An Open (Love) Letter to Mimosas

Dear Mimosa-

Salutations Mimosa! I hope this letter finds you well and that perhaps right now you are relaxing after your daily calisthenics, a fun game of shuffleboard or a leisurely hike in the park. The reason I write you today is that I wanted to personally touch base with you on several  items regarding our current relationship and perhaps where we might find ourselves down the road. "Down the road" is an ambiguous term for the future, by the way. I never drink and drive.

First of all, I believe the best way to describe my feelings to you would be: "I FREAKING LOVE YOU." There. I said it.  I even remembered to turn off the caps lock when I continued the conversation. You're welcome for that. Seriously though, I love you, Mimosa. I love when you’re brought to me in those cute flute glasses filled with OJ and when I let out that high pitch squeal before consumption. I love how you have brought more fun into my life than any other relationship- whether it be familial, romantic or social.  I love how I can depend on you during not only happy times, but also times when the weather is really bad, like a blizzard or hurricane.  Do you know how difficult that is to find in another person/libation?  Mimosa, I don't know if these feelings I have for you are wrong, but I know that there is something special between us.

To quote my favorite classically-trained musician, Ke$ha, “I don’t need love looking like diamonds.” In other words, I am just as happy with a $7 bottle of Extra Dry Cooks (still has a cork, thank you) and some Tropicana, as I would be with a glass filled with Dom Perignon and the juice of imported (Spanish) virgin oranges. It would be mind blowing to have that right now. But I know that we’re just fine in this studio apartment in Uptown, enjoying the sweet sounds of police sirens whizzing by, and sipping on a simple glass of Cook's and Trop.

On a similar note, I would like to say how much fun I've had over the years pushing to the limit your versatility and flexibility. Not only have you been open to experimentation and invention, you have also flourished and responded beautifully to this. For example, when I concoct a mixture of bubbly, apricot nectar and a simple splash of St. Germain, I truly believe we make music. The kind of music people that go to Ravinia listen to. I love adding the juices of tangerines, pineapples, (pears even!) to Proseccos, Moscatos, and Cavas.  But by far my favorite activity is to up the sass-level and add a splash of liqueur, cordial or straight-up vodka (EEK!).  While St. Germain and peach schnapps are obvious choices; Gran Marnier, Chambord, and Tuaca are also known to really set you off. And when we're looking to speed things up, an infused or flavored vodka has been to known to make an appearance, but only to gently offer its services for providing sassy merriment. Absolut Ruby Red and Smirnoff Blueberry are my personal favorites for any sassy guests that may show up for a sparkling pre-drink or two. Have I said "sassy" too much?  Understood.

Oh geez, I'm so embarrassed. Here I am going on and on about what I love about you, and I haven't even asked about your life. I'll be honest, Mi-Mi. Can I call you Mi-Mi? Great. I did a little research on you before I wrote this. I hope that doesn't freak you out, but I think in this day and age it’s a choice every woman has to make. The one huge red flag is the controversy of your origins. Some people say you were conceived in the Ritz Hotel in Paris in 1925. Others say you originated in the early 1920s in a London pub, but you went by the name, "Buck’s Fizz,” which is also the name of an AWESOME British pop band. I don't want you to be embarrassed about your background or where you came from. Hell, I was born in Florida! I suppose I'd just like a little clarity. Feel free to respond with the answer or not. I still love and care for you the same.

Mi-Mi, my dearest, I hope you've enjoyed this letter. I also hope it can only improve and enhance our already flourishing relationship. I think your ability to make any occasion an "occasion," is unique and envious among other brunch cocktails. I don't like to make something unnecessarily competitive, but I will say you could kick the liquid butts off of any Bloody Mary or spiked coffee out there.

I've got your back, Mi-Mi. I know you’ve got mine.

Best,

Chloe' Ditzel

P.S. I've had twelve Mi-Mi's and a nap since I first typed "Dear Mimosa."

Why sandwiches are better than the olympics.

(This was originally written for  the Chopping Block blog. Google it, if necessary)

The Olympics are done, sugar bears. Dry your tears, put your daytime TV back on, and toss your American-flag tank tops back in the closet for another four years. I’ve learned a lot about myself in the past 17 days, especially in regards to one thing: I love sandwiches.

Don’t get me wrong. I really enjoy the Olympics, and I’m LOVING how we destroyed China in the medal count!

DESTROYED!

TEAM USA!

Let’s be honest, if sandwiches were an Olympic sport it would be the most exciting and coolest event the entire 17 days. The Gold medalists of the 4x17 sandwich relay would have a spread in Sports Illustrated (nude w/ strategically placed tomato slices, of course.). The recipient of the perfect score in the men’s double sandwich would have more Twitter followers than Katy Perry. Not to mention Iceland’s National Sandwich Team would capture hearts worldwide when they cross the finish line as the first-ever Icelandic team to make it to the Olympics in this event, and then make a Panini.

I believe sandwiches and the Olympics can exist in a mutually beneficial (and, thus, wonderful) relationship. And as I’m thinking about it in this blog I’m currently writing, the Olympics could learn a thing or two from sandwiches.

To start off with, enough of this four-year-cycle nonsense! I can get a sandwich any time, place or DATE that I want to here in Chicago. I’ve got Hannah’s Bretzel, Grahamwich, Pastoral and a slew of other shoppes at my fingertips with normal hours and convenient locations! And, if I want a real late night job, I can head on over to Eggsperience.  They’re open 24 HOURS A DAY and offer some tasty vittles in between two slices of carbs.

Moving on. Hey Olympics! You know why the sandwiches that I eat are really good?  It’s mostly because McDonald’s does not run a monopoly on them! Why do they own, like, 75% of the Olympics? My numbers are off and I have absolutely not fact-checked it, but you know what I’m saying. I like McDonalds just like anyone else: during St Patrick’s day for a Shamrock Shake and 3am on Halloween near Wrigley Field. Stay away from the Olympics, please? And you know athletes don’t eat that garbage (sassy stare right at you, reader).

Now I want a Shamrock Shake. HOW DO THEY DO THAT?

And why, may I ask, are there so many qualifying rounds/heats/races before we can even get to a final?  Guess who wins with sandwiches?  Every one. Every time. Every bite.

Now if there’s one thing I thank the good lord for every day of my life, it’s that I live in a society where I can have the freedom to put whatever I want on my sandwich! Thank you third amendment! So why can I not choose what events I want to watch? Have you ever been eating a delicious grilled eggplant, smoked gouda, and pesto mayo’d sandwich, and Bob Costas runs up and yanks it out of your hand and replaces it with a celery stick with salt sprinkled on top? NO? Well, this did happen to me! Metaphorically, yes.  The delicious sammie was rhythmic gymnastics and the celery stick was women’s basketball.* Do I make myself clear? This is America! I want to watch the triple long jump, synchronized diving, and any men’s events when they wear tight/hardly any clothing at any time I want. Kinda like when I want a sandwich with hummus, fresh veggies, stone ground mustard and a thick slice of cheddar. Guess what I can get probably quicker than a camera shot of Ryan Lochte in his speedo “swimming?” I’ll give you a hint: it’s a sandwich.**

*This analogy might not have made sense. I apologize. I will not take it back, however.

**Purely for research purposes, I did find I could Google pictures of Ryan Lochte quicker than a normal human can make a sandwich. I will not take it back, however.

Olympics, I like you. I enjoyed our time together, and the past 17 days were magical and I set a personal record for commercials I cried during.

To sum it up, Olympic Committee: More sandwiches.

This Is How I'd Roll (in the kitchen)

Lots of young girls have fantasies about their dream man and what he'll look like. Tall, handsome charming, bla bla bla. Now I may not have a damn clue what my “dream man” looks like, but I can tell you exactly what my dream kitchen would look like. And I can tell you what will bring me more happiness, satisfaction and dependability! You know what I’m saying, ladies?

Anyway, enough of that.

The short of it as to where the inspiration for this blog entry came from was my recent move from a spacious 3-bedroom to a cozy studio by myself. My kitchen is suh-MALL….small.  While I’ve grown to be quite the Lady MacGyver in regards to being crafty with my spatial concerns both with tools and storage, it has got me thinking about what it would be like to have a nice kitchen.
A fancy kitchen…
A large kitchen…
A DREAM KITCHEN.

Excerpts of Chloe’s Dream (and pretty rad) Kitchen

1. Fridge 
Sub-Zero 36” French door refrigerator/freezer w/ chalkboard paneling. Why chalkboard you ask?  Because of course I need to be able to write down “puppy names” while my “son” is playing guitar while I “cook dinner.” Yes, I’m referencing this picture. Doesn’t it make you wanna drop 10K on an ice box?

2. Fully Stocked Fridge 
My dream fridge will be automatically stocked with the best non-necessities. I’m talkin’ boatloads of condiments, fresh leftovers, vodka, corn dogs, and homemade milkshakes. I don’t know who’s stocking it, but I don’t care. It’s my dream!
(I’ll also personally stock it with normal things, people. I’m not a monster.)

3. Casserole Machine
This is an invention I’m working on that will have, upon request, a fully cooked, perfectly seasoned, and nutritionally sound casserole waiting for me to serve to my four beautiful, smart, talented, gracious and charming children that I just picked up from their respective flute, ballet, boxing, and fencing lessons. Sometimes a Mom needs more time in the day!

4. Garbage disposal.
My dream kitchen will have a garbage disposal. End of story.
And a quick note to Chicago – welcome to the 21st century! Along with central AC and recycling, garbage disposals should be standard. Jiminy Christmas…

5. Icemaker
I am obsessed with having a large amount of ice available at any given moment. I like it for parties, and I think you look rich if you have a lot of ice. Here’s a dialogue from the last party I went to:

“Hey Chloe! Welcome to this baby naming party! Would you like a sparkling fruit salad soda?“
“Sure!”
“Ice?”
“YOU HAVE ICE?! ARE YOU RICH?! YES TO ICE!”

6. Island
I want an island in my kitchen. But not like an island with an extra sink, hidden storage, and a warming drawer.  I want all of those things, sure, but I also want a real island in my kitchen. A palm tree, swim-up bar, everything served out of coconuts, and of course, stingrays.  Lots of stingrays. Almost enough so when people come over they’ll look at their date or friend they came with and say, “It feels like there’s a lot of stingrays here.” But then they’ll grab a cup of ice and forget their worries.

7. Cabinetry and countertops
BORING. Let’s talk about my slurpee machine instead. One of my favorite things to do in warm weather here in Chicago is to have my first slurpee of the season. I can have that every day in my dream kitchen. Awesome.

8. Support System
There will be two cute and polite dogs that lay on the floor, waiting for any scraps but mostly to provide support when I’m doubting my next move in the dinner-making process.

“Muffins?!  Should I blanche the green beans or steam them?”
RUFF!
“Monster?! Should I add Grand Marnier or Chambord to my whipped cream?
WOOF!

Ya know, that sort of thing.

9. Omnipresent Emotions
The following emotion will be a constant mainstay in my dream kitchen:
Extreme joy

10. Zipline
(no words)

I have a few kinks to work out and there will be some blending of both the realistic and fantastic worlds. However, what a dream, eh?

This is a long one.

My jaw is throbbing today. Now, I'm not one for complaining, but.... that's a total lie. I complain all the goddamned time. Seriously. I'm really bad about it. Regardless of my complaining habits, I have a sore jaw today. Oh my, it hurts. My jaw hurts and I also have some tension headaches wreaking havoc in my face. What a bunch of horse garbage.

I know I'm a teeth grinder. I know. What am I going to do?  Get one of those mouthguards that cost a million dollars?  Fuck. No. I've been told that you can get a sports mouth guard and save yourself about 75% of that million dollars. However, my inherent problem with getting a mouthguard has nothing to do with money. Well, a little, but mostly it has to do with how I tend to glamorize the act of sleep, and more specifically, how I sleep.

I always think that I look like a pretty little (skinny) panda. A cute, (obviously) thin, peaceful princess with my arms grazing my pillow just so and legs placed where no cellulite lives and the shadows of the moon fall perfectly to make anyone who would be walking by my bed during my sleep time to take a second look, because "THAT MUST BE A MODEL!"

I like to think I look this way, because maybe tonight...

Maybe this will be the night that one of my biggest fantasies will come true. This is my romance novel. This is my personal erotica that I could never actually pen. Even now, as I eloquently type this, it will never be as floral or as fancy as I dream it in my brain. The description you read is underpants. The visual I see is lingerie. I really like that analogy. Now, let's get to it.

I have always envisioned having a beautiful, mysterious non-murderous man enter my household at night. He would look around the house, thumb through the pictures on my fridge, go through my pantry, be impressed by my culinary interests, smell my shampoo, and overall be intrigued by the lady of the household. He would then confidently walk into my room and notice me mid-slumber in my canopy bed made of feathers and sex. He'll see me and be so completely taken aback by my intense beauty and innate ability to sleep LIKE A GODDAMNED NATURAL-BORN PRINCESS. What the hell is a 'natural-born princess?'  I dunno.

Anyway, he'll see how fucking smoking hot I look, and thus, he will gingerly approach my bed (I repeat, made of feathers and sex), and slowly caress the side of my face with the back of his hand. Now, his hand will be fucking huge. Like, there will be no doubt that this man's hand is a hand that belongs to a man. It will be huge and smell of blacksmithing and it will be rough, but not uncomfortable. Like, a good rough. You ladies know what I'm talking about. (No one is reading this)

So now, I will stir awake ever so slightly. I think that was the wrong grammar/word usage. Oh well. I will stir awake. My hair is fucking unstoppable. It's spread out on the pillow, and behind my head and it's just stunning.  It's perfectly brushed and wavy and soft and smells fantastic. It smells like vanilla and cinnamon and roses and fucking confidence. And my eyes have a thick line of black eyeliner on it, and its sultry and sexy. My lips are plump, red and pouted. I look almost exactly like an iconic Brigette Bardot, whatever that means to you.

So I've stirred awake. Ever so slightly. I move my head, and my eyes slowly flutter open, and I have this subtle, heavenly smile on my face, that clearly shows I was dancing in the dream I just woke up from. Dancing and singing. And I was in a meadow.

My eyes flutter open and I turn to look what has awoken me. I turn and there is this MAN. My heart immediately starts to race and my eyes grow wider (like 'sexy big eyes' wide, not like 'seeing a man masturbate on the train' wide), and I go to immediately say something to him, to scream out, to make some sort of noise that there is an intruder who just interrupted my dancing dreams and my splendid sleeptime. But he puts a finger on my lips to quiet me. We make eye contact. He says nothing with mouth or his voice, but he says everything with his eyes. His eyes tell me, "I'm not here to hurt you, unless you ask me to."

So my heart starts to race again, but this time I'm just ready to screw real nice, and I immediately get those bedtime eyes that people talk about sometimes. He pulls me up with his strong arms made of rocks or something, and one hand is on the back of my neck and the other on the small of my back, so I have a little arch going on. This of course, makes my tits look like they are ready to just jump off my chest. He grabs me and pulls me in tight. And now, I'm a little tousled. A little ruffled. Windswept. Another synonym of 'messy.' Oh, I forgot to mention that when he pulls me to him, real firm and man-ish, butterflies fly around me. Not like moths, but like, actual beautiful, rare butterflies. They were sleeping with me.

So at this point, we're making love like sea animals, and its great and super wonderful and not creepy at all. Never once have I been worried about who this man is. Never once do I think to put a condom on, because in this fantasy I am both sterile and immune to disease. Never once do I ask his name, but that's because this sleeping beauty don't need to know it. ( I used poor English to relay a sense of 'sass')

After we finish, days later, I kick him out of my bedroom. I need my sleep. I can't be bothered by this stranger interfering with my sleep any longer. He, of course, begins sobbing. Like a little girl child. I laugh in his face. I pity him. I see not the man that just days ago walked into my room and tossed me around my master suite. I don't see a man at all. I see a stupid little boy.  A mélange of all my worst ex-lovers and ex-BFs. All three of them (WINK).

So I kick him out. I brush my hair 400 times, counting backwards. I make a shot of absinthe, traditional style, and a delicious sandwich with some sort of veggie/fruit combination. I love fruit on my sandwiches. Then, I sleep. I slumber. I nap. I hibernate.

So I think that covers everything, kids. Oh, man. Just re-reading it for edits (lazily), has made me want to clock out early and head home for an afternoon sesh (with myself) (yes, I'm at work typing this). I think it is clear to see why having a mouthguard would be problematic to the execution of this extremely detailed and intricate daydream of mine. I think if that same man walked into my bedroom to explore my parts, saw me mouthguarded and (probably) drooling, he would actually murder me.

Just to clarify, yes, the gist of this fantasy is that he is actually a serial killer. The awesome part of this fantasy is that I sleep so sexily, I manage to change his mind. Sure, I've seen Silence of the Lambs. I know that the odds of this happening are slim to something. Who cares?

Now, I'm just thinking about death and murder. I probably won't stop thinking about it for the next few days, too. Great.

I have completely forgotten why I started typing at all.

Ah, yes. My jaw hurts.

Meh. It feels fine now.

Today I Googled....

'Frederick'

I was not looking for Frederick Douglass.

I was looking for Frederick's of Hollywood.

Get it right, Googs! And, thanks, but I don't need your suggestions.

Anynoodles, the new summer corsets are in, and they are beautiful! I also got a great new book: My Bondage and My Freedom.

Kinky.

Things I Am Proud Of

Universe: I'm putting this in you.

I'm so obsessed with self-help right now, I am probably shitting positive affirmations. Oh gosh... I probably spend approximately 75% of my work day browsing the billions and millions of resources online for self improvement. A lot of them are in list form and I think that keeps it easy to read and the commitment low.

My favorites include some form of the following:

"How to Be Happier in 17 Easy Daily Tasks"

"10 Life Changing Steps to Personal Freedom"

"45 Things to Not Do With Your Day If You Fear You'll Fall Into a Deep, Dark Depression In Your Mid-30s"

Recently I have become aware of the horrific mental abuse I have been inflicting upon myself for the past twenty or so years. I'll elaborate.

On a consistent basis, I irrationally and violently talk to myself like I'm an asshole. This can be in a variety of situations and circumstances. My favorites have always been immediately before a show, immediately after, when getting rejected by a dude, and almost every other minute that I'm awake.

Have I bored you? I don't care. Get off my blog.

Jesus Christ! It is unbelievable to think that for a large portion of my life, I have been treating myself worse than my worst enemy.

Quick note: I don't have any enemies. The closest is maybe a couple of gentlemen that thought they really liked me and I needed attention from a man and not necessarily their love and sex happened and bla bla bla.

I'm trying not to concern myself with the 'why' or the 'when' or the 'how' of this occurrence. A lot of people experience this sort of behavior, and it is a waste of time and doesn't solve anything. So I'm trying to work on it and be proactive. Be good to myself. Take care of myself. Be patient. Be kind. Be loving. Just how I am to most people in my life, but never myself.

I'll start by writing a few things I'm proud of- as of today.

Here they are.

Shit I Take Pride In

My 3 jobs

My work ethic

My laugh

My ability to laugh and make others do it, too

My growing interest and talent in the kitchen

My established talent of cleaning a kitchen

My love of carrots

My weight loss of more than ten pounds and keeping it off

My signature long braid

My abilities as a wonderful friend, family member and ladyfriend

I'm content with that list. Just a few things to be grateful for and proud of.

(patting myself on my back)

Thank you for your time.

Lip Stuff

Yikes.

My lips are out of control today. Strike that - they are always out of control. What do I mean when I say "out of control?"

Here are the issues at hand:

dry

cracked
extremely chapped
sore
uncomfortable
hurt
jealous

Yes, I went into some human emotions there. Yes, I did. But let's be honest, I feel like I'm fighting with them.

My lips are like the worst type of dead-beat father. I wouldn't say physically abusive, but definitely emotionally abusive. They use me and abuse me. They don't ever ask how their actions make me feel. They don't ever think about the consequences of their problems. They think of only themselves.

My lips are addicted. They are addicts. Are lips a "they?" Anynoodles, they are addicted. To the stuff. The stuff that lips love.

Balm

Salve
Cream
Creme
Ointment
Chapstick

I don't know how it got to this point. It seemed like just yesterday my widdle wips were kissing weirdos.* But now, they've just spiraled out of control. Using every bit of me they can.

Also, I have a wonderful outbreak of cold sores.

With that, I leave you. I leave you grossed-out and totally boner-ed.

Cold sores are a common cause of boners. Look it up on my website.


*weirdos: 1. The friends I keep. 2. The people I meet when I'm drunk