I spent the afternoon painting watercolor cards for my day of the dead table. Then I made tissue paper flowers and little chains of tissue paper skulls to decorate with. I have four black candles and a Virgen of Guadalupe candle to add to it tomorrow, and it shall be complete.
I am pretty pleased with it. I loooove the color. I’ve been trying to talk J. into letting me paint our orphalin dining room chairs black and making wacky cushions for them, but he won’t let me. My apartment would be so much cooler if I could do everything I wanted. It would also be full of more crap and have lots more scattered, unfinished paintings and crocheted bits lying around.
I will post pictures of the day of the dead table tomorrow. J. won’t let me set it up early (as in tonight), so I lied and told him that they’re supposed to be set up on Halloween. He is very superstitious about anything remotely Catholic (doesn’t matter that it’s an ancient Aztec holiday, the Guadalupe candle means it’s Catholic) and is very rules oriented about such things. I don’t know what he’s afraid of, I haven’t been smited in years.
He and his friend T. were joking about desecrating my altar and putting spent shotgun shells and nudie magazines on it. I was nonchalant about it, merely informing T. that the rule about penises falling off when people touch my altar applies to him as much as J. I think that constitutes as using my powers for evil and not good, but I have a feeling I got away with it.
I’m so damned tired. I’m acting as an information provider for displaced friends and family from the mountains who are awaiting word on their houses, so I’ve been listening to the scanners and compiling information to give updates to about six different people. I slacked today, as the news didn’t change much from yesterday as to what was dangering which houses and where. I downloaded a rather heartwrenching photo of the sign to Santa’s Village in flames. I could wax romantic about the time I spent there as a little kid, but it’s burned at least twice since then and I would just be acting silly.
I am trying to decide whether or not to cut my hair that has finally grown out from the wedge I had two years ago. I’m gunshy of hairstylists, after explicity stating what I wanted (“For the love of God, don’t give me a wedge”) and not getting it (“Fuck, you gave me a wedge”). I have found a few pictures of what I want, but I’m not quite ready to release my dream of having my hair back to the waist length I had in high school. Plus, with the glasses and my tendency to wear turtlenecks, I’m afraid I’d end up looking like Velma from Scooby Doo.