what gets me through the day

 

Seriously, these robin's malted milk eggs are my joy right now. Even the blue ones, which I generally am not a fan of as they turn my mouth blue and yes, I am an almost fifty-year old woman but everything is bonkers right now and I want my malted milk eggs. Some people have wine, I have holiday whoppers. 

i want shiny hair (and less chins) aka the first rant of the year

**a return to the confessional....

Oh how I lurve this world wide web. I love it. I do. Sometimes however, more times than I should admit, I find that I do not like it so much if only for the way all that fabulosuness out there makes me feel. I am often inspired, quite often inspired...mostly inspired at least when it comes to recipes and crafts and diys and pretty things. It is the fashion posts that make me shrink in confidence and I wonder what happened to me?

Really. What happened?

see? no shine.

There are an incredible number of beautiful women out there blogging their stylish selves to the moon and back. Truly gorgeous. They have shiny hair, I have never had shiny hair. They have straight white teeth...me? Not so much. They look fantastic in tights or knee socks, in cowl necks and v-necks, kitten heels and lumberjack boots. They take their own photos and are in focus. Glowing focus with a secret smile on their faces and they look so casual and unposed in their perfection.

When I take a fashion shot of myself, really something like thirty shots, I look like a bad 80s catalog model all stiff with Spiderman wrists. I try making silly faces before the timer goes off. I think serious face, puckered mouth, sunshiney smile and I try but end up looking like a madball.

alluring..no?

Remember madballs? Maybe that is my problem. I'm old. And fat. Sure, I have great skin and a right dandy personality (so I have bee told) but I also have a waist size that used to be my bust size. I have a neck that crinkles. It crinkles, people! And my quirky outie belly button of yore is now an...innie. Gasp!  If I look down, even partially so, like I do when I read, or tippy-type on the keyboard, my face...and neck get lost in the uninvited guests of my chins. Plural. Yeah, I said it. I have CHINS. A serious case of the CHINS. I get so caught up in this dilema of mine that I've taken to stretching my head up and jutting my chin out you know, to camouflage the whole mess...I do it especially if I want to appear beguiling to the mister, sometimes I might even casually rest my hand somewhere under the whole mess thinking I can pull of a sultry Meryl Streep (seriously, Merly Streep? I AM old and she is too but she is stunning. STUNNING). All this accomplishes is a confused mister asking me if I am okay and why do I have that funny look on my face.

a laughng smile, wonky but me

I laugh about it. I do. A lot. Laughing is good, it makes one appear engaged and happy and dare I write it...sexy. Mister gets quite unhappy with me when I peevishly get all wrapped up in my imaginery non-looks. I wouldn't mind this fat dealio except I feel all ugly in the face (and no I am not trying for some ego boosting, I'm thinking of sharing this weakness in myself because I am certain there has to be a club of other like minded, like bodied ladies in search of a coffee kvetch. I really hope there is and I wana be a part of it and if there isn't, I say let's start one) and when I look at "plus" size models I wonder "why are they all so freaking gorgeous?" and really...they are not at all PLUS. Sniff. I think...who cares if yer fat when yer pretty and I have to honestly say I have never felt pretty. Never. Cute, I think I have mustered cute. When I was thin...from behind I was considered hot, from the front I was called dog-face (yes, really) and well, when a girl hears that enough she kinda carries it around with her and it is a stupid heavy load to carry. I need to put it down already.

Why do we do that? Carry around the crap that people feed us but doubt and disbelieve the nice things people say? I do this and it drives many folk around me nuts and all I can say is that I feel like I have had more people say unkind things than kinds things but then I get all caught up in the thought that I cannot believe the good things because then I would be bragging or big headed and if only my head were a smidge bigger, it might make my hips and ass less bulgy. Oh, and ranty rant onward, I seriously don't hate the fat (except the chins, I really don't like those buggers)...dimpled thighs aside, I'm still curvy and curves are good unless you want to wear clothes and well, society kinda dictates that we don't run around all nekkid (though nekkid dance partes at home are good as are nekkid jumping photos in national parks) and such and so I struggle. I struggle to find something, anything that will cover this large person who often misses her smaller self (a self which went AWOL back in the early 90s). Not only do I struggle for coverage but it would be nice if it both flattered the curves and made me not feel like a sloppy sad raccoon. Oh yes..and it would be nice if it stayed in place and did not ride up or slip off or creep down are cling from all the static that my doughy thighs are good at producing. Is that too much to a for?

go ahead...try it.

I would like to wear a dress and not worry that the skirt has creeped up under my bag (I carry a bag, not a purse). It has happened. It does happen. The first time it happend I was cute and 18 and wasn't at all embarrassed because hey, I had a great behind, I did. It rocked. In fact it rocked so much it didn't pass the pencil test. The boobs did, they were once perky and yes, the behind was as well but golly it could hold a pencil. What. Did you never try the pencil test...there? Well...um....nevermind that.

I would also like a pair of jeans that didn't slip off when I sat or squatted. Waists are either too high or too low. In the rare cases they do fit their pockets are usually sick with glitter or rhinestones. Bedazzled to an inch of their lives or they have distressing that makes it look like I participated in a sexy car wash ...with bleach. What's up with all that? On our BIG ROAD TRIP, I was so fed up with ill-fitting jeans, shorts and the like that I purchased a pair of shorts (which maybe were labled culottes, I cringe) that had an elastic waist. ELASTIC WAIST.

I am old.

see? patchy. patchy.

So...I love this world wide web. I do. But I would really like to return to my fashionista roots as I had them. BIG time. I'm good at clothes for other people not so much for myself. My closet looks pretty good and my imagination has paired up some lovely ensembles but when I put them on, I fall to the floor in defeat and return to my old-too-big-for-me patchy patched jeans, a tank top, maybe a genie bra*, and an eight dollar grey t-shirt from Target...crew neck because v-necks are icky and why, oh why are v-necks the only necklines in the store and why, oh why can I only find skinny jeans. Skinny jeans, really? But hey, if they fit and don't slip off, I will wear them....at hme, not in pictures. In fact, I picked up a pair of the skinnies that have tiny white polka dots all over them (I do love a polka dot) and they are on the dresser with tags still attached but I think it is passed the return-by date.  In my head I see them on me slightly cuffed, with crazy clunky white nursing shoes (a want), a long sleeved pale grey tissue-t, a dozen colorful skinny beaded necklaces, funky plaid old man vest, chunky watch (hee-hee...chunky),  and dark grey messenger bag.

It is time for a coffee kvetch. How does one set something like that up? 

wallflowerishness

I think it may be pretty obvious that I have issues with being liked. It's all a bit twisty in my head but I really want people to like me and then I don't believe the ones who actually do like me actually like me. Crazy, isn't it.

I've said it before and I will say it again, I blame my father. I think the experiences we have as young children (all the way up to our teen years even) can really shape our perspective and view of the world around us. I blame my father for my lack of confidence in building relationships because he left. Sadly that isn't an unfamiliar tune and in my case, not only did he leave but he left me, my mother and my brother. My sister, he took with him as he and his new lady friend needed a babysitter. If you were to ask him he would say my sister chose to go with him but you would have to understand the horrifying experience she had just before the big fallout (being bribed with a pony didn't hurt either). While I was too young to truly understand that my father had abandoned the family and in fact kidnapped my older sister (who really did the bulk of caring for me as our mother was suffering a depressive episode at the time) I did know on some sort of visceral level that I was left behind and in a matter of formulating it all in my mind I determined that I was simply not good enough.

This idea that people who should care for us can up and leave at any time and do just that put a damper on my social skills. I remember spending much of my childhood running home in tears and experiencing some sort of melt-down or another because I felt unliked. It probably was not true, at least not in the way I perceived (young children CAN be fickle at times, it is their wont). But either way I built up this flight response to friendships.

Leave them first, don't become attached and they can't hurt you.

That was my unspoken mantra. It also turned me into a super shy teenager. A super dorky, vintage clothes-wearing, bespecktacled, crooked toothed wallflower. I was so fearful of interacting with my peers I became known as the pale stuck-up girl. My first year in highschool, I developed a reputation for being a  narc. Yup, that's me, just add me to the cast of 21 Jump Street.

All wasn't too awful. I stepped out to make friends my final year in junior high and have even managed to keep one  or two of them. My first year in highschool was all kinds of awkward but I found a solid core group of other wallflowery types and we created our own gang of sorts. But this post isn't about that, it's about how I grew up without a father who, by the way is most definitely alive and kicking and that my friends, kills me. He left my brother and I with a very sick woman. Don't get me wrong, I loved my mother immensely. It still makes me weepy to think of her gone. It's making me weepy as I type right now but truthfully she was sick. She was physically ill with Systemic Lupus Erythematosus and mentally crippled through depression both inborn and as a result of our father's leaving (they were junior high school sweethearts). She self medicated with alcohol (Kalua and vodka from my early years, wine in a box for my later years) and often could be heard crying herself to sleep. What kind of foundation do you think that gave me?

So, when I was three, my father left. He placed my mother in a mental facility and stole away in the night with my sister and his new family. He left us with a mortgage payment that could not be covered and an empty bank account. Up until that moment he took care of my mother, he took charge as a man should as this was the early 70s. He left and he never paid child support or alimony and so I grew up on welfare and food stamps. My crooked teeth probably could have been fixed but my mother was defeated by life, my asthma probably could have been helped but she didn't know how make things happen. Her medications were so awful she was prone to blackouts and so having a drivers license was out of the question. We walked or took the bus everywhere and we survived on the kindness of neighbors, family and strangers (it made high school an uncomfortable embarrassment for me always having to decline or allow my friends to pay for my Taco Bell).

Whatever you make of this, what I am trying to articulate is that I know I always whine and poke fun at myself as being socially inept but the truth is I am. When I was young I played by myself much of the time so didn't really get a lot of practice in the social circles of my youth. So now, I'm kinda always a little bit on the outside, not quite getting the joke, saying things that may be considered thoughtless or rude and well, I'm just happier muddling by myself yet so ridiculously wanting of good friends I'm a constant contradiction.

With a capital "C'.

I can engage and people seem to like me but it doesn't stop that underlying fear that I'm mucking things up left and right and so, I blame my father. He was the first domino that tipped and well, we all know how that goes.

The crazier thing is that I "ran" into my stepmother online. Pinterest of all places and well, that's a rabbit hole I'm not ready to fall down just yet. But I ask how can people proclaim that family is the most important thing to them when they took a man away from his own. Okay, took isn't the right word, he left of his own accord but, BUT he also took us away from my mother calling her unfit and kept us for all of six weeks before the great abandonment happened and THAT my friends, was because of this woman. This woman whose face leers in my memory as she yelled at and slapped my three year old self...constantly. I can still feel her fingers, sharp and pointy as they dug into my arm with a yank this way or that way and she claims that family is the most important thing and I suppose she is right but it has to be HER family. See? I kinda slipped down that hole and believe me it doesn't go to wonderland.

And now I am trying, trying, trying to wrap this all up in a positive note so what can I say? Oh, I know. So, if all of this wonky upbringing, wonky bits and all, deadbeat dad and all, bad abusive boyfriend included, I guess I wouldn't be the me that I am. I might still be quirky of sorts but I wonder how much empathy and compassion (and angst and off-humor) would define who I was because in a nutshell, all these not-so-great experiences have pushed me to think of the underlying reason for our behavior both good and not-so-good. It is what propelled me to study children and their development and it is what moved me past simply applying all those theories to the young child and laying them atop people of all ages. I can bitch and moan about people and actions that I do not like but ultimately, while I am bitching and moaning, I'm stepping back to view a wider picture to see if I can find that domino that toppled over and pushed them into the direction they are going. If I had not experienced so much chaos and confusion in my earlier years, I do not think I would be the observer I am and sometimes the best view at the dance is the one that holds up the wall.

it's tuesday, why not be random?

 my polyp is back in a most frustrating manner. it makes me feel all sorts of sad racoony. i am adult and yet i am constantly sniffling through my days like a toddler with a cold. how can i feel confidant when i am always embarrassed by the snurfliness? and yes, sometimes i do cram a bit of tissue up the nose to keep it from dripping...only when no one else is around though i fear i will forget and head out to run errands. then i will be THAT kind of crazy lady, the one with a wad of white tissue hanging out of her nose.

there are ants in our microwave. there are ants IN our microwave. how does that happen?

the fridge quit at he homestead and we managed to cram three ice chests full of perishables into our wonky fridge. now we're trying to create meals with things that MUST BE EATEN. tonight dinner will be pan fried salmon and salad. this reminds me to not buy too much and to really use what we have.

there is a trio of bluejays sneaking around the tiny casa stealing my sunflower seeds and making all kinds of a racket. and i love every moment of it.

moonrise kingdom! moonrise. kingdom.

today i began my day NOT in red, white or blue. i did change once i got home from work and now i am doing laundry.

i hate washing plastic food containers. when i was a teenager, i hated washing silverware.

i misplaced my jello hat and for the last few days i was driving myself crazy looking for it. i just now found it. it's on billy's head underneath the custom mouse ears the danny-boy made for me. i would probably lose my head if it were not attached.

on wednesdays, i watch tv at the homestead. we do not have a television but we do have internet. right now i am watching So You Think You Can Dance. in the spring i watch America's Next Top Model. i also talk at the television the whole time.

a few weeks ago i finally got through that mad pile of boxes and the living room and most of the casa looked good and clean. now, every surface is piled with stuff. alphabet blocks, tissue boxes, tin trays, cameras....

the mister and i watched this documentary a few days ago. it made me cover my eyes and cry. my heart ached so much and then i got angry and cried some more.

i have not had a sodee pop in ten days! no fizz water either. but there has been coffee and right now i have an ENORMOUS headache.

i bought a plastic orange and yellow rug from Cost Plus. i thought it would break up the swath of icky gray carpet in the livingroom. i'm not sure it was a good idea.

one of the arms broke off of my bronzed eyeglasses so today i am wearing my blue cats eyes which might be why i am having an ENORMOUS headache.

i have been craving a bordeaux for a few weeks now. they were my mamos' favorite.

oops, i have to get the laundry now and make dinner and fix this headache and remove this puff o' tissue from the nose before i venture out...cheers!

i don't know why but i woke up this morning feeling melancholy.

and so i sat in the pre-7am light, looking at the grey sky, hoping for rain. I bundled up in the couch quilt with my morning yogurt and felt an inward reflection. i wasn't feeling sad, just melancholy. and i thought about the person i was/am versus the person i want to be. and then i got teary as my heart felt tired and broke down. and i thought of three things.

there are three things that truly make me feel heartache. three things that broke my heart.

*the death of my mother. i was 28 years old when she died. she was 58 and just, just, just stepping out of the darkness that trapped her or twenty-five plus years. she never got to find the community that the internet could have given her. she never fully felt loved and unalone.  she was absolutely the most creative person i have ever known. it fills me, over fills me really that she did not get to meet the mister and his family. i believe she would have found a heart-home in them.

*my infertility. it simply kills me with heartache. i feel undefined as a childless person and oftentimes invisible. i feel that all my education regarding young children is not valid to people with children. that i actually know nothing and yet i know. i know.

*i stopped dancing. i loved dancing. loved it. every song i hear fills my head with movement and steps. every beat that tags me has me turning and stepping and sweeping m arms. i stopped dancing and i only halfway know why. i was young, i was foolishly involved with an abusive partner who's damage still lingers like a cloudy aura blocking out other colors. i tried to return. i was later involved with another partner who encouraged me to dance. i enrolled in a class and it was a disaster. the instructor was awful and the students, dance majors were clicky and unkind. i fled from that first class and sat in my car sobbing at the ridiculous notion that i could dance. i never returned to dance. i may point my toes and twirl a round or two in the safety of the tiny casa (only when i am alone though, i won't even do it in front of the mister) and i watch old movies, new movies, youtube videos and television shows. the watching at once makes me catch my breath and tear up in the moment full of joy and then later, when i am alone, i tear up all over again thinking of the road not traveled.


 there are three things that make my heart weep. three things...profound. two out of my control, one fully in my control and i'm trying to brave it up make friends with it and to try again in the smallest of small steps.

the confessional: when the frumpies attack

(disclaimer. i was under assualt of the frumpies and it was ick, ick, icky when i wrote this (oh, two days ago). and not that i don't still feel this way but  the tunnel is not so long as it was. i am owning my moods mind you and so i share. i hope that this reads a little amusing, more dysfunctional than not but true, true, true and i promise i am not fishing for complements or pep talks. i just gotta be meeeeeee...carry on. oh wait, let's cal this the post-confessional, okee dokee?)

i spent last weekend with favorite people in favorite spaces. we wandered for hours around a school fair where the children looked like they stepped out of the pages of a european magazine and the women all around me wore such heavenly layers i couldn't help but feel i was at the wrong party. everywhere around me there were the most lovely ladies in the most lovely layers, including my favorite stacey who blended in so seamlessly, my heart thumped with jealousy and i felt frumpier than the frumpiest i have ever felt (and believe me, i am really good at feeling frumpy).

i know this is a perception of mine and that there are some who agree and some who do not. the important part for me to remember is that this is honestly how i feel. my feelings. they may be warped and carnival-mirror-twisted but as i feel them, they are real. as for the layers, i must confess i have lost it. my fashion sense. my quirky style lay in a puddle in the back of my new closet damp and too sullen to be wrestled in this larger shape of mine. i am stagnant. there is no reason for me to be stagnant but i am.

there are some who when stagnant smack the snooze button and get cracking on things. they get out and simply DO. me? i keep myself awake at night planning a master plan only to snub my nose at my alarm and pull the covers back over my head. there are so many items on my to-do list i pretend it doesn't exist and i do everything but. and by everything i mean i do nothing, nothing at all. i don't even take pictures any more. not really. not like i used to.

i'm sure there are oodles of reasons for all this freakified frumpiness. a soupy soup of bad-brain produced chemicals, residual hurt feelings caused by someone i like, the uncertainty of this new life and insecurities in attempting a social life. i love being able to live where we live but i feel lonely and scattered and unsure of any redeeming qualities i may have. i know a handful of people up here who are pretty awesome but my stupid shyness rears its contradictory self and i'm a blathering mess. who would want to hang out with that? i know i am too critical of myself but knowing and changing are two different things. i'm working on that, on trusting in myself and seeing something good and worthy in me. i like to think that others see something and sometimes i really think they do but then that brain of mine hunkers down on one shoulder and ruins it all. it's like the frumpy fairy has double doused me with her fairy dust. triple doused. dosed?

so i'm writing this down, to get the bad thoughts out. to purge and to cleanse and to remind myself that it is time to get out of my comfort zone. to reach back, back, back into that closet and put on a dress or a skirt or two and get all tangley-twisted in a pair of tights (there has got to be at least one pair in there that will fit). ignore those extra chins and jiggly bits and find out where the mascara went and get reacquainted with those lipstick skills you used to (semi) rock. maybe, maybe if you got yer fashion back, the frumpies will head out of dodge. at least a little. do they still make girdles?

friday's confessional: november 4

Aw shucks, I forgot what I was going to confesss (other than my intense feelings of jealousy towards, oh...everyone right now) so hows about a wee response to last week's confessional? In response to last week's confessional I wish to clarify that I was attempting humor to point out my ineptness at all things girlie. I am often confused when I receive super lovely letters after a post that tell me not to fret, that I am lovely and things will get better after a post where I thought I was poking fun at myself and my ridiculousness. I do love me a nice, encouraging word, believe me, it really boosts the ego (thank yous to the folks who wrote, thank you!); but I am so often confused that my tone is so often misunderstood. I often have people gush over what they see as my positive and sunny disposition (wha? really?) which results in two things. One, I smile and say thank you and then two, I give a guffaw because really, I feel like I am far too cranky all the time. But then, I write here thinking I am sunny and funny and honest and then I am told I am a bit of a downer.

See? Confusing.

So, here's the deal (and I promise, I'm trying to sound light here and positive), I have lived a quirky life fuller than full of tales of woe. Most of the time, I look back and think WOW, I'm still here, mostly intact and I feel pretty good about that. But then, the dark comes crashing in and I am sad and feeling mad and I go with it. There are ups and there are downs and I deal with it as we all tend to do. I write what I write because it helps to get it out of my head and then I think maybe someone else out there is feeling this way as well and maybe they won't feel as alone as I sometimes do. Don't you ever feel alone? I simply do this to keep myself sane, I used to write with a pen in a book but I got tired of my hand cramping up and the ink that would glomb onto my hand as I am a lefty. Also, when I write fast, there is no discerning what letter is which and what word is what, I'm a sloppy scribbler with poor penmanship, my typing isn't as swell either but thank goodness for spell check and the delete key.

This all goes back to perception. Even those close, close, close to me manage to mis-perceive my intentions. When that happens I fell all prickly and irritated and there may be an urge for some shin kicking. I feel even worse when I try to explain what I meant so instead I let it roil and boil about the noggin until I'm a bit heart heavy which has me crash, crash crashing down to bottom and I feel like running even further away than I have run already. It's a stupid cycle and I feel all of twelve all over again. I'm kinda feeling it now but I opened this can o worms so I can't complain. I guess what I want to remind people is that perception is a tricky thing. It's the song in the head that you cannot hear. It's what you bring to the party based on how your day has gone, and it's personal and real yet not real at all. Does that make sense? It's all relative.

I'm not sure I'm making sense even to myself but I do know that my brows are STILL a mess, more of a disaster really and I need to find a stylist up here in this little town and I need to figure out how to fork over the moolah to do it. I miss my gal down in L.A. Gals, really. They were great, shaped 'em up nicely and did not over pluck one bit. Here, people tend to wear their brows a bit on the skinny side so I am weary. Oh and thank you for your support and giggles in cheering me on. I'm not afraid of the work, just don't know where or how at this point. Oh and threading, yes threading! I used to get that done oodles and ages ago. Goodness, haven't had it done in more than a decade. I wonder if anyone up here does that. Good question. And like I said, I am not very good at this whole girlie business. You would think after 40 years I would have gotten the hang of it but I haven't. Eyelash curlers terrify me, shaving takes too long, lotion leaves my hands feeling greasy and I have no idea how to get my hair in an even part in the back when I put in pony-tails or knots. I also find myself staring at all the ladies around me. All of them. How do they get their hair so shiny? How? I have gel and shine and other sorts of goo but all it does is make my hair oily...oy! At least my grown out dye job is fairing up. Thank goodness the trend in hair color is "ombre" for once I fit in with my kooky dark roots. Go me!

friday's confessional: october 28

Last Friday I was almost late for work as in I almost left late. The lateness came about when I hit the bathroom for last minute primping, teeth brushing and perhaps a wee bit more. I was almost out the door when I thought I would add a dash of color to my eyes via a flick of mascara. Off came my glasses (which are sadly in need of replacing, stupid fancy coating that is now all peeling off and fuzzing up my vision) and up came the wand and as I leaned in to the mirror so close my nose touched glass (I am VERY nearsighted) I gasped when I saw the mess that was my eyebrow(s).

Yes my friends, I am a grower of unibrows. I would say it was a gift but since I have been growing them since childhood I'll just chalk it up to some kooky genes (sure, I don't have any hair on the inside of my calves but I do grow a mean Frida). Also, I am not much for the artistry of eye makeup and primping. Blame it on my sad raccoon syndrome but I really have no clue as to how to clean up. Lipstick is about all I can muster and even then I muck it up (stupid nerve damage left over from ages ago oral surgery).

I've sung operas on this topic before but I have to say I really need help here in the oculatory follicle region of my face. Sheesh. It took me five minutes to clean the mess up. FIVE MINUTES of torturous pluckity-plucking. And all of that action was centered on my center. Five minutes of excruciating maintenance and I am still in line for a muppet beauty contest. It is crazy how much better a person can look with the removal of a small number of even smaller hairs. If only I had a clue as to how to shape them I might even win a muppet beauty pageant.

I am in desperate need for an aesthetician but I am far too mortified to allow anyone to come near me. Haven't had the Frida attended to since May 2010. I am not very good at being a girl. Not good at all. Oh drats! I just realized I should have left them all in and then I would not have needed any makeup to do myself up as Frida for Halloween. Drats. A ghost it is then...quick, get me a sheet!

friday's confessional: september 9

I've been thinking a lot lately about all sorts of things but mostly I've been thinking about self-positivity. see, I'm not very good at liking myself. I'm actually pretty awful at it. It seems I have an awesomely endless carpetbag full of negative self-comments and I think I need to toss it. Or maybe, like Doris Day sings, toss it in a box, tie it with a ribbon and throw it in the big blue sea...

There are many reasons why I'm thinking of all this right now but what prompted this brain blurt was Pinterest. while I adore Pinterest, I find that mostly I adore my followers and the people I follow. And while I try to venture out to find new people to follow, I find that too many outside of my bubble are mean. Rotten really. There's a lot of hatred regarding body types popping up all over the place there. Skinny ladies hating on fat girls and plump ladies negating the thin it's all a bit of a hate fest and I find it sadder than sad. Sure, there are good body pins and the like but still those stir up negative comments and words get bantered about and the hate fest begins all over again. 

But back to what prompted this though process was a board that I like that had pinned a lovely illustration of a larger than life lady all nekkid and smiley and hugging herself. The comment underneath read "Fat Positive" and I thought, why not "Self Positive"? Why not forget this whole business of fat or thin or skinny or large and just plain old like ourselves. You don't have to get all lovey dovey just yet, a simple "I Like You" would be nice.

Don't you think?

Kiddo book I Like Me by Nancy Carlson is awesome. Read it!

friday's confessional: august 26

I almost hung up on boss number two the other day. See, I have this thing about manners and etiquette. There is a basket brimming with unmannerly pet peeves of mine but the one that kills me (other than escalator etiquette, don't EVEN get me started) is when someone calls your home and asks for you by first name, or doesn't even ask, they just start talking to you with a bit too much familiarity and yer thinking "who the frick-frack is this?" without identifying themselves. Telemarketers, I know are trained to do business this way and since they always seem to call around dinnertime, it's a given and I'll just say no thank you and/or simply hang up. But boss-o number two called and the mama a-go-go answered and was completely thrown for a loop when boss-o did that familiarity thing AND thought it was her right to feel snippish. The confusing part for many folks involved is that both the sister a-go-go and I share the same first name. So if you call and simply ask for Jessica, ya gotta let us know which one AND you gotta let us know who YOU are, otherwise...we hang up.

By the time I took over the call, I think it would be safe to say that boss-o number two had her panties in a bunch. Once I clarified who she was (after she insisted I identify MYSELF) I told her how to properly execute a phone-call (don't mess with me). I was peeved as well (as I don't play with rudeness) and told her we were this-close to hanging up on her and she told me I had BETTER NOT hang up on HER and I told her, if I don't know who you are and you don't tell me what you are calling for then you get hung up on, plain and simple. Sheesh!

I'm sure she now regrets hiring me. I am such a pain after-all...don't ya know. And people wonder why I am not a fan of the phone....hee-hee.

friday's confessional: august 5

Last week, I backed into the sister a-go-go's car. I backed into it while it was parked IN the driveway.

I simply nestled myself into Sir Rodney, turned the key and went into auto pilot; back, back, backing down the long, long driveway. As I happily backed my way out of the long, long driveway I even did a little patty-pat-pat on the back as to how well I was doing. I'm am not really very good at driving in reverse. There are walls on either side of the driveway. Wonky low walls that are difficult to navigate. There is more than enough space on either side but the trickery of those walls fools you into thinking you are about to bumper-car into them.

I used to make mr. a-go-go back the car out but I decided to a-go-go up and just do it already. At first I was stop and go. I'm sure it was quite comical really as I inched Sir Rodney, ever-so-slowly down that long, long driveway in a less than straight line. Poor Rodney would swivel one way then the other as I over thought and over corrected the whole situation. Eventually, I manifested a little bit of Elvis magic and just backed the heck up. Which is what I was doing before I smacked the sister-ago-go's car.

I got in the car, rolled down the window and stuck my head out to gauge my distance with the wall and backed up. Confidently so as I was now a pro you see. As I was doing it I thought how much faster I was gassing it and then I thought "Oh, this is how people back up over their pets" and at once I imagined I was about to back over the deaf orange and white tom-cat that roams the neighborhood when BLAM!

You might wonder how on earth I managed to not see an entire vehicle parked in the driveway and well...in all honesty I have to tell you I never looked. We don't park cars in the driveway here. Two cars go in the garage and Sir Rodney hangs out in the back just to the side of the garage. Had I actually looked in the mirror I would have seen said vehicle but nope, I was on autopilot and simply backed, backed, backed myself outta there like the bees knees I thought I was.

I am sooooo not the bees knees. And now, I am afraid to back out of the driveway.

friday's confessional: july 28

My hair and I right now are in conflict.

I got it cut a few weeks ago because even though all those pretty loopy-lazy braids on Pinterest are just so darn pretty and my hair was almost-almost long enough support them, it seems the overall aura that is me did not. It was like junior high all over again. All the cool kids are doing it and it looks so darn pretty, come on, do it. The reality is I felt like an imposter.

The fella who cuts my hair is kinda hipper-than-hip. He's a swell guy and all, very stylish and still young enough to think he knows everything. He's even admitted to it, which is why I like him. After one too many mornings of feeling like my flyaway hair could be molded into the flying-nun's habit I carried myself to his chair and pleaded with him to chop it off. He didn't want to. He said he thought it looked great. I snorted back that of course he did, HE was the one to cut it in the first place. He wished he could have my hair and I told him I wanted his (he has a great 'do). We compromised and he chopped off bits and pieces taking the length off but keeping it long enough to sport jek-sized knot-knots. He styled it and chatted away and handed me the mirror which is when I realized...

He thinks I'm a soccer mom.

Or maybe he just thinks I'm old and not at all hip. Now I know; this is the point where reconciliation with our inside selves and our outside selves go (goes?) head to head. I might appear somewhat sloppy-racoonish and frumpier than I want to be but inside I'm still hoping to wear my plaid old man flood-trousers, slinky t-shirt (as in the toy) and saddle shoes while I sing Redd Kross songs in my head. Oy. Why does this have to happen when I turn 40? Is this cosmic humor come in to play?

While I like the jek-sized knot knots, I'm afraid the cut has run away with my curl and more often than not I wake up with my hair kinda all rocker-girl crazy a la Suzi Quatro. Yesterday it was full on Leather and I tried to take a picture to show you, I really did but every single pic I took looked like some imposter-soccer-mom jumped into the frame.

So, my hair and I have been partaking in fisticuffs. It kinda-sorta-and-I'm-not-even-joking-here makes me want to get a perm. A spiral perm to be exact. A classic 1980s mop-topped Shirley Temple kind of perm. And lest you think I'm kookier than Charo in fringed hot-pants here is my confession: I once had a spiral perm. I even requested it. Not only that but the compelling factor in wanting the perm in the first place came from Madonna. And I wasn't even a Madonna fan except for Vogue which was awesome. It was her hair in Express Yourself video. It was over the top fantastic and I wanted it. I wanted it enough to actually march into a hair salon, combat boots and all and tell the poofy-haired stylist that I wanted my hair to look like Madonna's (only orange, not blonde). So she did and it was perfect.

friday's confessional: july 22

Sorry folks, I have no energy for a confessional today unless you want me to wax poetic over my love of So you Think You Can Dance and/or America's Next Top Model. I may not watch any other reality shows but I can't seem to turn my head away for these two. I even find myself jazz walking around the homestead during the commercial breaks. I'm THAT dorky. I do love to dance though. I wish I had stuck with it.

Now that we're moving into the new tiny casa, we're finding that the more realistic rent (meaning NOT what we were lucky enough to pay in L.A.) may be keeping us from any technological-ness. We have a phone that actually plugs into the wall (recently purchased for two smackeroos) and we may have a boxy-boxy television that will hopefully accept our digital box but there really isn't any extra moolah for internet or cable. Cable I can totally live without but internet? Aack! We're looking into all the cheapy solutions, but in a town, on a street, shoulder to shoulder with college kids we may be hard pressed to actually get any speed out of anything.Thank goodness there is a 24 hour donut shop not too far from the new casa that offers up wifi. I wonder if I could get a job there?

This random assortment of pics includes our new-old phone which I will be doing something to and our new-old chairs which the mister will be doing something to. Actually, he already has as they were purchased black, so he has been sanding sanding sanding away at them for a week now.

Pics of the new tiny casa coming soon, soon, soon!

friday's confessional: july 8

Today's confession is a bit frivolous and not at all embarrassing or thought provoking. I could go there but I'm duking it out with some angry allergies and am far too tired to get wordy on you. Today's confession is all about gift wrap.

I love wrapping gifts. LOVE it. I think this is why I like giving gifts, the wrapping part. Once, I even wrapped my own birthday gifts. Yup, I'm that dorky. And did you know that I created coloriffic swap-o-rama purely for selfish reasons involving gift wrap?

I also like to plan a color theme for my holiday wrap. The planning begins in August (sometimes sooner). I've used record bowls, cereal boxes, cloth bags and glass bottles to wrap gifts in. Once, I even used a piñata.

Earlier this week, it was the mama-a-go-go's birthday. While I managed to tone it down for the gifts, I kinda went all out on the wrap. Color coordinated...of course (and sometimes chicken coordinated).

What geeky thing to you obsess over?

friday's confessional: june 24

I don't have an average track record when it comes to "Hollywood" crushes. While most of young feminine peers were off crushing on John Travolta (it was the seventies folks and Grease had just come out) I was planning my future as the Mrs. Dr. Pepper Guy. Yup, I had a crush on that guy from An American Werewolf in London only I knew him as the Dr. Pepper Guy.

My memory is foggy really but I remember my mother really ribbing me hard about it. Especially when at my school talent show, one of the sixth graders who played piano looked a heck of a lot like him. I remember her all elbow-jabby nudging me and whispering how cute he was. Mind you folks, I was 8. Nice, mom. I think what I liked is that he sang AND danced a lot like Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire and being that my mother raised me on Hollywood Musicals, singing and dancing nestled heavily into my crush radar. It helped too that he was the Dr. Pepper guy as I quite liked that soda and thought if I married him we'd be fizz happy for life. Before that it was Peter from The Monkees. I recognized his dorkiness right away and felt we could be very good friends. It seems my nerd-guy crush habit began young. What can I say, I'm a trendsetter.

After my Monkee man and the Dr. Pepper guy faded out and I began Junior High, most of my girlie peers were waxing poetic over Duran Duran and the like. I think the big argument was over whether or not it was John Taylor or Nick Rhodes who was cuter. Both of them failed my fashion sense test as I was still geeking out over Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly but I added Danny Elfman to the mix. Hey, red hair, eyeliner, fire breather...Danny Elfman and a ninth grader named Martin Trammel who to me looked just like Gene Kelley if Gene was (were?) a punk rocker with spiky-like black hair. Oh and don't fergit Duckie. John Cryer was okay but Duckie was the man.

In high-school the girlie-os had moved on to Michael Stipe and Mel Gibson and I opened my circle a wee bit wider and tossed in Daniel Day Lewis, Julian Sands and this adorable blonde guy in my class that I never ever knew but admired from afar (and he had the awesome moniker of Charles. Swoon...Charles!)

In my twenties, it was Jonathon Pryce or as I called him, "that guy from the Infiniti commercials". I still kept the other boys close to my heart but I wasn't NOT going to add more to my collection. Next came Kevin Spacey, there is just something about him all creepiness aside that I adore. I still have a crush on him.

Now that I'm all growed-up, I find myself crushing hard on the mister. Everyday (except when he drives me batty) I count my lucky geeky stars that I found a dork of a mister. Not only does he sing and dance but he sews and cooks and humors me and my zany ideas. Before I met him, I had this whole theory of the "kind" of guy I thought I would like and while he more than makes up for it, he doesn't match it in so many other ways (have I told you about the list?) and I am so glad I threw it all out the window. Still, I need to write out my "theory" as this lady is always asking me to go through it again so I will, someday on a Friday not far away. Who were your oddball crushes? Go on share, it is confessional Friday afterall...

friday's confessional: june 17

In a nutshell, I suck. More than that, I suckity-suck. Wanna know why I suck? I quit my job. A job that I just started. A perfectly good job, one that most people would want and love. I resigned. And now I am taking a deep-breath to prepare for all sorts of flabbergasted whys and how dare yous. I didn't just wake-up and decide la-la-la-I-quit. I actually anguished over it. I weighed the pros and cons and it seemed to me all the pros meant making sure no one would be mad at me and all the cons greatly affected (effected?) me personally. I could go into more detail here but really, I am tired of defending my choice. A choice I did not make lightly and included much discussion with the mister. I still know I suck and that I have disappointed people but in keeping with all my blatherity blather about tuning in, I did it. I tuned into myself and made a decision and now I can breathe better...somewhat. I still need to achieve some sort of employment with a consistent paycheck, I am well aware of this and so I go back to the keyboard and craigslist and this site or that site as I type-ity type one resume after another. I apologize ahead of time for any whininess that might ensue. It's a hole I dug myself into so I shouldn't complain.

Do you have any confessions to make?