Testament tenet to which we, as inheritors of a Judeo-Christian cultural aesthetic, have willingly or unwillingly been primed to respond. Krishna does not advocate peace. He does not tell Arjuna to keep lying there so he can bring some lions and some lambs over to lie down with him. No -- God Incarnate, the Hot of Heat and the Wet of Water and, yes, the Prince of Peace, were it to suit him, roars in absolute rage and commands Arjuna to get up already and FIGHT. It is a hard concept for many of us to wrap our heads around, this moment when the God of All Things advocates for war. Some friends and I discussed that, when we talked about that passage in the Gita -- our various indignant or angry or sad responses to this moment when the divine, the thread of beauty that binds all things, tells his greatest hero to get back up and go kill people.

And then last night, watching the Hobbit, I saw Gandalf come blasting into the Goblin Kingdom in a fury of white light and command Thorin and all his dwarves to GET UP. They have all given up, you see. They are captured, bound deep underground, twelve heroes (familiar number, yes?) far from the light and surrounded by thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of goblins, too many enemies to count and death drooling all around them. Despair is the only reasonable option. But it is the wrong one. They are warriors. They are made, bred, trained to fight. It's in their blood and bones and beards, and if they are to die, they should die with swords in their hands. In their despair they have forgotten who they are: they are warriors. Warriors of the light. So in comes Gandalf, roaring like Krishna, enraged, and he screams one word to them: "FIGHT!"

And just like any other magic spell, their despair melts away when they hear the right word. They wake up. They get up. They FIGHT.

Because The Hobbit is epic fantasy, the dwarves prevail against the goblin hordes, and live to fight another day. And because the Gita is epic religious myth, the ending is not so tidy: Arjuna dies. Everyone dies. It is, perhaps, harder to see in the story of faith than in the story of fantasy why we should fight off our despair. Why we should fight at all.

But, still, friends. Still. We don't know the end to any story, really. We can only know what we're called to do, and do that thing. In the face of overwhelming darkness, in the face of the forces against which it is only reasonable, only human, perhaps even only right, to despair -- pick up your arms. Get up. Fight. In whatever way you are called to do so, fight. I will call it fighting for the light; you may call it whatever you choose. But fight.

Friday QuoteDay

Today is the first audio Friday QuoteDay at FitC, starring none other than Neil Gaiman, giving short advice to aspiring artists in the best way possible. (Oppa Gaiman Style!)

A young woman asks if she should pursue her dream to be an artist (a director) or if there are enough artists in the world. Mr. Gaiman gives her a heartfelt answer that includes this gem: "None of them are you. None of them are going to change people and change the world in the way you can change it."

Weekly Flâneur: Not Quite

Click any image to enlarge. 

Yellow leaves of Autumn. 

It's not quite winter yet, and the leaves still cling. 

Uptown Charlotte, N.C., December 2012

Strangers On A Blog

There was a blog I followed last year written by a woman in New York City who was laid off from her job. The only work she was able to find was part-time at a gym over an hour and 1/2 away from her home, and she wrote about her commute, the patrons who would frequent the gym, the employees, the members, and her continuous work search. But over time the posts became more personal and she was writing about fights with her boyfriend and feelings of despair. Then one day her blog was gone. Deleted. I don't know what happened to her, but a year later I still think about this unfinished story. I think about how strange the world of blogging can be, how for a moment in time I was privileged to read the daily thoughts of a stranger whose face I didn't know. How there is a woman I could pass on the streets of New York, or share a ride with on a train, who I know so much and yet so little about.

In my own little blogging world, I write surprisingly very little about my daily life and self. The more personal posts come months after the fact, but yet you still read me, and I thank you for it. Because, You and I? We are not strangers. Not really. Here is my face, my hands, my words. Pass me on the street and stop to tell me your dreams. Stop to tell me the taste of the green apples of your childhood, of the small torn hole in your coat that lets your skin feel the bitter pleasure of the cold rainy afternoon. Let's not be strangers. I'll start.

Here is my day: It is quiet in the house. My husband is working from home today and when he does, I tend to stay sedentary, silent as not to disturb, nesting in piles of blankets and cups of tea. (On days when I am alone, I am a raucous One-Woman Broadway Show.) Two writers living in one house, we often retreat into our own spaces and worlds and greet each other in the evening hours as if it were a pleasant surprise; "Oh, hello! You're here too! I missed you today." We are only one wall apart.

Last week, I pulled all of our joint Christmas decorations and bits-n-bobs out of the hidden corners of storage to make the house shine. Matt calls the image on my matching set of Christmas mugs my Mentally Challenged Moose. Not all outcast reindeer were born with red noses, poor fellow. He keeps me company in my nesting.

In the late morning hours I am awake in bed and lost in thought. I write elaborate lists titled, "NATALIE. GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER." Fail at the application when the day starts in full. To check off one thing on the list is an accomplishment worth celebrating. In the quiet of this morning I managed two.

I write long-winded sentences and delete them.  I have everything and nothing to say. I think of my father, my half-sister. The house smells of laundry, my sweaters drying over the stair banister. It is the first cold day in weeks. Have I forgotten how lovely the cold could be?

Later, I will commandeer the kitchen and crush long candy canes in Ziploc bags to make Peppermint Bark for my mother. It'll be the fifth or sixth batch made this month, the only Christmas treat I've conquered to perfection.

Later, Matt and I will share our bed, and talk about the ocean, the way sand crabs blink, and the small spaces between us will dissolve. If we are lucky the rain will be our lullaby, and if not, the distant sound of lone train whistles will lull us to sleep. In North Carolina, I have never lived in any place where I could not hear the sound of a lonely night train.

If I am lucky, sleep will come undisturbed. The things I do not want to write to you now, the things you may not know, become tide pools in my mind. It happened like this; my half-sister's child, a young man in his twenties, stepped into the ocean in November and never returned. We are not strangers on a cold beach, and the train we share rolls on into the night.

Here is my day, then; I wake and think of you; stranger, friend, reader, and wonder if you know that though this world is hard and rough to walk, it is worth the walk. I want to keep walking it. I want you to keep walking. There is still so much to see.

City Beauty: Behold the Mighty Power of Baking Soda

(Previously on City Beauty: A judgmental cock and smooth legs.)

Even the box knows it's magic. Look at that sparkle. Like Edward Cullen in a measuring cup.

Most of my bath, cleaning and beauty tricks involve one ingredient: Baking Soda. I use it so much that it the box rarely leaves the bathroom counter. Once it stayed there for so long the ink from the cardboard left a stain from being exposed to so much shower steam, and I just turned it around and used baking soda to clean it up. It cleans itself! Miracle! Best part is that it's a cheapie product, and being in a cash-flow hiatus (unemployed freelance writer!) I can feel frivolous using the stuff on everything.

So here now are two of my favorite tricks using mighty baking soda.

Hair: Hard Water Haven

Growing up, my parents' home relied on well water. In my part of America, that meant privately owning the water supply that ran through our pipes and not paying the city a monthly bill for water use. City-controlled water contains fluoride supplements and softeners to remove some of the chemicals from the water. We relied on a Britta Filter pitcher for drinking water (and later, a fancy fridge with a filtered drink dispenser built in the door) since the tap water had a chalky taste. Well water is "hard" water thanks to high levels of dissolved minerals, primarily calcium and magnesium, and hard water isn't very good for hair. Using baking soda gets rid of the built-up from hard water and softens your hair, a trick I wish I had known for my frizzy hair when I was a young teen.

You will need:

- 1 teaspoon of baking soda, or roughly the size of a large coin poured into the palm of your hand
- Dollop of shampoo on top of said baking soda

The How-To:

- Mix it together into a shamp-soda hybrid
- Wash your hair!
- Repeat once a week

For those WITHOUT hard water, this is a fantastic way just to give your hair a boost and remove product built-up.

Face: Feeling Fancy While Frugal

This mix is so ridiculously easy I'm almost ashamed to share it. As I've mentioned before, I have sensitive skin, so scrubbing my face with a washcloth or abrasive scrub isn't for me. Some swear by a baking soda scrub, but a gentle facial will work just as well without irritating the skin. Just be sure to apply this one over the sink. Might as well go ahead and get naked, so none of the mix splashes on your clothes, and for funsies.

You will need:

- 2 tablespoons baking soda, or a small palm-full. (Hold your hand over the sink in case of spillage.)
- 1 tablespoon of warm water, or a splash from the tap.

The How-To:

- Mix into a paste. The mix should not be watery.
- Apply to face. (Be grown-up and do not get it in your eyes or mouth.)
- Leave on until completely dry -- at least 5 minutes.
- Rinse, wash face with your cleanser of choice.
- Moisturize!
- Repeat twice a week.

Beautiful! You're beautiful. For real though. Stay beautiful.

Friday QuoteDay

"What I want to talk about is how emotional outbursts typically more associated with men (shouting, expressing anger openly) are given a pass in public discourse in a way that emotional outbursts typically more associated with women (crying, 'getting upset') are stigmatized.

I wish to dispel the notion that women are 'more emotional.' I don’t think we are. I think that the emotions women stereotypically express are what men call 'emotions,' and the emotions that men typically express are somehow considered by men to be something else.

This is incorrect. Anger? EMOTION. Hate? EMOTION. Resorting to violence? EMOTIONAL OUTBURST. An irrational need to be correct when all the evidence is against you? Pretty sure that’s an emotion. Resorting to shouting really loudly when you don’t like the other person’s point of view? That’s called 'being too emotional to engage in a rational discussion.'

Not only do I think men are at least as emotional as women, I think that these stereotypically male emotions are more damaging to rational dialogue than are stereotypically female emotions. A hurt, crying person can still listen, think, and speak. A shouting, angry person? That person is crapping all over meaningful discourse." 

— Jen Dziura, writer for The Gloss. Read the whole thing here. 

Weekly Flâneur: Diverse City

Image of street mural. Click to enlarge.

Delight in diversity.

"La luz de diversidad" translates to "The light of diversity." 

Birth and light, in glowing blues and reds. 

Seen in Winston-Salem, N.C., 2012 

Friday QuoteDay

"This subject is old but I have never answered it in its entirety. And even with this post it will remain incomplete.

Ms. Willow Smith, pre-haircut. Image via Wikipedia.

The question why I would LET Willow cut her hair. First the LET must be challenged. This is a world where women, girls are constantly reminded that they don't belong to themselves; that their bodies are not their own, nor their power or self determination.

I made a promise to endow my little girl with the power to always know that her body, spirit and her mind are HER domain. Willow cut her hair because her beauty, her value, her worth is not measured by the length of her hair. It's also a statement that claims that even little girls have the RIGHT to own themselves and should not be a slave to even their mother's deepest insecurities, hopes and desires. Even little girls should not be a slave to the preconceived ideas of what a culture believes a little girl should be."

— Jada Pinkett Smith, Actress and Director, and Absolute Winner 

at parenting while addressing her daughter Willow's hair via Facebook. 

Weekly Flâneur: Tree of Life

Image of tree against setting sun. Click to enlarge.

Cozy up to a friend and watch the sun set the sky on fire. 

Winter is coming. Charlotte, N.C., 2012

In Which I Break Boy Band Synonyms

An Important Announcement Regarding Boy Bands on Flâneur in the City:

Sorry to disappoint you, new readers, but this is not a Backstreet Boys Blog. Even though seven out of ten of my keyword searches for today alone have been for the Astern Avenue Adolescents.

And only ONE for Bowie? Really?

Despite what Google may lead you to believe, I have all of one post on the Ol' Rear Road Rousers, and the fellows are mostly used as a metaphor for communication on the Internet. (Oh! And said post also brought me my very first troll! Memmmmories!)

There's this post on Forgotten Boy Bands of the '90s that I need to follow-up on, but since many of you so ardently, lovingly Google the Young Bucks of Posterior Boulevard, I don't think they're really forgotten.

But now that we're talking about them, I suppose I do have something to say.

This right here? This is "As Long As You Love Me."

 And this? This is Justin Bieber?

 What do you mean it's not a Lads of the Rearmost Lane tribute cover? Image via Wikipedia.

Honestly? I don't WTF the Justin Bieber kid is singing when he crones, "As Long As You Love Me" on the radio. Perhaps it's because of the lone gray hair that sticks out of my scalp like a planted flag on Mt. Brunette, but I do not understand why this song exists. There can be only one boy band/boy bander with this song title. It's like Highlander, but much more deadly.

This is not a bad picture; the '90s were just that fuzzy.

The Bairns of the Hindmost Trail are five and the Biebs is one. And Bieb-a-roo, that doesn't mean you are THE one.

Anyway, this has been your FitC Important Boy Band Announcement of the Day.

Share And Share Alike

It's time to update the Reading List! Here's a quick round-up of new or new-to-me sites, and a few people you should follow.

Through A London Looking Glass

Have you seen this yet? I swell up with uncharacteristically obnoxious big-sisterly pride that I am sure makes dear Ashley roll her eyes, but I am ridiculously proud of her blog. Like, print photos of it, carry them in my wallet and force strangers on the train to look at them and agree with me how awesome it is. She's found a niche in reviewing newly released and advanced copies of YA books and she's killing it over there. Go visit and follow, if you haven't already.

Lost & Found Fiction

What do you do when you want to write books, right now? Start your own publishing company! Darling friend Buchanan has written multiple books, stories, comics, you-name-its, and shares them all through Lost & Found Fiction. Consider this your Cyber Tuesday shopping tip! Books on sale now!

Everything But Black

Once upon a time, Chris of Everything But Black casually sent me a link to his music and then expected me to talk to him like he wasn't brilliant and I wasn't a total fangirl. I know, right? Luckily we're still friends. If you're looking for music, art and entertainment that's more than puddle-deep, visit Chris and his co-blogger Ryan at EBB.

Fresh Beats, Fresh Eats

Let's all make Chocolate Crinkle Cookies with Grapefruit and Star Anis. Right now. No, seriously, I don't even know if star anis is a veggie or a fruit but I think I need these cookies right now. (And stay to listen to some choice tunes.)

The American Londoner

Let's all drool over Govinda's and hot chocolate in this ex-pat's recent Dublin post. Oh my! (And stay to read some political musings on American politics from an expatriate's perspective.)

Rants 'n Raves

The Arthurnator has opinions, and is not afraid to share them! Actually, Arthur is very witty and kind and has a way with words. Today's post about his love gave me an "Aww!" mixed with a chuckle. (An awwhuckle?)

That's All, She Wrote

Big-dreamer Ann curated Making Notes: Music of the Carolinas, a nonfiction anthology of stories and essays about the musical history of North and South Carolina. She's also as sweet as anyone can possibly be, and encourages writing fanfiction.

Counting Down The Hours

Oh, this guy. Matt Brunson will forever be FitC's #1 Film Critic Extraordinaire, without question. But when it comes to the geeky side of film and video games, this dude Adam is OK. For real though, if you want to talk about the deeper implications of the aliens in Prometheus, this is your man, right here. And ladies? He's single AND he has Star Wars bedsheets. (Probably. If Star Wars sheets are your thing, he's buying some right now.)



Who did I miss? I know I missed someone, apologies in advance! Share your blog in the comments, and happy reading!

Artsy-schmartsy

Last night I had a dream that FitC needed a new banner. I'm no graphic artist, but it's fun to play around with the images on the blog every once and awhile. What do you think? From this:

Black and white and read all over.

 To this:

Hey hey!

Our role model is feeling festive. Must be the holiday season!

In my dream, FitC had its own European oval country identification sticker. (My subconscious seems to think FitC is not an American-based endeavor.) So in case I'm driving and need to let the world know where I am from, there's also this:

Will brake for booze.

Lovely friends, I promise to add actual content to my blog soon. Real content, and not just poorly designed banners. Cross my heart.

Weekly Flâneur: Presidential

President...Cullen? Click to enlarge.

Pop culture president! 

 

While Barack Obama may have won the election, Manifest Discs & Tapes declares Edward Cullen the true leader of the free world. Consider it the Breaking Dawn of a new era. 

Manifest on South Blvd., Charlotte, N.C., 2012

Show and Tell

Time to kill the darlings. This is an excerpt from a story I am working on that will not make the cut. Maybe. Maybe not.

But here's a snug little home for these poor words on FitC.

Today, the sensation of sleeping while someone else is speaking.

Do you know it? It’s a half-dream, the sheets and pillows speaking, the voices weaving into the unconscious, becoinge part of the dream, part of the movements of the mind. The voices speaking aren’t real, and yet they are, but you, you deep dreamer, cannot tell the difference.

It is your mother’s voice coming from the lips of painted, narrow boat. The next door neighbor's shout becomes the thing of wings, bright and fearsome. The television droning now a companion in lucid wanderings. The voices that are heard not as yourself, but as a sleeper. I hear them often; they drift under doors to me, the sound of footsteps, of chatter, of laughter. When they come I stir, just a bit, not knowing who they belong to or where they come from. Wanting them to be silent. Sleep, always sleep, is the final solution to the girl you see in this bed.

The day rose, foggy, grey, with little difference between night and dawn. We were cold; the sheeps' moss bedding wasn’t fully dried. The still-green vines were hollow with water and absorbed the moist air under my stiff body. Never sleep on damp moss. It’s not as comfortable as it looks. The night before we grabbed it in sharp handfuls, hung it over the fire to dry out, smoke, but it wasn't hung long enough before our tired bodies claimed the moss for bedding.

I moan. A pert voice responds.

"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!"

To be continued?

Friday QuoteDay

“At thirteen desperately watching TV, curling my long legs under me, desperately reading books, callow adolescent that I was, trying (desperately!) to find someone in books, in movies, in life, in history, to tell me it was O. K. to be ambitious, O. K. to be loud, O. K. to be Humphrey Bogart (smart and rudeness), O. K. to be James Bond (arrogance), O. K. to be Superman (power), O. K. to be Douglas Fairbanks (swashbuckling), to tell me self-love was all right, to tell me I could love God and Art and Myself better than anything on earth and still have orgasms...

Alas, it was never meant for us to hear. It was never meant for us to know. We ought never be taught to read. We fight through the constant male refractoriness of our surroundings; our souls are torn out of us with such shock that there isn’t even any blood. 

Remember: I didn’t and don’t want to be a 'feminine' version or a diluted version or a special version or a subsidiary version or an ancillary version, or an adapted version of the heroes I admire. 

I want to be the heroes themselves.”

—  Joanna Russ, sci-fi, fantasy, and feminist theory writer, quote from The Female Man

Weekly Flâneur: Sweet Savannah

Where was Weekly Flâneur last week? Gearing up for today's mega-post!

Mr. B and I headed south to Savannah, Georgia for the Savannah Film Festival hosted by the Savannah College of Art and Design (SCAD). The city was beautiful and the festival was a blast. Ready for some southern comfort? Treats below the jump! 

Opening night and the Savannah Film Fest Marquee

Anchors away!

River front living

Vote Vote Vote

Tomorrow is the big day for voting in the USA. Are you ready? Here's a couple of reminders before you head to your polling station:

Click to enlarge. Via Think Progress.

Click to enlarge. Via demnewswire.

FitC is supporting this awesome fellow. Babies love the 'Bama. See you at the polls!

Obama! Yes we can kiss babies. Via BarackObama.

In Which There Is A Lazy Post

A short one from my Draft Folder, which has over 40 unpublished blog posts waiting to see the light of day. I would like to post them all, but most are incomplete or snippets, like this one from the spring of 2011! Check this one off the list:

Just got whistled at while walking down the sidewalk. How did the dude know that I always dreamed my Prince Charming would be wearing a backwards ballcap and smoking a cig in his huge pick-up truck, whistling at any girl who happens to walk by? Dream. Date.

Back off ladies, this one's mine!

(Seriously, dudes, don't do this. It's very creepy. No exceptions.)

Weekly Flâneur: Bottled

Click to enlarge.

Bottoms up!

Glass bottles in the window sill of Fuel Pizza. Photo taken by this charming fellow.

Plaza Midwood, Charlotte, N.C., 2012

Friday QuoteDay

Click to enlarge. Found via ModCloth.

"If you're making mistakes it means you're out there doing something." — Neil Gaiman

Weekly Flâneur: Go

Click to enlarge.

What are you waiting for? 

Today. Today is the day. 

If you were looking for a sign, this is it. 

 Go.

Green light, crossed wires, Charlotte, N.C., 2012

Weird Facebook Ads, Part One

Today we're talking Facebook ad fails. Do you ever pay attention to the little ads on the side of your newsfeed? While my husband receives ads for political candidates and charities, I get ads for maid services and baby clothes. No matter how much I spam my poor blighted newsfeed with petitions and debate updates, the algorithms state that a 31-year-old married lady must be given babies and maids. Another little moment of small daily sexism to ponder. But luckily for you dear readers, it means that I can collect a few of the worst offenders for your amusement and that is my silver lining. 

I've written about a previous Facebook sexist ad fail here (along with a local ad fail and these two Craigslist ad posts. Also: Hat beard.) Today's weird Facebook ads come from the world of babies.


1.) Uncomfortable Product Placement

"Sell Kids Clothes With Other Parents Like You," "YAZ birth control lawsuit," and "Tie Your Tubes."

 It's like the life cycle of a parent. All that's missing is a wine home delivery service.

 2.) That Is Not What You Think It Is

I will gladly counsel your Cabbage-Patch doll. In fact, if you have any other inanimate objects, such as Blu-rays or couches, that need intimate and professional counseling, I will happily step up the task. According to this ad, all it takes is one year for me to be a Cabbage-Patch counselor in North Carolina, but I'm sure I can tack on a night class or two for pillow counseling, blanket group therapy, and teddy bear one-on-ones. My future is so bright!

 3.) Your Client Hates You

This child does not want your designer clothes. This child hates your conformist unoriginality. This child has no neck and you want to put him in Designer duds with bow ties, you sadist. This child is judging your life choices and has found you wanting. Don't you see you are torturing this small, Charlie Brown shaped child? This child is equally horrified and inconsolable over your small-minded sartorial discounts. This child's potato body will actively seek to destroy any and all Designer fabric placed upon his skin by any means necessary. Look at that face. That is a face that doesn't play. Stop it.

 4.) That's Better

Oh. Whew. Looky there. No designer clothes. A stupid headband, but at least it's a real baby in this counselor ad and not a doll. Maybe becoming a counselor or social worker through an online course has some validity after all, right?
 
 5.) Right?

Now you're just fucking with me.

Friday QuoteDay

“Feminists have always been accused of hating men because it is a very effective way of silencing a very threatening movement. In a society where women’s value is based on our ability to please men, and where men hold almost all the cards, the worst possible thing we can do is hate them. So when feminists point out and object to the oppression, abuse and discrimination perpetuated by men against women, this is framed as man hating in an attempt to silence us, in an attempt to ensure that we are vilified and ignored by the rest of society, so that male oppression of women and male privilege can continue unchecked. 

 No matter how we frame our arguments and no matter what kind of image we seek to project, as long as we highlight, object to and fight misogyny, feminists are going to be called man haters. 

So I’m not going to waste my time trying to prove that I’m not.”

 — “Man haters?” by Laura on The F Word blog

Weekly Flâneur: West Side Story

Click to enlarge.

This beautiful mural on the side of Charlotte's Primary Health Care was created by local students working with The MLK - Moving the Lives of Kids - Community Mural Project. Students earned $200 to $1,000 to explore their artistic vision and bring the vivid painting to life. 

 Queen City Mural on Beatties Ford Road, West Charlotte, N.C.

City Beauty: Sugar Scrub Shave

Don't run away. We're going to do a little experiment. Let's add some beauty and pampering to our flaneuring. Oscar Wilde would approve. My straight male readers? You've seen the title. Don't let your eyes glaze over. This is for you, too. You have ladies in your life who you would like to woo, correct? Then pay attention. You can use the following info as a woo-tactic in the tub with your naked lady friend. And if you make to the end of this blog post, there's a judgmental cock as your reward. (Cock as in rooster, my dear gutter-minded loves.)

This is a tried and true recipe for creating the perfect sugar scrub that makes your legs smoother than a classic jazz melody. Use it in the tub or shower.

You will need:

1 Cup of Sugar
1/2 Cup of Olive Oil
3 tablespoon of lemon juice
1 tablespoon of honey

And a bowl to mix it all in. (I use a rubber-bottomed mixing bowl because setting it on the side of the bathtub can be slippery. A plastic container would work just as well.)

Step One: Pour in your sugar.

Other online recipes will tell you that 1 1/2 to 2 cups of sugar are required. Save it for your tea. Half a cup is fine; even after scrubbing your legs and feet, there will be enough left over for your arms. I've got 5 feet 10 inches of body to cover and the 1 cup is plenty.

Bloggity-Blog Notes

Hello, my darlings! A few things today:

 1.) No more anonymous comments. I've been getting a ton of anons lately and it's mostly spam cluttering up my inbox. For now, you'll have to leave a name to leave a comment, in hopes of keeping the anon-o-bots away. I do hope that this isn't an inconvenience to anyone.

2.) I am going to be trying something new on the blog this week! I don't know if it will be a regular feature like Friday QuoteDay, but I hope you like it. Stay tuned!

 3.) It's come to my attention through Google that someone likes FitC so much, they decided to take a piece home with them.

This is just a friendly reminder that if I have written something on here that you love, please do not plagiarize it. And if you discover something that moves you and wish to elaborate on it, please give me credit for the original text.

Credit is currency on the Internet. There are no ads on FitC, and the sad donation button has gotten only one donation (thanks for the cuppa tea, you-know-who-you-are!) since going live over a year ago. And that's OK! FitC is my blog baby and I love writing here.

But! Please, please, please take into consideration that the photos and words here take time and effort, and respect that they belong to me unless stated otherwise. I still love all of you in ways that make my husband clear his throat and tap his wedding ring on the table. But please don't steal from me.

4.) Requisite David Bowie:

Hippie Bowie of peace and love and no-plagiarizing. Image found here, because that's how it works.

Friday QuoteDay

“Once you start to speak, people will yell at you. They will interrupt you, put you down and suggest it’s personal. And the world won’t end.

And the speaking will get easier and easier. And you will find you have fallen in love with your own vision, which you may never have realized you had. And you will lose some friends and lovers, and realize you don’t miss them. And new ones will find you and cherish you.

And you will still flirt and paint your nails, dress up and party, because, as I think Emma Goldman said, 'If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be part of your revolution.' And at last you’ll know with surpassing certainty that only one thing is more frightening than speaking your truth. And that is not speaking.”

— Audre Lorde, writer, poet, theorist, activist

Weekly Flâneur: Beauty

Click to enlarge.

“It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness.” Leo Tolstoy

From the fantastic art exhibit America Now at the McColl Center for Visual Art.

Charlotte, N.C., 2012

Friday QuoteDay

“You don’t have to get a job that makes others feel comfortable about what they perceive as your success. You don’t have to explain what you plan to do with your life. You don’t have to justify your education by demonstrating its financial rewards. You don’t have to maintain an impeccable credit score. Anyone who expects you to do any of those things has no sense of history or economics or science or the arts. You have to pay your own electric bill. You have to be kind. You have to give it all you got. You have to find people who love you truly and love them back with the same truth. But that’s all.”

— Advice Columnist Dear Sugar, The Rumpus

Weekly Flâneur: Glow

Click to enlarge.

A certain shine. 

 

Interior of Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Cathedral

 Charlotte, N.C., 2012

Small Reminders

My hairbrush is full.

A few years ago, I was in a car accident. Coupled with the jaw fracture and TMD that resulted from my chin becoming instantly and intimately acquainted with the steering wheel, were a host of emotional hurdles with my job at the alt weekly. The stress of missing work, anxiety over the whole ordeal, and an undiagnosed stomach issue on top of post-accident pain meant my body wasn't in the best shape. And exactly six months after this traumatic period, my hair started falling out. My kind doctor informed that for some people, stress and body trauma causes hair follicles to die. A few months later, new follicles grow enough to push the old ones out completely. It happens to women after pregnancy. Hormones make their hair shiny, and post-birth it starts to shed. I wasn't bald by any means, but my first gray hairs grew in place of the brunette strands that decided that the body they were growing on wasn't worth the stress anymore and peaced out.

I started shedding like a molting bird earlier this month, leaving long strands tangled in the shower drain and pillowcases, dropped on the kitchen counter and weaved on the sofa fabric. A joy for Mr. B to live with, I'm sure.

I pick them up in confusion and frustration. What's up, Hair? Why the sudden exodus? There's been no stress, no broken bones, no bodily harm. Freelancing isn't a gold mine, and unemployment isn't all roses and sunshine, but it's all an easy affair compared to my previous work experiences. My marriage is lovely. Mr. B is a prince.

It wasn't until I remembered to count back to six months prior that I realized the source of my hair loss. Oh. Stig's death. My biopsy. Of course. Bodily and emotional trauma, all in one fell swoop. (I wrote about it here, if you are a new reader to the blog.)

Like the seemingly innocent Facebook reminder that popped up telling me that Stig had a birthday, my hair is clogging my brush, is swishing down in my face to remind me. To make me stop. To give a pause in the early moments of my day and remember a dear friend.

You aren't forgotten, friend. I promise you that. My glass is forever raised to you.

S & N, toga party style.

Adventures In Unemployment

September Edition

Realize that the guy who comes to mow the lawn on Wednesdays is here on a Tuesday.
Everything makes much more sense.

Think about writing a Young Adult novel about lesbian mermaids.

Realize that it would just be the plot of The Little Mermaid.

Realize that there are no new plots, anyway, so there. Lesbian mermaid and human princess.

Realize that mermaids may not recognize differences in human sexuality and all mermaids could be pansexual. Or asexual. Or fish-sexual.

Realize book idea would no longer by YA.

Think about dusting the bookshelves.

Think about mopping the floor.

Think about mopping the floor like Cinderella, with hot, sudsy water and bruised knees and singing.

Paint nails while thinking. (Color: Platinum Diamond)

Paint toenails. (Color: Same as above)
 
Think about baking bread.

Eat leftover broccoli and sesame tofu Chinese take-out.

Apply for a job on Indeed.com that already received a bazillion applications. Repeat until frustrated or sending applications to jobs already applied for 11 days prior. Repeat process on Monster and CareerBuilder just to be sure. 

Facebook.

More fucking Facebook.

Think about buying a lotto ticket and winning $200 million.

Realize that $200 million would probably be only half that after taxes were paid and wonder if $100 million is worth buying a lotto ticket.

Google the lyrics to "Rubber Ducky."

Try to decide whether it would be best to make a cup of tea or take a nap.

Wake up an hour later and check Facebook.

Realize that maybe during that nap there was a dream? Maybe you had a dream where you saw Paul McCartney walking down the street and you immediately dropped down into a exaggerated Wayne's World-esque "we're not worthy" bow and then maybe Paul McCartney said something like, Hey girl, wouldn't be on my knees on the street if I were you or people will get the wrong idea, but it was actually witty and clever? And did you really just dream about a Beatle making a blow-job joke?

Realize your subconscious made a reference to a movie you saw on cable 20 years ago and yet somehow your brain can't remember the periodic tables or your own phone number or the directions to the dentist.

Think your brain might have actually subconsciously remembered a blow-job joke that was in the movie and spend the next 20 minutes reading Wayne's World quotes on IMDb. (It didn't. And based on quotes alone, Wayne's World is a stupid movie.)

Realize you have wasted an hour on IMDb but now know more about former SNL cast members than Lorne Michaels.

Think about watching a few episodes of 30 Rock.

Think about clearing off the coffee table.

Think about the fleeting existence of life.

Think about coffee.

Realize that it is indeed Tuesday, not Wednesday, and that along with it being the night to take out the garbage and recycling for morning pick-up, this all repeats tomorrow.
 

Friday QuoteDay

“I once asked an economist in Africa, after spending the day traveling through an African country seeing women working in the fields, women working in the markets, women fetching fuel, women carrying water, women tending children – I asked, ‘Don’t you think it’s time we count women contributions to the economy in some way?’ And he responded, ‘No, what they do is not part of the economy.’ And I said, ‘Well, if every woman working in the field, in the markets, in the homes were to stop working for a week, I think every economist would learn they are definitely part of the economy.”

— Sec. of State Hillary Clinton

Weekly Flâneur: Floored

Click to enlarge.

Skeletal photography from a dead press.

Part of the floor mural "Welcome to NoDa," by artist William Puckett, in the atrium of NoDa @ 28th.

Charlotte, N.C., 2012

Friday QuoteDay

"I look at really painful stuff in life as if it's gold, because you can go back and pan for it, mine it and it's powerful. The negative things and terrible things have paid off. To be an outsider is a blessed and joyful thing."

— Margaret Cho,  totally awesome. 

Weekly Flâneur: Last of the Summer Sunsets

Click to enlarge.

Hello, Autumn. 

Taken in my backyard, Charlotte, N.C., 2012

You Find Me

Every so often I check my blog's stats to see how people came to FitC. Here are 10 things Google believes FitC is about, accurate or not.

1.) Dirty Cat:

Bagheera is not amused.

 Despite the "FUN" arrows, Bagheera is not having any of your shenanigans.

2.) Serious Research:

Do your own homework. Don't copy mine.

3.) Pervy Fangirls:

You. You GTFO. Now. Because I don't know whether to be offended or turned on.

4.) Do What Now?

I don't know what you want. You want David Bowie? Here's some David Bowie.

When in doubt, you can never go wrong with David Bowie.

How Many More Years?

Short video I shot as the crowd gathered to watch MSNBC news film live at the EpiCentre in Charlotte, North Carolina, spontaneously begins to chant "Four More Years!" at the mere mention of Obama.

Friday QuoteDay

“Traveling is like flirting with life. It’s like saying, ‘I would stay and love you, but I have to go; this is my station.’”

— Lisa St. Aubin de Terán, English writer

Weekly Flâneur: DNC Edition

My hometown of Charlotte, North Carolina, is hosting the Democratic National Convention this week. For those unfamiliar with the election process in the states, think of the DNC as a big party. The DNC unites delegates from every state to discuss and celebrate the party platform during the election year, and it's the place where United States President Barack Obama will officially accept the nomination to run for re-election on the Democratic ticket.

What better way to celebrate four more years of Obama than with a collection of pics? Big names are in town, and the city is a circus of politicos and protesters. Many places won't allow cameras without an anchorperson and a boom mic attached to them, so the following shots are exterior Charlotte street scenes, a live taping of a TV show, and general convention madness. Enjoy! 

Welcome to the Queen City!

High fives: The official logo of the DNC.

We're turning left at Obama Ave.