Sorry About Being AWOL

I've been busy lately.  That, and "Supernatural" has been sucking too much to write about it.

"Hoarders" - The Play At Home Game

When I was running my vintage clothing business, particularly between 2008-2010, I turned most of our apartment into a storage facility.  I stopped taking pics of the place until a year or two ago.  I had never been a hoarder, but the thrill of the hunt left me with tons of clothing and accessories.  I had too much to photograph and sell.  Every Christmas I hired an assistant.  The right hand living room window was completely blocked off by massive storage bins.  I had three racks of clothing in the gallery, every surface had stuff on it.  I had put together an expensive shelving system, planning to use it as an all-in-one.  But it got covered in more stuff.  All of our closets--except Jeff's--had my clothing in them.

Those of you who've seen my apartment know that by NYC standards, it's huge.  We had a cleaning lady come in every two weeks, so it was somewhat under control.  Mostly she helped me organize the clothing etc. and then cleaned the rest of the place.  We worked with an organizer, but everything kept going back to crap.  Here's some pictures from 2006.



My custom-built shelves.  I used the ironing board to de-lint and pack clothing.  The area on the far right later had bins stacked to the ceiling.



Our living room.  By 2008 huge storage tubs went all the way to Jeff's desk on the left by the window, and the right-hand window was almost completely blocked off.



Our gallery.   It also got way worse. In the back you can see my beloved plus-size mannequin, Bodicea. She was donated last year to the Shirley Chisholm Foundation to be used at a home for at-risk teens.

I sold on Ebay for nearly ten years.  After the economy bottomed out, I was selling at a loss. I closed my store, sold off all of my vintage and donated much of the contemporary stuff, or gave it to plus-sized friends.  I sold up to size 10X in contemporary, as large as I could find in vintage.  I put ads in Craig'sList for free hangers and packing material.  Every piece of bubble wrap that came out of my supply closet HURT.  I've been cleaning and purging off and on since then.

Recently I discovered I'm a paper hoarder.  A month or so ago I had a shredding company take out an industrial size container of paper, and there is still tons more. (Gaahhh...)  BUT!  Our apartment is cleaner than it has been in years.  In fact, it's so clean it makes me a little anxious.


Living room

We had the built-in metal bookshelves moved into the living room, and donated the Ebay shelves to Materials for the Arts. And 85% of the bins, particularly the huge storage tubs with wheels. The Victorian fainting couch belonged to Jeff's mother.  We got it when she moved from Nyack to North Carolina in the 1990s. The armchair and ottoman are also from my mother in law, when she moved from North Carolina to the Ass-End of Nowhere.



Living room facing the gallery.  Above the couch hangs a painting of Pittsburgh by my mom.



The gallery.

My mother painted the ocean scene, which is what you could see from our late lamented beach house.  The gallery is 20 feet long, so you can't get a feel for how large it is. On top of the bookcase is a sculpture that my mother did in the 1940s. The red bag contains my dad's ashes, and the top hat I brought back from London for him.  It's so big that when I put it on, it drops to my nose.


Other side of gallery.

Note marble "cane stand" on the right.  My sister did the painting of our first cats c. 1975.  The antique chest is from my mother.  You can't see it, but on the left is an antique German table that my other sister gave me, and an antique monastery chair (or a good copy) that I got from Sarah Lawrence college while my dad was president.

The rest of the boxes are in a corner of the dining room.  I moved them there before a dinner party for my sister Tessa.  Eleven people, including my mom and the rest of the family.  It was a whopping success. 

Yes, it is an episode of "Hoarders."  We've been in our apartment for many years. But it wasn't until I started the business that things got so out of hand. 

When my brother posts his pictures of the dinner party, I'll put some up so it REALLY is an episode of "Hoarders." 

March Came In Like A Polar Bear

Today was supposed to be warmer.  I bundled up Fletcher, took him to the park, and it was 19 degrees.  19 fucking degrees.  The poor little guy gets sooooo cold.  Everywhere is solid ice.




 Rupert has the right idea.

 I'm on a diuretic to help with my blood pressure.  My doctor FINALLY admitted that the other drugs interact with my nervous system.  Thanks, genius.  I spent every summer for several years shut in my apartment, because if I went out, my legs would give out from under me.  Then I'd see the neurologist.  He'd have me briskly stagger down the hall, turn fast and crash against the wall, and stagger back again.  They did two cranial MRIs.  The first one--boy howdy, my brain was messed up.  But the next one, as my doctor put it, "showed the same exquisite abnormalities as the last one."  I'm not sure he used that word, because a doctor at the Lenox Hill psych ward in 2009, who saw me collapse every day when I was given Abilify, said I had an exquisitely sensitive system.  It doesn't seem to have much effect other than a faint feeling I need to pee.

And I'm having trouble with my eating.  Again.  It's probably because I hit 210, and that scares me.  Getting thinner scares me, it always has.  I haven't binged, but I'm eating just enough to make sure my weight doesn't go down.  Combined with not going aside unless necessary, recipe for weight gain.  I don't exercise nearly enough, even though at intervals I enjoy it.  For the past two years I had a joint membership at the Y, which I didn't use.  This go-round I told him to re-up as a single member.  I'll go with a guest pass.  The resentment level has dropped precipitously.  Now I can look for a disability dance class without feeling guilty.  I can do everything ten times better to music, and I love dancing.

Today I'm taking another bash at the play intro, and then sending it in.  Fuck it, even if it's filler, I have to get it off my to-do list.

Real Life-Type Entry, With Extra Stuff!

Let me kick this off with the best one. My publicist, Stephanie Schroeder, is sending copies of The Abortionist's Daughter to various experts for cover blurbs.  She got one two days after she sent out the PDF:

"Truly entertaining and entertainingly true, DeCarlo's novel gives us the unforgettable and flawed Melanie Daniels, a heroine not only of her time, but of every time that women struggle to be fully human."  –Ruthann Robson, Professor of Law & University Distinguished Professor, CUNY School of Law, author of Dressing Constitutionally: Hierarchy, Sexuality, and Democracy

BOO-YAH!

Also, for those who care, the e-book edition of The Abortionist's Daughter is on discount on Smashwords during "Read An Ebook Week," ending March 8.  The Abortionist's Daughter by Elisa DeCarlo smashwords.com/books/view/171 … 75% off through March 8!

We watched the Oscars.  So glad that "12 Years A Slave" won!!  I was also hoping the leading actor would win, but Matthew McCounaghey was so brilliant in "Dallas Buyers Club" I'm okay with it.  (Noblesse oblige and all that.)  Too bad they stuffed in that bzuh? tribute to "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz."  But it beat those usual "Tribute to Hollywood" crappy production numbers.  And HOW AWESOME WAS U2??  Then I stayed up and watching The Walking Dead.  Earlier on Sunday, we went to one of our local art cinemas, which was playing "20 Feet From Stardom," which won best documentary!   It's good, a history of black back-up singers.  Some became stars (Darlene Love), others did not, but they kept singing.  And some didn't.

So Monday, I was no good at all.  But today it's not as ass-freezingly cold and the laundry is done.  How are all of you?

Supernatural, Ep. 8x15 "Man's Best Friend With Benefits" Is A Dog

Okay, I knew the awesomeness of the past few episodes couldn't last, and it was time for a stand-alone episode. But this stand-alone should have been stood. Alone. Preferably in a storage locker.

First, let me confess: I liked “Shut Up, Dr. Phil.” Although I couldn’t understand why the boys didn’t say, “Hey, you’re powerful creatures, come along and help!” James Marsters could paralyze Leviathans! Although that would have eliminated the rest of the season. But since it was Season 7, would that have been such a bad thing?

This episode was so offensive on so many levels and repetitive on others. It’s telling when the only thing you enjoy in the entire episode is the discussion about Shemp and Curly! (For the record, Shemp grosses me out, and Curly was a fucking genius. So there.)

The Plot:

James, a baby-faced cop who turned witch after meeting the Winchesters, is having dreams about murders, and is apparently committing them in his sleep. (Have we seen this before? Please tell me in the comments.) A beautiful Doberman, with cropped ears, cropped tail and a red studded collar shows up at the Winchester’s motel room. Sam lets the dog in, petting it and giving it a belly rub. When Dean returns, the dog has turned into a gorgeous black woman. Wearing a red studded collar. Cue for my first “are they serious?” moment? Even more so because she is Baby Face’s familiar, and come on, we all know what that is. Sam and Dean don’t? Second “are they serious?” moment. This is in the same league with neither Sam nor Dean noticing their grandfather's initials in that journal Dean's been toting around his entire life. James is white, Portia is black, she’s basically his slave in a collar. Third “are they serious? Slavery references? WTF?”

When a familiar isn't a dog, she has to dress like a hooker.

The show tries to get around the obvious by saying that Portia and her Massa—excuse me, Master—have a relationship of equals, even though she has to do whatever James commands. Fourth: “are you serious? What are the black viewers thinking? Now I’m not only offended, I’m sick to my stomach.” Portia and Master have broken the rules of the witch community and entered into a sexual relationship—ACCK EW EW EW I CAN’T DEAL WITH THIS OH MY FUCKING GOD—

Ahem. I find it problematic. TBH, back in the day I knew a gentleman who had a sexual thing with his two Dobermans. When he brought home a male companion, he had to lock the door because the Dobermans would try to get in and kill the guy. Also, this link: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/02/21/kara-vandereyk-las-vegas-woman-sex-with-pitbull-police_n_2732966.html?utm_hp_ref=mostpopular

(Question: why were Dog!Portia’s ears and tail cropped? Doberman puppies have their tails cut off by the time they’re three days old, and the ear cropping takes weeks. Did Portia have to stay a dog because if she transitioned to human form the bandages would fall off? Discuss.)

Let’s cut to the chase. We meet the bad guy early on in the episode at a witch’s club. I mean, come on. He’s practically wearing a sign around his neck that says “EVILLLLL.”

Good evening, I'll be your villain tonight. If you can remember my name, you'll get 10% off on your entree.

There’s a red herring pissed off older cop who resents James’s rocketing up the police force ladder, but the red herring stinks as though it was laying out in the sun all afternoon. Portia, in human form, still wearing that goddamn collar, crawls on James, who is chained to the bed—don’t ask—and while they’re making out—ACK EEW YUCK—she sees that someone has implanted memories in James’s head.

I’m going to skip everything else because, oh, Dean sees his mother burning on the ceiling when he wasn’t in the goddamn room—otherwise it’s a cool sequence, forcing Sam and Dean to relive their worst moments and the viewer gets to enjoy some wonderful old footage of much better episodes.. Turns out Mr. EEVILLL wants to kill James because Mr. EEVILL wanted Portia for himself, and then got even more mightily pissed when James and Portia started banging each other. Portia attacks Mr. EEVIILLL after the latter has done the raising James to the ceiling helplessly trope. The way Crowley did to the would-be prophet a few episodes ago. I think like the Skinwalker/German Shepherd killed the bad guy in “All Dogs Go To Heaven.” Dean and Sam get the villain with a “witch bomb” and Mr. EEEEVILL dies an unexciting death, sort of like the chick in “Heartache.”

As often happens with people the Winchesters have contact with, Portia and James beat it out of town, the Doberman gazing sadly out of the window. Don’t worry, guys, you’ll find another motel room where you can soulmate your brains out.

Dean and Sam talk about their trust issues. Dean agrees to trust Sam. Sam coughs blood. Good times!

Stray observations, pardon the pun:

None. I’m trying to forget I ever saw this.

 

Quick! Burn the script!

If You Can Read This, You're Standing Too Close

I blundered over this blog while sorting through my staggering amount of email addresses, most of which I don't have the passwords to. My primary address is on AOL.com, an ongoing source of shame. It screams "I DON'T LIKE CHANGE, GODDAMNIT!"

My AOL address is so old it is my NAME.

Think about it.

Be careful, this blog can be very, very stupid. And rude. But lotsa big words and fun.