The Frivolous Vapid Musings of a Tipsy Gal in a Showgirl Headdress.

Hello blogosphere dwellers, facebook fiends, and other listless humans frantically searching for the meaning of life in the vibrating glare of your computer screen.  I’m Julia Charvat, aka Mimosa Hermosa Stevens, and I’m here to rant about my unhealthy obsessions, disturbing passions, and the weirdo thoughts that pop into my head as I zone out to drag queen shows in West Hollywood at 1am on weeknight.  I will discuss such topics as costume parties, beachtime mayhem, music that makes me want to live, and television that makes me want to die.  I’m a sometime insomniac and an all-time champagne lover.   You will relate to me more if you are wearing something sequined.  You will learn nothing from me, in fact, I might make you stupider.

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Reflections in Funhouse Mirrors

If I use Crest Whitestrips and moisturize my face and condition my hair and eat like a vegan bird and always smile and wear expensive makeup and only post attractive pictures of myself on social networks…then my life will be perfect. I know these are lies fed to me by corporations that want me to buy things, but someone should tell them not to bother since my finances consist of a piggy bank filled with dull pennies caked in old gum.

One of the many things that has always pissed me off about Sex and the City is when Carrie Bradshaw confessed to her friends that her so-called ‘secret single behavior’ was eating saltine crackers while standing up in the kitchen reading fashion magazines. Are you fucking kidding me? She acted as if it was SO shameful, like she could never possibly do something that grotesque and horrifying in front of her significant other. That behavior is exactly what you would tell a guy you secretly do so that you come off as dainty and anorexic and that you are really into standing instead of sitting. Then Charlotte admits that her ‘secret single behavior’ is staring at her pores in the mirror for extended periods of time. Oh really? You stare at your non-existent pores in a mirror. Gasp I’m sure guys would just scream and run out of the room if they witnessed that disgusting display. This is the show I was obsessed with in my 20’s. No wonder I felt like such an inadequate whale of a human since my ‘secret single behavior’ is basically the scene from a recent episode of Girls when Lena Dunham eats cold spaghetti with her hands out of her parents’ refrigerator in the middle of the night.

I’m so sick of people trying to portray their perfect lives to the world. I prefer the 80s where everyone just covered their physical imperfections in blue eyeshadow, neon lace and Aquanet, and celebrated their misery by listening to Morrissey mix tapes. When did being a person with flaws and emotions become so obscene? Here is my unsolicited ‘secret single behavior’ confession: I sometimes have awkward staring contests with my cat as I try to figure out if he’s judging my bedhead and my recent consumption of Totino’s pepperoni pizza rolls.

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Lackadaisical Vagabond

I’m almost always vulnerable to the invasion.  That light tapping at my brain that slowly pokes harder and harder.  The apathetic sleep burglar is here, a lackadaisical vagabond arriving in the dead of night to churn up the molecules in my brain with a giant gravy ladle.  I just don’t want to think anymore, I want to be still, empty, light, weightless.  But my chest is tightening, and insomnia is straddling me, gripping my throat with a rough leather-gloved hand until I unwillingly submit and awaken.

My eyes blink open and I’m looking directly into the vulgar, strung out face of all my problems and worries.  My dashed dreams, my heartbreak, my disappointments.  And I’m paralyzed, unable to move or breathe or do anything except let the stress soup bubble and boil.  And sleep is just a sexy taunting TV heartthrob that is way out of my league.

Sometimes I’m able to concentrate on the noise of the sprinklers outside in the courtyard, and the soothing sound of the previous day’s filth washing away lifts me out of the mind fuck.  Or I listen to the fan on my nightstand spin, the soft white noise my only salvation.  But often I’m just helpless, forced to watch late night music videos and feel the time scratching by.

Maybe if I didn’t have any hopes and dreams I could get some fucking sleep.  But then I’d just be exactly what I’m so worried about becoming, a sad little drone zombie, numbly following all the rules, never being late to anything, never speaking out of turn, never caring about anyone more than myself, and never feeling unfulfilled.

I guess the only solution is to just hurry up and realize my dreams already.  I just wish I could figure out how to become a pop star unicorn mermaid swimming in a never ending sea of champagne.

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Somewhere Over The Rainbow


I often joke (am sort of serious) that I am a good witch.  There have been many instances where I’ve wished for things to happen and then they happen just as I had hoped, or even better than I could ever have hoped.  Well, during my summer vacation back in Ohio last week, I discovered that my 6 year-old niece Ila may also have been blessed with this good witch gene.

Ila had been begging my sister for a while to get her a kitten.  She said she really wanted a kitten and she wanted to name it “Rainbow”.  Finally my sister caved and they went to pick out a new kitten for Ila.  There was a litter of kittens, and Ila picked out the one she liked most, which was a pitch black cat.

Once she had decided on the kitten she would take home, they were told the name of the kitten.  The kitten’s name was “Rainbow”.

They both told me this story while we were cuddling with Rainbow.  Ila looked at me and said, “Yeah, she was already named Rainbow!”, her eyes wide and incredulous.  And I swear I saw a twinkle spark out of her eye.  I wanted to take her into my arms and spin her around and tell her all of the glory and spoils of being a good witch.  But I decided to let little Ila discover her powers on her own.  I sense that she has tapped into a cosmic pocket of positivity, where good things can happen as long as you allow the joy of the wish overwhelm any obstacle.  And she doesn’t need me to explain that to her because she’s already figured it out.

And she figured it out years before I ever did.  Like about 20 years earlier.  If anything she should be explaining the powers to me.  I miss her so much being out here in California, but it makes it easier knowing she is back there, snuggling with Rainbow and turning her hopes into a magical reality.


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The Hip Hop Cucumber

This past Saturday night, a few friends and I attended the Scissor Sisters concert at The Hollywood Palladium.  We met at The Well, this really great, dark, loungy bar in the building across the street from the concert venue.  I ordered a cucumber press, which is cucumber vodka mixed with tonic.  It comes with a slice of cucumber that sits perched on the side of the glass.  I drank a few of these cucumber drinks before we scurried over to the dance the night away to the queens of glam disco.

After having another cocktail at the venue, I went to the restroom.  As I was washing my hands, I noticed in the mirror that something was attached to my long pink and orange neon necklace.  I looked down, and it was a cucumber slice.  It had somehow attached itself to my dangling necklace and I had been walking around with it for who knows how long.  I thought about taking it off, but then realized no, if this cucumber wanted to throw itself onto my accessory, then maybe it just wanted to dance too.  I ran over to my friends and showed them my new vegetable medallion.  One told me that he had noticed something on my necklace but thought it was just a part of my jewelry.

We entered the main dance floor and the opener Rye Rye took the stage.  We proceeded to drink and dance and inappropriately bump and grind all over each other and surrounding horrified strangers.  Once Rye Rye finished performing, it was time for another restroom break.  As I was in the stall, I looked down and saw my little cucumber on the floor right under the door.  I thought that I should pick it up and put it back on my necklace, realized that was a really gross thought to have, but then figured I felt like being gross.

Just as I decided I would pick it back up, a rubber gloved hand appeared from the other side of the stall door and snatched up my new circle friend.  I could see it being placed into a garbage bag, and it was gone.

The cucumber had lived for at least an hour on my necklace.  I guess it was really just a Rye Rye fan, and didn’t have the will to survive the Scissor Sisters show.  But I was honored that it had danced with me for the short time we had together.

Goodbye forever, you sweet slice of hip hop cucumber.  I’ll think of you fondly the next time I eat a garden salad.

Posted in Eardrum Desserts, Emerald City, Pointless Importance | 1 Comment


The problem with reinvention is that eventually you get tired of the improved you.  You can possibly fool the new people in your life into thinking you are this fresh face.  This smiling evolved goody goody.  But your body remembers.  Your molecules and cells are all still assembled the way they were before.  You can go years living the reinvention.  The mask won’t slip until one day you look around and don’t recognize a single person or place.  And everything you were so quick to escape and shed from your personality you pangfully miss.  Even the seedy shit that used to make you sick.  At least it was you.  And even with all the good intentioned pretending, you were unable to eradicate all that you thought you wanted to change.  It is all there, clawing at your insides like some imprisoned alien baby.  Do you let out the neglected, somewhat destructive impulses, or do you staple your mask on tighter?  Will you ever successfully morph into the dazzling Donald Draper, or will Dick Whitman eventually slink his way out and take his rightful place as your honest and raw identity.


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Storming The Castle

Magnetic zaps into each other like fatal car wrecks.  Swirling peaking torches of flickering electricity.  Climbing limbs upon inspired flesh.  Biting and scratching and ceremoniously swapping intentionally drawn blood.  Manifestations of wonders previously laughable.  Chiseling at each other’s brains with non-sterile ice picks.  It is all in the eyes.  In the late night insomniatic ramblings.  It couldn’t happen without every participant.  Every idea a bitten up piece in a teetering Jenga tower.  Every incoherent misguided suggestion.  All for the foggy yet inevitable end game.  Soon we will reap the ridiculous spoils.  We will roll around naked in the blinding jagged gems and burnt dollar bills.  The insignificance will pass.  The glory will slink around us in the dead of night.  In a cheap hotel at our darkest moment, right at the brink of the last inhalation of hope.  She will present herself as a porcelain geisha on a winged centaur.  And we will follow her into the dusty mountains that only now block our rightful golden kingdom.

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Nocturnal Rick Roll

Last night’s dream:

I tried to go to a rave at a gas station in my hometown but I lost my ID and spent the whole night looking for it in giant pockets in my purse.  Then I met the DJ while outside who looked like a hot Rick Astley and he told me he would be playing Setting Sun.  He snuck me in, but everyone disappeared and it was just an empty room filled with old magazines.

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