Posted in Musings and Mutterings

By the Light of the Papermoon

If baby doll heads and a fork mohawk bother you, then this isn’t the place for you.

February is the month we celebrate #3’s birthday, as well as the birthday of #4’s steady. Now that #3 decided city life in the Nation’s Capital is where he wishes to be, he sold his car. The challenge was to find somewhere that we could go that wasn’t too far out of the realm of Penn Station in B’more so we could all essentially meet in the middle. I chose the Papermoon diner.


Eclectic is a polite word you could use to describe this place. Creepy might be another. Mannequins with ball-chain clothing and toilet, sink and bathtub flower pots adorn the exterior.


Oh yeah, I forgot the doll head “flowers” on the windows…

These were creepy and reminded me of when my brother would pull the heads off my dolls, or hang them from the rafters in the part of the basement we called, “the other side”.  I didn’t know whether to be disturbed, or comforted by the sights of my childhood when I saw them.

The gentleman with the fork mohawk, astride the cow with long eye lashes and glittering udders was one I enjoyed.


Inside there were formica tables and mismatched chairs, and a menu that was stuffed with many options. Interestingly, sandwiches were ranging between 6-12 dollars, but for french fries you had to pay 2.50 extra, and if you preferred sweet potato fries or deadly onion rings, you were going to cough up another 3.00 instead. (I would cough up a lung, due to my allergy) That being said, the food was pretty good. The desserts were probably the best part of the meal. I had a flourless chocolate cake that my daughter likened to “wine” and hubby had a delightful salty caramel cake I could nibble on.

Wall decor consisted of more doll heads and mannequins with army men glued to their heads to simulate hair. I didn’t get to look around too much because they were busy and we were ushered quickly to our table, however within view I could see:

  • Handicapped Ken doll and Handicapped Stacey doll – complete with their own wheel chairs.
  • A number of assorted Barbie dolls or accessories
  • A wall of heads

Didn’t do so much for my appetite to be stared at by so many.



Posted in Musings and Mutterings

Purple Tuesday

I don’t suppose it would be right to have a journal/blog and not write about what goes on around me, would it?

I was going to join the Nablopomo challenge to post once a day – every day – for the month of February. Their topic was love, relationships and sex. Phht… seemed like the perfect month to choose. It’s short and it’s a topic I don’t have problems writing or talking about. And we all know I’ve got plenty of opinions. But, I didn’t do it. My muse is there… but she’s just not been prolific, nor interested in much.

I have to say, if the sun doesn’t come out soon, I’m liable to curl up under my desk in a blanket fort and tell everyone to leave me the hell alone until it’s Spring! Bleh, bleh and some meh to boot.

The Baltimore Ravens, my default football team simply because I live and work in the city, won the Superbowl. Let me state for the record, I’m not a big football fan. In fact, I believe I’ve written in the past about my distaste for the whole “event” of football. But winning the Superbowl tends to make everyone else around me happier in some way so I have been analyzing and noticing how I feel about it all just a bit more.

First, the excitement, pride and camaraderie provided by having your local team do well in any National League was pretty good for the moral of Old Mobtown. Merchants sold more goods and money was dumped into the local economy. People felt like they were a part of a common thing. Purple Friday was allowed in many businesses and there was something pleasant to discuss casually. These things I can see from a logical standpoint.

Then came the parade on Tuesday. It was a peaceful, joyous and exciting event – or so I’m told – which I was invited to attend, but declined. Watching the coverage on TV,

(it was on in the nail salon where I was getting my toes done – don’t they look pretty?) photo

  was enough for me. The yelling, hooting, screaming and practically unintelligible shout-outs that were given made my insides recoil. I don’t blame others for their enthusiasm, please don’t get me wrong, but I don’t seem to enjoy that kind of display at all. My reaction is one of fleeing the scene and hiding from the discomfort it brings.

Looking at photos, though, and seeing how many people attended, gives me a whiff of involvement, without the dancing around the fire in loincloths and arm pumping madness with our spears. I’m betting I was the old woman who sat off to the side and observed in that scenario. Or, just like the Chinese sign I’m born under, maybe I’m afraid I’ll be the rabbit roasting on the spit, so I run away and hide instead.


This… this scares me… I wonder why. People enjoying themselves, crushed together and wearing purple wigs… what’s there to be frightened of?