Today I went to the doctor for my dreaded annual exam.
(Or as I like to call it the scary lady parts exam).
It was your typical visit, fine and yet still always awkward, and before the doctor came in the nurse had me step on the scale to take my weight.
Like any true lady I held my head high and did not look down to read what the scale read.
(A lady never reveals her age or her weight, thank you).
Then after the nurse left I realized I was actually curious about my weight. I'm familiar enough with my body to know when I've fluctuated up or down. We all have that sort of standard weight we weigh when we're in an average, every day state in our lives, physically, emotionally and spiritually.
So I stepped on the scale and looked down to read the results.
I weigh 185 pounds.
This is the amazing and shocking truth: When I saw the number I didn't have the kind of reaction I think most women would have. I was calm, kind of shrugged my shoulders and sighed, huh.
And then I kind of smiled when I realized something I didn't know about myself.
I'm so comfortable in my body, numbers don't rattle me.
I'm so comfortable I have no qualms about publishing my weight on the world wide web.
Because I have never felt more confident, more beautiful or more sexy in my entire life.
I have also never weighed so much in my entire life.
It kind of makes me giggle actually.
The absurdity of it all.
In high school I pretty consistently weighed 160 pounds and I was a size 12.
I am currently now, at 185 pounds also a size 12.
The mind reels.
There are two schools of thought for that:
One, companies have changed sizing in the past decade and what is a size 10 today was likely a 12 ten years ago. (I thought I read or heard a rumor to this effect).
Two, in my early twenties I got on a super healthy kick and gained muscle that I lacked in high school and since muscle weighs more than fat I'm a fitter, heavier 12 than I was in high school.
Whatever the case, it seemed poetic somehow that an insecure, uncertain 18 year old Resa would fit the same pair of jeans the self assured, confident 29 year old Resa wears today.
(I just revealed both my age and weight in the same blog. And yet I still hold fast to being a true lady).
I live in a day and age when weighing 185 pounds is SHOCKING!! It's OBESE!! It's EMBARASSING!! It's UNDESIRABLE!!
And yet I am content.
I joined the most incredible dance and fitness studio and I'm exercising every day because I love it, not because I want to change my body because I don't think it's good enough. My body's going to change on it's own. All this fitness every day is burning way more calories than I ever did all those years and it's also inadvertently changed my appetite. When you're doing so much cardio every day your body craves foods and nutrients that it needs. Suddenly Burgerville doesn't sound as good anymore and I realize what I really want is some yogurt with Grapenuts. (Which is heaven, by the bye, you simply must try it!)
But I just had to laugh at "my number." In Bridget Jones Diary we're supposed to believe she's a heffer at something like 137 pounds, I think it is? HA! At 140 pounds I was a svelt size 6, the healthiest I've ever been in my life.
My point?
Numbers are irrelevent.
There are a lot of things that are insignificant.
And the sooner we all embrace that while embracing the beautiful women we are in the gorgeous bodies we are in today, the sooner we will all be free to smile and laugh and feel content no matter how the scales may read.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Sweat it Out
Today I was nominated for Homecoming Court.
At least, that's what it felt like in terms of the sorority that is my dance studio.
You see, like any good sorority, any club, job, society of any kind there is a pecking order.
And one might even say certain ranks have to be earned.
Par example, if the bitch your company hired 6 months ago gets the promotion and you've worked for the company for years. A breach in hierarchy.
Social Structure.
Pecking Order.
Pick-a-little-talkalotbehindyourback.
The dance classes get so full that the instructors dance atop a giant box, sort of a mini stage so that the huffers in the back can see just as well as the show offs in the front. And for certain numbers, depending on an instructors mood, they'll ask one of the veteran students to dance next to them. It's sort of this unspoken, You know the routine, you've been around long enough. Let's give the dancers more than one person to watch.
And tonight? That veteran on the box next to the Samba teacher was ME.
That's right.
MOI.
And tonight? Was my third class.
Just a couple short weeks and I'm already bad ass front and center stage material.
AND I had dragged my sick ass there in spite of my lethargy and coughing so it was an even bigger victory considering I almost didn't even go feeling craptastic and all.
And something in my body aligned and I felt like it all finally clicked.
If you're not familiar Samba is one of the trickier latin dances.
You gotta move REALLY fast.
Like any other dance is all, yeah, work it, shake yo grooove thang!
And Samba is like the micromachine guy from the 90's yelling, YEAHWORKITSHAKEYOGROOVETHANG!!!
And if you've never done it before and you watch someone who has you think, there ain't no way my butt's gonna move THAT fast!
And yet, somehow, this butt o' mine did and it was AWESOME.
I kind of think the fact that my head felt like it was full of pudding meant I couldn't actually think about what I was doing and I just had to do it.
And I did.
And I totally felt like I should have been wearing a tiara and waving to my screaming fans.
I went to the store after to get some snacks and treated myself to a gorgeous bouquet of ivory roses.
And when I saw the rainbow bouquet similar to the one Mr. Volcano gave me on my birthday years ago I didn't even feel a twinge of sadness. Instead I felt a warm smile remembering how loving he had been.
You know, before he was possessed.
Bless his heart.
But I found after spending three days in bed, after sleeping so many hours my back ached and drinking tons of liquids and handfulls of vitamins, what ultimately made me feel better was a room full of my sisters, the disco ball flashing its lights and me dancing like I hadn't a care in the world.
Just sweating it out, toxins and all.
At least, that's what it felt like in terms of the sorority that is my dance studio.
You see, like any good sorority, any club, job, society of any kind there is a pecking order.
And one might even say certain ranks have to be earned.
Par example, if the bitch your company hired 6 months ago gets the promotion and you've worked for the company for years. A breach in hierarchy.
Social Structure.
Pecking Order.
Pick-a-little-talkalotbehindyourback.
The dance classes get so full that the instructors dance atop a giant box, sort of a mini stage so that the huffers in the back can see just as well as the show offs in the front. And for certain numbers, depending on an instructors mood, they'll ask one of the veteran students to dance next to them. It's sort of this unspoken, You know the routine, you've been around long enough. Let's give the dancers more than one person to watch.
And tonight? That veteran on the box next to the Samba teacher was ME.
That's right.
MOI.
And tonight? Was my third class.
Just a couple short weeks and I'm already bad ass front and center stage material.
AND I had dragged my sick ass there in spite of my lethargy and coughing so it was an even bigger victory considering I almost didn't even go feeling craptastic and all.
And something in my body aligned and I felt like it all finally clicked.
If you're not familiar Samba is one of the trickier latin dances.
You gotta move REALLY fast.
Like any other dance is all, yeah, work it, shake yo grooove thang!
And Samba is like the micromachine guy from the 90's yelling, YEAHWORKITSHAKEYOGROOVETHANG!!!
And if you've never done it before and you watch someone who has you think, there ain't no way my butt's gonna move THAT fast!
And yet, somehow, this butt o' mine did and it was AWESOME.
I kind of think the fact that my head felt like it was full of pudding meant I couldn't actually think about what I was doing and I just had to do it.
And I did.
And I totally felt like I should have been wearing a tiara and waving to my screaming fans.
I went to the store after to get some snacks and treated myself to a gorgeous bouquet of ivory roses.
And when I saw the rainbow bouquet similar to the one Mr. Volcano gave me on my birthday years ago I didn't even feel a twinge of sadness. Instead I felt a warm smile remembering how loving he had been.
You know, before he was possessed.
Bless his heart.
But I found after spending three days in bed, after sleeping so many hours my back ached and drinking tons of liquids and handfulls of vitamins, what ultimately made me feel better was a room full of my sisters, the disco ball flashing its lights and me dancing like I hadn't a care in the world.
Just sweating it out, toxins and all.
Monday, January 24, 2011
MANSUCK Day
The other morning I awoke with the world's worst cold.
'Cold' is so not even accurate enough to portray exactly just how wretched I felt.
Unable to house the energy requirred to apply my lipstick, I sat down begrudgingly and called my store manager to inform him I would not, in fact, be coming to work.
I felt so bad I offered to call other stores to look for coverage.
And that's when I discovered the asshat recently promoted at my old stomping ground.
Are you AW-AA-KE? The new manager hissed at me with a condescension I hadn't seen since my last visit to Al Amir.
Well, I wouldn't be able to converse with you if I was comatose, would I?
Is this how he got promoted by being so damn charming?
Ass.
It was gonna be a mansuck day I could feel it.
The crappy part was the last time I was that sick I was working for Manager Prince Charming who really IS charming and likely was promoted for sweet talking the district manager. (I heard it was done over margaritas at Juan Colorados and with a smile like his what woman could resist? Cough)
Anyway, the disease poisoning my body made me miss him which was just annoying.
The bad thing about getting along well with a boss is when you get a new one that you have an average-every-American-feels-indifferent-and/or-hostile-toward-their-boss repor it makes work less fun.
Dare I say less sparkly.
I remember years after working for a boss I lovingly refrerred to as Uncle Starbucks (if there was anything the guy wasn't enthusiastic about I never learned of it) and then heading to the land of Bitchy Narcissists a la Nordstrom and working for Maleficent Incarnate (for those of you not well versed in Disney that would be the scary-turns-into-a-dragon-villain in Sleeping Beauty). In some ways I felt like Uncle Starbucks didn't prepare me for the villainous bosses that permeate the world. And I think my old Manager Prince Charming may have ruined Starbucks bosses for me for life.
Damn him.
Ugh.
Being annoyed takes a lot of energy and this plague is zapping all of it out of me.
'Cold' is so not even accurate enough to portray exactly just how wretched I felt.
Unable to house the energy requirred to apply my lipstick, I sat down begrudgingly and called my store manager to inform him I would not, in fact, be coming to work.
I felt so bad I offered to call other stores to look for coverage.
And that's when I discovered the asshat recently promoted at my old stomping ground.
Are you AW-AA-KE? The new manager hissed at me with a condescension I hadn't seen since my last visit to Al Amir.
Well, I wouldn't be able to converse with you if I was comatose, would I?
Is this how he got promoted by being so damn charming?
Ass.
It was gonna be a mansuck day I could feel it.
The crappy part was the last time I was that sick I was working for Manager Prince Charming who really IS charming and likely was promoted for sweet talking the district manager. (I heard it was done over margaritas at Juan Colorados and with a smile like his what woman could resist? Cough)
Anyway, the disease poisoning my body made me miss him which was just annoying.
The bad thing about getting along well with a boss is when you get a new one that you have an average-every-American-feels-indifferent-and/or-hostile-toward-their-boss repor it makes work less fun.
Dare I say less sparkly.
I remember years after working for a boss I lovingly refrerred to as Uncle Starbucks (if there was anything the guy wasn't enthusiastic about I never learned of it) and then heading to the land of Bitchy Narcissists a la Nordstrom and working for Maleficent Incarnate (for those of you not well versed in Disney that would be the scary-turns-into-a-dragon-villain in Sleeping Beauty). In some ways I felt like Uncle Starbucks didn't prepare me for the villainous bosses that permeate the world. And I think my old Manager Prince Charming may have ruined Starbucks bosses for me for life.
Damn him.
Ugh.
Being annoyed takes a lot of energy and this plague is zapping all of it out of me.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Alpha Pi Sweat
I've decided my dance studio is like a sorority.
(Not that I ever was in a sorority but I can imagine what one must be like).
You know how high schools had cliques? And even within a clique there were roles, like even reality TV will have certain character types; the bitch, the gay guy, the girl who cries for no reason, the rich snob, the thug, the romantic lead and so on?
Well, my sorority role a la Diva Den is the funny, loud girl.
And I'm totally embracing my role.
Fitness classes make women nervous.
The big girls are busy sucking in their guts thinking the skinny bitches won't notice their bulges.
And the fit girls are so concerned with outshining one another that they almost never remove their gazes from their own reflections for fear it will decrease their IN-TEN-SI-TY.
The girls whose size is a moot point because their inability to step from side to side with a fragment of grace are cowering in the dark corners of the dance room.
And me?
I am hooting and hollering and laughing as loud as the teacher is screaming at us to kick HIGHER!
I seem to be the only gal there who is not taking herself seriously AT ALL.
And the teachers all LOVE ME!
I thought it was just the Samba teacher at first.
She is this curvy black woman whose figure is to die.
(Seriously, if my ass and stomach looked as fantabulous as hers I would never wear a shirt and would go everywhere clad only in booty shorts and a push up bra).
Her classes involve a ton of booty shakin' and while most women shy away from such down and dirty get low swagger I always am either laughing at her or cheering her on.
She was the first teacher to tell me she loved having me in class.
She even told the receptionists I had great energy and yelled, I love her! in the middle of my first Samba class.
I'm not gonna lie.
I beamed a little with pride.
It was like having the popular girl in school tell you your dress was pretty.
Weeeeeee!
But since then I have managed to win over several other teachers who laugh at my inappropriate jokes and tell me how fun I make their classes. It seems I'm not the only one glad I'm there. Tonight the energy-never-wanes Zumba teacher told me she loves how I always laugh because that is what she is trying to get us all to do, just laugh and have fun. The woman who teaches the Sssh! class (AKA the let's-try-and-dance-like-a-stripper-except-we-all-can't-because-who-knew-those-hoochies-actually-possess-mad-skill-to-move-like-they-do? class) thinks I'm hillarious because I moan and groan the loudest at what she CLAIMS we can all do. The move I'm determined to nail she calls 'Pushing the peanut' which basically consists of slowly lowering your torso towards the ground while arching your booty nicely in the air and then reversing it.
I, unable to move as she instructed voiced my concern.
Um, why can't I move backwards? I asked.
Because our triceps are our weakest muscles and you're pulling all your body weight with them so get your ass in the air and MOVE!
Oh, right, I think, is that all? I attempt it a couple times and sort of only half fail once after which point I turn my head and look over to the girl to my left as incapable as I and just shake my head and give her the I don't think so eyebrow. She laughs and we both collapse on our now shaky arms.
The only teacher I doubt would vote me on her Prom Court is the Pilates instructor. Because Pilates is serious business and so she ignores my commentary. I understand though because Pushing the peanut might be challenging while looking sexy but Pilates is the only class where making tiny circles with one leg for 8 reps can cause an entire class to start moaning because our rears and thighs are simultaneously ON FIRE.
So Pilates teacher is like the Sorority president.
Because she has to be a little icy and a little distant to make sure we all stay in line and follow the rules.
In her case the rules are focus, tighten your core and BREATHE.
Because for some reason we all, curvy, shy, veteran or LOUD, always forget to exhale.
But we certainly have the grunting and sweating down pat.
At least I do.
(Not that I ever was in a sorority but I can imagine what one must be like).
You know how high schools had cliques? And even within a clique there were roles, like even reality TV will have certain character types; the bitch, the gay guy, the girl who cries for no reason, the rich snob, the thug, the romantic lead and so on?
Well, my sorority role a la Diva Den is the funny, loud girl.
And I'm totally embracing my role.
Fitness classes make women nervous.
The big girls are busy sucking in their guts thinking the skinny bitches won't notice their bulges.
And the fit girls are so concerned with outshining one another that they almost never remove their gazes from their own reflections for fear it will decrease their IN-TEN-SI-TY.
The girls whose size is a moot point because their inability to step from side to side with a fragment of grace are cowering in the dark corners of the dance room.
And me?
I am hooting and hollering and laughing as loud as the teacher is screaming at us to kick HIGHER!
I seem to be the only gal there who is not taking herself seriously AT ALL.
And the teachers all LOVE ME!
I thought it was just the Samba teacher at first.
She is this curvy black woman whose figure is to die.
(Seriously, if my ass and stomach looked as fantabulous as hers I would never wear a shirt and would go everywhere clad only in booty shorts and a push up bra).
Her classes involve a ton of booty shakin' and while most women shy away from such down and dirty get low swagger I always am either laughing at her or cheering her on.
She was the first teacher to tell me she loved having me in class.
She even told the receptionists I had great energy and yelled, I love her! in the middle of my first Samba class.
I'm not gonna lie.
I beamed a little with pride.
It was like having the popular girl in school tell you your dress was pretty.
Weeeeeee!
But since then I have managed to win over several other teachers who laugh at my inappropriate jokes and tell me how fun I make their classes. It seems I'm not the only one glad I'm there. Tonight the energy-never-wanes Zumba teacher told me she loves how I always laugh because that is what she is trying to get us all to do, just laugh and have fun. The woman who teaches the Sssh! class (AKA the let's-try-and-dance-like-a-stripper-except-we-all-can't-because-who-knew-those-hoochies-actually-possess-mad-skill-to-move-like-they-do? class) thinks I'm hillarious because I moan and groan the loudest at what she CLAIMS we can all do. The move I'm determined to nail she calls 'Pushing the peanut' which basically consists of slowly lowering your torso towards the ground while arching your booty nicely in the air and then reversing it.
I, unable to move as she instructed voiced my concern.
Um, why can't I move backwards? I asked.
Because our triceps are our weakest muscles and you're pulling all your body weight with them so get your ass in the air and MOVE!
Oh, right, I think, is that all? I attempt it a couple times and sort of only half fail once after which point I turn my head and look over to the girl to my left as incapable as I and just shake my head and give her the I don't think so eyebrow. She laughs and we both collapse on our now shaky arms.
The only teacher I doubt would vote me on her Prom Court is the Pilates instructor. Because Pilates is serious business and so she ignores my commentary. I understand though because Pushing the peanut might be challenging while looking sexy but Pilates is the only class where making tiny circles with one leg for 8 reps can cause an entire class to start moaning because our rears and thighs are simultaneously ON FIRE.
So Pilates teacher is like the Sorority president.
Because she has to be a little icy and a little distant to make sure we all stay in line and follow the rules.
In her case the rules are focus, tighten your core and BREATHE.
Because for some reason we all, curvy, shy, veteran or LOUD, always forget to exhale.
But we certainly have the grunting and sweating down pat.
At least I do.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
I don't get it....
Today was a day for situations that left my internal monologue furrowing its brows and moaning huh?
At work, I'll admit, I was distracted. I have recently been captivated by a new lover (relax, Mother, I don't mean an actual person) and that lover is Diva Den Studio. This dance/fitness studio has endless classes every day and I am in L-O-V-E. I spent years of my life dancing as a kid and I don't know how I forgot how much I loved it but I do. And I am good. Damn good. (Told you--Most. Humble. High School. Yearbook. Look it up). And I'm sure my ability is directly proportionate to my love of it. No one can accuse me of having a love affair with playing guitar because I held it once, tried to strum a few chords and reached a new Barbie octave in my register when I discovered just how painful strumming chords actually is. (How do all those sexy lead singers in bands make it look so effortless? This is why I love them so).
But this fabulous new world of non stop booty shakin' has recently put out a promotional coupon and it is crawling with new eager bitches. I'm stoked the place is getting all this publicity but when I left a class this morning and found out I was on a waiting list for a class later that night I had to stifle my urge to scoff. Pffft. Do they know who I am? Wait list? I think not, my pretty blonde receptionist. So, eager to not be placed on the unfortunate sorry-no-calorie-burning-for-you list I logged online at work during my break and registered for every class I wanted to take through mid February. And that may or may not have made my ten minute break more like twenty minutes. And I may or may not have spent another ten or fifteen minutes writing all the classes I'd been officially registered for in my planner. For the next four weeks. But I had already finished all my pre close tasks which was really the reason I was there. And the kid who commented on me slacking off is like, THE official slacker spokesman for Starbucks. (Really, I think he's like, the Facebook Starbucks Slackers President). He's one of my favorite co workers and I love him to death. But I didn't understand why he suddenly gave a damn if I wrote in my planner instead of found stuff to do. We always stand around and bullshit once we get our important stuff done.
So my fellow slacker giving me the stink eye was my first Say Whaaaat? moment of the day.
My other question mark landed in dance tonight when in between two back to back classes I walked to my bag to change shoes and when I returned to the same general area of the dance floor a girl practically knocked me over to stand in front of me to make sure she was UP FRONT. And she wasn't the only one. There were several girls who quickly took their front and center stances and two girls to my right even mumbled, Hey, how did that happen? when they realized they'd been side stepped and knocked out of their front line positions.
Say Whaaaat? moment number two: Why are chicks getting competitive over a fitness class? Was it the same reason girls HAD to sing first soprano in college because "pretty" girls sing the high notes and "pretty" girls dance in front during Cardio Strip Tease?
The best moment though? The bitch who nearly knocked me down to get in front? She SQUIRMED at the end of class when the teacher said she wanted to videotape us. She turned around and said she didn't want to be in front because she "kept screwing it up." I smiled a smile that she didn't realize was maniacal. Do you want me to be in front? I asked politely. Yes, she nodded eagerly. And I stepped in line with all the other "pretty" girls.
And this pretty girl? Shook the socks off of all those other bitches. Even the one in thigh highs with the perfect little figure. Some girls rock it no matter what row they dance in.
I just got to be front and center this time to show the wannabes just how it's done.
At work, I'll admit, I was distracted. I have recently been captivated by a new lover (relax, Mother, I don't mean an actual person) and that lover is Diva Den Studio. This dance/fitness studio has endless classes every day and I am in L-O-V-E. I spent years of my life dancing as a kid and I don't know how I forgot how much I loved it but I do. And I am good. Damn good. (Told you--Most. Humble. High School. Yearbook. Look it up). And I'm sure my ability is directly proportionate to my love of it. No one can accuse me of having a love affair with playing guitar because I held it once, tried to strum a few chords and reached a new Barbie octave in my register when I discovered just how painful strumming chords actually is. (How do all those sexy lead singers in bands make it look so effortless? This is why I love them so).
But this fabulous new world of non stop booty shakin' has recently put out a promotional coupon and it is crawling with new eager bitches. I'm stoked the place is getting all this publicity but when I left a class this morning and found out I was on a waiting list for a class later that night I had to stifle my urge to scoff. Pffft. Do they know who I am? Wait list? I think not, my pretty blonde receptionist. So, eager to not be placed on the unfortunate sorry-no-calorie-burning-for-you list I logged online at work during my break and registered for every class I wanted to take through mid February. And that may or may not have made my ten minute break more like twenty minutes. And I may or may not have spent another ten or fifteen minutes writing all the classes I'd been officially registered for in my planner. For the next four weeks. But I had already finished all my pre close tasks which was really the reason I was there. And the kid who commented on me slacking off is like, THE official slacker spokesman for Starbucks. (Really, I think he's like, the Facebook Starbucks Slackers President). He's one of my favorite co workers and I love him to death. But I didn't understand why he suddenly gave a damn if I wrote in my planner instead of found stuff to do. We always stand around and bullshit once we get our important stuff done.
So my fellow slacker giving me the stink eye was my first Say Whaaaat? moment of the day.
My other question mark landed in dance tonight when in between two back to back classes I walked to my bag to change shoes and when I returned to the same general area of the dance floor a girl practically knocked me over to stand in front of me to make sure she was UP FRONT. And she wasn't the only one. There were several girls who quickly took their front and center stances and two girls to my right even mumbled, Hey, how did that happen? when they realized they'd been side stepped and knocked out of their front line positions.
Say Whaaaat? moment number two: Why are chicks getting competitive over a fitness class? Was it the same reason girls HAD to sing first soprano in college because "pretty" girls sing the high notes and "pretty" girls dance in front during Cardio Strip Tease?
The best moment though? The bitch who nearly knocked me down to get in front? She SQUIRMED at the end of class when the teacher said she wanted to videotape us. She turned around and said she didn't want to be in front because she "kept screwing it up." I smiled a smile that she didn't realize was maniacal. Do you want me to be in front? I asked politely. Yes, she nodded eagerly. And I stepped in line with all the other "pretty" girls.
And this pretty girl? Shook the socks off of all those other bitches. Even the one in thigh highs with the perfect little figure. Some girls rock it no matter what row they dance in.
I just got to be front and center this time to show the wannabes just how it's done.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Reese's Flaw-less-ness
It's a lovely day for a picnic. Cough. No, really. The overwhelming down pour makes me think of a few certain folks I wouldn't mind sitting next to so long as they soaked in a puddle of mud. Heh heh. If I gathered Narcissis, Prince Charming and Mr. Volcano in the same room or dare I say, on a rainy day picnic, I'm pretty sure their only commonality would be an affinity for boobs. And mine, of course, are fantastic. (I'd like to thank my Mother, our fabulous genetics and the good folks at Victoria's Secret without which, none of this would be possible).
Another thing my wonderful genetics have provided is flawless, porcelain skin. I single handedly keep Estee Lauder in business with the number of people I send to their counter who just have to know what foundation I wear! It really is a shame I no longer work in cosmetics because this mug sold the products without any verbal prowess on my part. If I told them I used that moisturizer, they'd buy it. My mascara? This very one, of course! But lately, there has been a shift in my Nicole Kidman flawlessness. (No, it's not a word, I looked it up. But flawlessness SHOULD be a word so I have created it. Trademark Resa Renee Inc.) I blame the new for-the-love-of-God-please-no-babies pills I'm taking (also known as the make-these-immobilizing-cramps-cease-before-I-murder-someone pills). I've been off the miracle pills for nearly a year and something tells me my body is not adjusting quickly to the new levels of hormones I'm introducing to it. My excessive new exercise regimen I began a week ago could also have something to do with it but whatever it is, my face has got to stop breaking out!! I have beautiful skin! It's like, my thing! I've got amazing skin, a killer rack and a kick ass soprano voice. It's just who I am. I was also voted most humble in my high school yearbook. (Oh, wait, that was Ann Marie but you get the point).
So somehow I need to relay this message of my flawlessness (repetition DOES in fact make it more likely to be a real word) to my face who is currently housing 5 zits! Ugh. It's like going through junior high all over again in your 30's. Sooo not sexy. And so doesn't match my houndstooth jacket.
Gonna have a heart to heart with my body and get back to you.
Another thing my wonderful genetics have provided is flawless, porcelain skin. I single handedly keep Estee Lauder in business with the number of people I send to their counter who just have to know what foundation I wear! It really is a shame I no longer work in cosmetics because this mug sold the products without any verbal prowess on my part. If I told them I used that moisturizer, they'd buy it. My mascara? This very one, of course! But lately, there has been a shift in my Nicole Kidman flawlessness. (No, it's not a word, I looked it up. But flawlessness SHOULD be a word so I have created it. Trademark Resa Renee Inc.) I blame the new for-the-love-of-God-please-no-babies pills I'm taking (also known as the make-these-immobilizing-cramps-cease-before-I-murder-someone pills). I've been off the miracle pills for nearly a year and something tells me my body is not adjusting quickly to the new levels of hormones I'm introducing to it. My excessive new exercise regimen I began a week ago could also have something to do with it but whatever it is, my face has got to stop breaking out!! I have beautiful skin! It's like, my thing! I've got amazing skin, a killer rack and a kick ass soprano voice. It's just who I am. I was also voted most humble in my high school yearbook. (Oh, wait, that was Ann Marie but you get the point).
So somehow I need to relay this message of my flawlessness (repetition DOES in fact make it more likely to be a real word) to my face who is currently housing 5 zits! Ugh. It's like going through junior high all over again in your 30's. Sooo not sexy. And so doesn't match my houndstooth jacket.
Gonna have a heart to heart with my body and get back to you.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Moderation is the antithesis of The Resa
I wonder if there's anyone else in the world who feels they do their best writing keying it on their Blackberry or if it's just me. I know it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever because I could certainly type faster if I used my laptop but there's something about my sparkly crackberry that shares a connection with me and it always somehow feels easier jotting down my thoughts as if it were some massively long text message. (Only unlike those long winded friends of mine and their 5 page non stop texts I wait for a reply before continuing to prattle on. Manners at all times even in the BS throngs of technology). I'm not quite sure what my affinity for writing on a small device no can see is but I'm fairly certain it corresponds to my inability to do anything in the norm.
You went to 10 hours of dance this week? Maggie asked me in disbelief. Wow. How'd you manage that? She doesn't mean to sound condescending. She just knows me and it has been years since I exercised regularly. I used to be obsessed in college and like any obsession it was eventually replaced by another more attractive one (which I believe in that case was a charming foreigner who found me irresistible and can you blame him??)
Fingers crossed it lasts longer than Prince Charming could.
You went to 10 hours of dance this week? Maggie asked me in disbelief. Wow. How'd you manage that? She doesn't mean to sound condescending. She just knows me and it has been years since I exercised regularly. I used to be obsessed in college and like any obsession it was eventually replaced by another more attractive one (which I believe in that case was a charming foreigner who found me irresistible and can you blame him??)
I'm an extremist, I tell my friend and it's true. I can remember years I barely did any reading and the past several months I've read through more books than I did the years of 2006-2007 combined. Once I make my mind up to do something that's that. I mean it. I am so dedicated that I'm quite certain if I made my mind up I could be obese enough to star on 'The Biggest Loser' or svelt enough to steal your current boyfriend. (And possibly your husband. Just sayin'.) So when I use my extremist powers for good (e.g. Productive reading, Healthy dance & fitness classes) it can be one of my greatest attributes. It's when my extremism leads me to obsess over unworthy candidates (e.g. Emotionally Unavailable men, Physically Unavailable men, Legally Unavailable men--see MEN, General) that it then becomes my tragic downfall. But with a new exercise schedule in place and a stack of library books I'm quickly reading through I seem to have found a healthy outlet for all this passionate energy.
Fingers crossed it lasts longer than Prince Charming could.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Perish the thought
I like to read.
I especially like reading more when I've been writing more. They seem to go hand in hand. But there are some things about books that make me almost as looney as men who break up with you and then turn into stalkers (don't even get me started on THAT subject).
Things that drive me to consider books on tape (which I have never engaged in--not ONCE)
1) Footnotes.
Do you have any idea how annoying it is to be reading along through a paragraph and then have to quickly dart my eyes to the bottom of the page to look down and read what could have easily been written (in between these handy dandy parenthesis!) With ( ) --bless their curvy arced hearts-- my eyes wouldn't have to jump around like they were playing air hockey and could concentrate on simply reading the words in a row.
Conclusion: Footnotes are pretentious. Get over yourself and embrace the simplicity of parentheses before your readers grow violent and stage a book burning.
2) Lack of quotation marks.
I recently finished a book that housed ZERO quote marks. So every time someone said something I had to try and figure out what was the actual quote and what was the narrators thoughts regarding what had been said. BEYOND ANNOYING! You think we ever could have gotten away with that crap in elementary school?
Conclusion: Quotes were invented for a purpose. Use them. Or I will be forced to ban all your grammatical rule breaking literature for all of eternity (and possibly even devote an entire blog to why no one should read your books. HA!)
3) Typos.
I don't mean to sound like a TOTAL bitch (Ironically bitchy, yes, raving whore, no) but don't they PAY someone to proof books before they go to print? Or for that matter who read one copy to check for errors before printing off thousands of copies? Because the number of times I read there there is going to be... Or we would like a is pink cake... Were far too numerous to mention. I think a monkey could have found at least half those typos, circled them with a red pen and clapped for a banana afterwards.
How do all these spelling errors happen? Is there no one who can be paid to fix this problem? Because I will volunteer myself for this job (provided I get a book contract as part of my pay).
Conclusion: Find a a way to nix the misstakes or or I will be forced will be forced to listen to books on tape.
Eeeeeeew.
I especially like reading more when I've been writing more. They seem to go hand in hand. But there are some things about books that make me almost as looney as men who break up with you and then turn into stalkers (don't even get me started on THAT subject).
Things that drive me to consider books on tape (which I have never engaged in--not ONCE)
1) Footnotes.
Do you have any idea how annoying it is to be reading along through a paragraph and then have to quickly dart my eyes to the bottom of the page to look down and read what could have easily been written (in between these handy dandy parenthesis!) With ( ) --bless their curvy arced hearts-- my eyes wouldn't have to jump around like they were playing air hockey and could concentrate on simply reading the words in a row.
Conclusion: Footnotes are pretentious. Get over yourself and embrace the simplicity of parentheses before your readers grow violent and stage a book burning.
2) Lack of quotation marks.
I recently finished a book that housed ZERO quote marks. So every time someone said something I had to try and figure out what was the actual quote and what was the narrators thoughts regarding what had been said. BEYOND ANNOYING! You think we ever could have gotten away with that crap in elementary school?
Conclusion: Quotes were invented for a purpose. Use them. Or I will be forced to ban all your grammatical rule breaking literature for all of eternity (and possibly even devote an entire blog to why no one should read your books. HA!)
3) Typos.
I don't mean to sound like a TOTAL bitch (Ironically bitchy, yes, raving whore, no) but don't they PAY someone to proof books before they go to print? Or for that matter who read one copy to check for errors before printing off thousands of copies? Because the number of times I read there there is going to be... Or we would like a is pink cake... Were far too numerous to mention. I think a monkey could have found at least half those typos, circled them with a red pen and clapped for a banana afterwards.
How do all these spelling errors happen? Is there no one who can be paid to fix this problem? Because I will volunteer myself for this job (provided I get a book contract as part of my pay).
Conclusion: Find a a way to nix the misstakes or or I will be forced will be forced to listen to books on tape.
Eeeeeeew.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
I'm sorry, I will be indisposed for the next 3-12 months
I hate losing friends to co dependency.
You know when you see a friend consistently and then they get a boyfriend and you never see them again because all of their time is monopolized by that one person?
Did I spend all my time with Mr. Volcano when we were dating? I asked Betty Ann.
She laughed her hearty guffaw at me on the phone.
I'm going to interpret your laughter as a resound yes, I said.
Is that simply the rule of thumb?
New relationship=ALL your free time.
I understand, I mean, I know I've been guilty of it myself before (according to my Bestie even more recently than I'd care to admit) but if we have healthy balanced relationships with our friends why do we develop overwhelmingly dependent change-who-we-are-to-adapt-to-that-person addictions with our lovers? Was it the act of intmacy that drove us to madness? That would explain for those who inexplicably stay with abusers, cheaters, megalomaniacs, perverts, nitwits, halfwits, and assholes.
Right?
I remember the last person I was seeing wanted to go out nearly every night and while I was admittedly flattered by the outpour of attention I also found it exhausting.
Don't people ever just want to be alone? Like with themselves? With their own thoughts, their own passions, their conversations with God?
Or am I some bizarre minority?
That wouldn't surprise me in the least.
The other side to all this co dependency is what it does to a person after the years have taken their toll. Suddenly resentment and bitterness resound in the voice of one who feels their spouse no longer delights in them. Passive aggressive games ensue and suddenly 'forgetting' to do or not do certain things becomes a way of getting back at the one who no longer seems to desire you.
Nothing spells Happy Marriage like spouses performing impressions mocking their partners nagging, unloving ways. (I know, I see them all too frequently. It seems Starbucks patrons like to shed light to Baristas on their less than fulfilling relationships).
But if relationships weren't co dependencies wouldn't it be easier to forgive offences? If someone was moody or offensive or undesirable couldn't you just go for a run, meet your friends, read a book, drive to the coast?
Does it have to be ALL or nothing?
Someone said that to me once. I have to be all or nothing. But that just seems like such a cop out.
Where's the friggin' balance?
You know when you see a friend consistently and then they get a boyfriend and you never see them again because all of their time is monopolized by that one person?
Did I spend all my time with Mr. Volcano when we were dating? I asked Betty Ann.
She laughed her hearty guffaw at me on the phone.
I'm going to interpret your laughter as a resound yes, I said.
Is that simply the rule of thumb?
New relationship=ALL your free time.
I understand, I mean, I know I've been guilty of it myself before (according to my Bestie even more recently than I'd care to admit) but if we have healthy balanced relationships with our friends why do we develop overwhelmingly dependent change-who-we-are-to-adapt-to-that-person addictions with our lovers? Was it the act of intmacy that drove us to madness? That would explain for those who inexplicably stay with abusers, cheaters, megalomaniacs, perverts, nitwits, halfwits, and assholes.
Right?
I remember the last person I was seeing wanted to go out nearly every night and while I was admittedly flattered by the outpour of attention I also found it exhausting.
Don't people ever just want to be alone? Like with themselves? With their own thoughts, their own passions, their conversations with God?
Or am I some bizarre minority?
That wouldn't surprise me in the least.
The other side to all this co dependency is what it does to a person after the years have taken their toll. Suddenly resentment and bitterness resound in the voice of one who feels their spouse no longer delights in them. Passive aggressive games ensue and suddenly 'forgetting' to do or not do certain things becomes a way of getting back at the one who no longer seems to desire you.
Nothing spells Happy Marriage like spouses performing impressions mocking their partners nagging, unloving ways. (I know, I see them all too frequently. It seems Starbucks patrons like to shed light to Baristas on their less than fulfilling relationships).
But if relationships weren't co dependencies wouldn't it be easier to forgive offences? If someone was moody or offensive or undesirable couldn't you just go for a run, meet your friends, read a book, drive to the coast?
Does it have to be ALL or nothing?
Someone said that to me once. I have to be all or nothing. But that just seems like such a cop out.
Where's the friggin' balance?
Monday, January 10, 2011
Thou shalt not forsake thy sister for a dude
I went to a "Cabaret" tonight. I use the term "Cabaret" loosely as it felt more like a high school talent show than a performance at a bar with a two drink minimum. I have many lovely qualities (I say, of course, with ALL humility) but one of my less than lovely qualities is that when it comes to performance art I'm a SNOB. I trained classically in music in college, studied music, dance and theatre for years as a child and an adult and like many singer/actor/dancers I am WAY too opinionated for anyone else's good.
And tonight? Tonight was amateur hour at what I thought was going to be a polished performance. No big deal, right? Right, except I've already established that I'm a SNOB and when I'm enjoying a cocktail I like to enjoy it without the diatribe of a comic who can't read his own notes on his note pad or a singer whose misreading the sheet music to the song she had learned only earlier that day.
Oy.
I told my partner in crime I'd had enough of open mic night and we planned to make a break for it and then the Quintessential Villain showed up. He was an ex of my friends and he literally looked like a villain. I mean, you know those bad guys in the movies based on Alexander Dumas novels? This guy had the long hair, the moustache, the pointy triangle beard. I turned to my friend and asked as politely as I could, "You dated THAT guy?" Apparently he IS actually playing a villain in a period play (which truthfully, disappointed me a little. I was kind of hoping he just was THAT kooky). But because of this Quintessential Villain my escape plan was put on hold. My friend wanted to stay and visit with him and other actors from his play.
Oh no she DIH-INT!
Thou shalt not forsake thy girlfriend for an exboyfriend.
Especially one who looks like an extra from The Three Muskateers.
Pouting, I decided to call it a night. Bad entertainment AND competing for my friends attention with a bunch of unattractive men? I hear 'Sex and the City' and chocolate calling my name back home. As I drove home I realized what was really bothering me.
My girlfriend was able to get an affectionate hug from her ex and then proceed to enjoy an eve catching up with him while mine continued to slander me thousands of miles away.
Why are some women able to stay on good terms with their exes while others can't even manage to be facebook friends?
Was it just me?
Was I the only one?
Because as my record stood I remained friends with exactly zero exboyfriends.
None.
I know I can be a little unreasonable at times. I'm passionate and opinionated and intense and I get that I'm too hot to handle for some men but....none? No exes converted to friends? Mine was pleading with the men he knew to stay away from me because Lord only knows what I'll do if I get my hands on some dude.
I just go after everyone. No self control. He's a guy I simply GOTTA have him!
Apparently this is the reputation I have developed. I'm determined to take it as a compliment especially since the number of dates I've gone on in the past year is laughable to warrant such a rep.
But hey, when you've got it you've got it and apparently I possess MAD skill!!
(The fact I actually only dated, oh excuse me, "went after" one man is entirely beside the point).
Anyway, whatever the great secret is to actually remaining friends with someone you once greatly loved I'd be thrilled to solve the mystery.
Maybe it is just me.
Maybe I'm inadvertently picking the guys who are actually kooky enough to just dress like quintessential villains.
They just disguise it cleverly with tattoos and foreign accents.
Assholes.
And tonight? Tonight was amateur hour at what I thought was going to be a polished performance. No big deal, right? Right, except I've already established that I'm a SNOB and when I'm enjoying a cocktail I like to enjoy it without the diatribe of a comic who can't read his own notes on his note pad or a singer whose misreading the sheet music to the song she had learned only earlier that day.
Oy.
I told my partner in crime I'd had enough of open mic night and we planned to make a break for it and then the Quintessential Villain showed up. He was an ex of my friends and he literally looked like a villain. I mean, you know those bad guys in the movies based on Alexander Dumas novels? This guy had the long hair, the moustache, the pointy triangle beard. I turned to my friend and asked as politely as I could, "You dated THAT guy?" Apparently he IS actually playing a villain in a period play (which truthfully, disappointed me a little. I was kind of hoping he just was THAT kooky). But because of this Quintessential Villain my escape plan was put on hold. My friend wanted to stay and visit with him and other actors from his play.
Oh no she DIH-INT!
Thou shalt not forsake thy girlfriend for an exboyfriend.
Especially one who looks like an extra from The Three Muskateers.
Pouting, I decided to call it a night. Bad entertainment AND competing for my friends attention with a bunch of unattractive men? I hear 'Sex and the City' and chocolate calling my name back home. As I drove home I realized what was really bothering me.
My girlfriend was able to get an affectionate hug from her ex and then proceed to enjoy an eve catching up with him while mine continued to slander me thousands of miles away.
Why are some women able to stay on good terms with their exes while others can't even manage to be facebook friends?
Was it just me?
Was I the only one?
Because as my record stood I remained friends with exactly zero exboyfriends.
None.
I know I can be a little unreasonable at times. I'm passionate and opinionated and intense and I get that I'm too hot to handle for some men but....none? No exes converted to friends? Mine was pleading with the men he knew to stay away from me because Lord only knows what I'll do if I get my hands on some dude.
I just go after everyone. No self control. He's a guy I simply GOTTA have him!
Apparently this is the reputation I have developed. I'm determined to take it as a compliment especially since the number of dates I've gone on in the past year is laughable to warrant such a rep.
But hey, when you've got it you've got it and apparently I possess MAD skill!!
(The fact I actually only dated, oh excuse me, "went after" one man is entirely beside the point).
Anyway, whatever the great secret is to actually remaining friends with someone you once greatly loved I'd be thrilled to solve the mystery.
Maybe it is just me.
Maybe I'm inadvertently picking the guys who are actually kooky enough to just dress like quintessential villains.
They just disguise it cleverly with tattoos and foreign accents.
Assholes.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Lighten up buddy, it's only brunch
This afternoon I met one of my favorite friends for brunch at the Screen Door. This restaurant is located at literally the dividing line of Burnside so on one side of the street is East and right across is West. Eerie.
When we walked in the place was packed but fortunately they had one of those self serve coffee stations set up at the bar and if I can drink coffee while I wait I don't mind if it takes 46 minutes 'til I get my eggs and toast. As I approached the counter I noticed the waiter at the bar was pretty cute and even though I hadn't yet had my coffee I thought I'd flex my flirt. I was rocking my blue plaid flannel shirt, black fringe dress, red boot combination, very 'I'm artsy and girly and I really put no thought into throwing this outfit together' and I was feeling pretty cute (if I do say so myself, thank you). As I took my white ceramic cup and attempted to fill it with coffee I pumped twice and noticed four ounces was about as much as the coffee urn had left to give me. I caught the eye of the cute waiter and flashing my most flirtatious smile said, "I'm stealing all the coffee!" He came closer and needed me to repeat my clever way of saying 'The coffee pot's empty, buddy, think you could handle fillin' 'er up?' He's SURE to find me adorably clever and irresistible. So I bat my eyelashes one more time and say in my seductive Scarlett Johansson voice, "I'm stealing ALL the coffee." And he, in turn, replied with an unamused, curt, "Oh no, you'll pay for that later."
Ummm. Did I miss something? Did I stumble into some bad lighting? Did he fail to notice I'm wearing FRINGE, that's right, a fringe flapper dress? Hello!!
I clarified that I meant the coffee pot was empty so he simply got me a new one and with my now full cup of coffee I stumbled over to my favorite friend and sighed, "Flirt FAIL."
But hey, at least I got my coffee.
When we walked in the place was packed but fortunately they had one of those self serve coffee stations set up at the bar and if I can drink coffee while I wait I don't mind if it takes 46 minutes 'til I get my eggs and toast. As I approached the counter I noticed the waiter at the bar was pretty cute and even though I hadn't yet had my coffee I thought I'd flex my flirt. I was rocking my blue plaid flannel shirt, black fringe dress, red boot combination, very 'I'm artsy and girly and I really put no thought into throwing this outfit together' and I was feeling pretty cute (if I do say so myself, thank you). As I took my white ceramic cup and attempted to fill it with coffee I pumped twice and noticed four ounces was about as much as the coffee urn had left to give me. I caught the eye of the cute waiter and flashing my most flirtatious smile said, "I'm stealing all the coffee!" He came closer and needed me to repeat my clever way of saying 'The coffee pot's empty, buddy, think you could handle fillin' 'er up?' He's SURE to find me adorably clever and irresistible. So I bat my eyelashes one more time and say in my seductive Scarlett Johansson voice, "I'm stealing ALL the coffee." And he, in turn, replied with an unamused, curt, "Oh no, you'll pay for that later."
Ummm. Did I miss something? Did I stumble into some bad lighting? Did he fail to notice I'm wearing FRINGE, that's right, a fringe flapper dress? Hello!!
I clarified that I meant the coffee pot was empty so he simply got me a new one and with my now full cup of coffee I stumbled over to my favorite friend and sighed, "Flirt FAIL."
But hey, at least I got my coffee.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Warning: This Devilish Woman is Irresistible
"Don't talk to her. She goes after every guy she's friends with."
Aha.
So this is why I have no male friends.
Their egos pervert my affection into something more than I ever meant it to be.
Nice.
AWESOME.
Sooo...if I start acting like an icy, indifferent bitch to men do you think they'll still find me overly flirtatious?
"She's just playing hard to get."
"She thinks she's better than everyone else."
"Did you see the way she looked at me? She totally wants me."
I guess people can twist anything into something else.
They're just that wicked talented.
Somehow though I'm not impressed.
If I do "go after" all the men in my life as this insecure child is telling people I do then what does that say for the men who apparently can't resist my overtures? Are you all so terribly weak and pathetic? Are you truly that incapable of thinking for yourself and making your own big boy decisions?
Awe, poor baby.
Shall I get your mommy for you?
Or maybe just your sippy cup?
Give me a break. One thing is clear. Sexism is still as prevalent today as it was when we didn't have the vote. At least back then there were certain things men knew were unacceptable in the eyes of society. Today anything goes. Oh but when the scandals of said anything are brought to light they're always the fault of the "devilish woman."
The women are always Delilah's and the men are always lion slaying Samson's.
With hearts of freakin' gold.
Clearly a man would only stray because of one special woman.
He would never fall for a woman merely because she's female.
Nooooo.
Only those cunning, crafty, conniving temptresses can get men to do naughty things.
They never have impure thoughts on their own.
Stupid Eve.
Adam would have done just fine if it weren't for you.
You know what else I love?
Since we're on the subject....
I love it when men work the "Well, me and my GIRLFRIEND" statement into a conversation as if to put a big block on my friendly overtures. Their subtlety in emphasizing their significant other is about as subtle as my disdain over their unwarranted hubris.
Hey buddy! I work at STAR-BUCKS. I get paid to feign interest in your daily life. Do you think I really give a damn how work is going for you or what your weekend plans are? I could be anywhere else doing anything else, making art, making love, making a difference in the lives of people I genuinely care for. But no, I gotta work just like you, and that work is called CUSTOMER SERVICE. So how about you get over yourself for one solid minute. This little coffee girl is really not interested in seeing your slick bedroom moves. Why don't you just take your crayons and go practice your lower case letters.
What's great about our modern technological day and age is that deleting someone from my life is more thorough, more all encompassing and fool proof than it has ever been for any generation prior. Before our media obsessed culture I'd have to continue seeing acquaintances at social gatherings, parties, events. If someone pissed me off I couldn't delete them from The 400 or have them spend spring break at another summer spot. Oh but now? NOW I can change my phone number so they can never call or text me. I can block their emails so I never receive another for the entirety of Yahoo. I can block them from Facebook so they can never read one of my witty status updates. And I can trust God, that if He wants to keep me in a protected bubble like He has from the evil incarnate that is Narcissus He will certainly protect me from the lot of THEM.
Hallelujah.
Kyrie Eleison.
Winky face.
Heart.
Matthew 5:44.
Aha.
So this is why I have no male friends.
Their egos pervert my affection into something more than I ever meant it to be.
Nice.
AWESOME.
Sooo...if I start acting like an icy, indifferent bitch to men do you think they'll still find me overly flirtatious?
"She's just playing hard to get."
"She thinks she's better than everyone else."
"Did you see the way she looked at me? She totally wants me."
I guess people can twist anything into something else.
They're just that wicked talented.
Somehow though I'm not impressed.
If I do "go after" all the men in my life as this insecure child is telling people I do then what does that say for the men who apparently can't resist my overtures? Are you all so terribly weak and pathetic? Are you truly that incapable of thinking for yourself and making your own big boy decisions?
Awe, poor baby.
Shall I get your mommy for you?
Or maybe just your sippy cup?
Give me a break. One thing is clear. Sexism is still as prevalent today as it was when we didn't have the vote. At least back then there were certain things men knew were unacceptable in the eyes of society. Today anything goes. Oh but when the scandals of said anything are brought to light they're always the fault of the "devilish woman."
The women are always Delilah's and the men are always lion slaying Samson's.
With hearts of freakin' gold.
Clearly a man would only stray because of one special woman.
He would never fall for a woman merely because she's female.
Nooooo.
Only those cunning, crafty, conniving temptresses can get men to do naughty things.
They never have impure thoughts on their own.
Stupid Eve.
Adam would have done just fine if it weren't for you.
You know what else I love?
Since we're on the subject....
I love it when men work the "Well, me and my GIRLFRIEND" statement into a conversation as if to put a big block on my friendly overtures. Their subtlety in emphasizing their significant other is about as subtle as my disdain over their unwarranted hubris.
Hey buddy! I work at STAR-BUCKS. I get paid to feign interest in your daily life. Do you think I really give a damn how work is going for you or what your weekend plans are? I could be anywhere else doing anything else, making art, making love, making a difference in the lives of people I genuinely care for. But no, I gotta work just like you, and that work is called CUSTOMER SERVICE. So how about you get over yourself for one solid minute. This little coffee girl is really not interested in seeing your slick bedroom moves. Why don't you just take your crayons and go practice your lower case letters.
What's great about our modern technological day and age is that deleting someone from my life is more thorough, more all encompassing and fool proof than it has ever been for any generation prior. Before our media obsessed culture I'd have to continue seeing acquaintances at social gatherings, parties, events. If someone pissed me off I couldn't delete them from The 400 or have them spend spring break at another summer spot. Oh but now? NOW I can change my phone number so they can never call or text me. I can block their emails so I never receive another for the entirety of Yahoo. I can block them from Facebook so they can never read one of my witty status updates. And I can trust God, that if He wants to keep me in a protected bubble like He has from the evil incarnate that is Narcissus He will certainly protect me from the lot of THEM.
Hallelujah.
Kyrie Eleison.
Winky face.
Heart.
Matthew 5:44.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
If it's good enough for the birds....
"The male eagle leaves to find a female. When he finds one, they begin a game of tag, which is actually a type of courtship. The female eagle soars high in the sky in a figure-eight pattern and makes the male eagle chase her. Now he is no longer flying his own course; he is following someone else-- someone who appears to be going in a strange direction.
After a little while she dives to the ground, picks up a twig, flies up to about ten thousand feet, and drops the twig. He dives at approximately two hundred miles per hour to catch the twig in midair and takes it back to her. What is her response? She ignores him.
The female eagle repeats this process, and she makes the male's job increasingly difficult. Each time she flies, the twig gets larger and she flies at a lower altitude. That means the twig is going to hit the ground faster, and the male will have to work harder if he wants to win her over.
This game can literally go on for days. Finally, the female gets a branch that is heavier than the male eagle. This time the female flies only five hundred feet above the ground and drops the branch. If he catches it, they go on together. If not, she flies off and leaves him; she has decided to wait for a male eagle who has the tenacity to be her man.
Once he passes the final twig test, both eagles move from courtship to the final commitment test. She flies high into the sky; he chases her; and suddenly she makes an odd move. In midair, she flips over on her back and sticks her talons up. The male moves over her and locks his talons with hers while they fall toward the earth. At this point he has made up his mind. He is committed, and he would die rather than let her go. Now they begin to sing a love song. They mate for life. Neither of them ever has another mate unless one of them dies. If the female dies, the male raises the young.
Even after the mating process is finished and she is his and they are in their nest, the male eagle continues to court the female for the rest of their lives. Male eagles have been seen to stroke the feathers of their female companions and to bring green twigs home to them long after the courtship is complete."
-Taken from "Never Give Up" by Joyce Meyer
After a little while she dives to the ground, picks up a twig, flies up to about ten thousand feet, and drops the twig. He dives at approximately two hundred miles per hour to catch the twig in midair and takes it back to her. What is her response? She ignores him.
The female eagle repeats this process, and she makes the male's job increasingly difficult. Each time she flies, the twig gets larger and she flies at a lower altitude. That means the twig is going to hit the ground faster, and the male will have to work harder if he wants to win her over.
This game can literally go on for days. Finally, the female gets a branch that is heavier than the male eagle. This time the female flies only five hundred feet above the ground and drops the branch. If he catches it, they go on together. If not, she flies off and leaves him; she has decided to wait for a male eagle who has the tenacity to be her man.
Once he passes the final twig test, both eagles move from courtship to the final commitment test. She flies high into the sky; he chases her; and suddenly she makes an odd move. In midair, she flips over on her back and sticks her talons up. The male moves over her and locks his talons with hers while they fall toward the earth. At this point he has made up his mind. He is committed, and he would die rather than let her go. Now they begin to sing a love song. They mate for life. Neither of them ever has another mate unless one of them dies. If the female dies, the male raises the young.
Even after the mating process is finished and she is his and they are in their nest, the male eagle continues to court the female for the rest of their lives. Male eagles have been seen to stroke the feathers of their female companions and to bring green twigs home to them long after the courtship is complete."
-Taken from "Never Give Up" by Joyce Meyer
The stuff that buries you alive
I own a lot of things. I mean, a comically huge plethora of stuff. I always thought it was funny, that I was such a pack rat. Reading Gary Chapman's "The Five Love Languages" it is clear "Gifts" is my main love language. It means something when someone gives me something. I associate a memory to the item and every time I see the gift it reminds me how that person loves me and thought of me.
My Grandfather passed away last year and since then my Aunts and Grandma have devoted hours and felt great stress over getting rid of all kinds of things my Grandma and Grandpa kept for years. I don't understand because I've never dealt with it directly but watching how much time they spend agonizing over where to send certain things, who needs to take what, I always wonder why they don't just ship it all off to Goodwill or hire movers to come take everything away to donate to people who really need it. I think that everyone associates significance with things and also with space.
I lived with someone who was controlling and passive aggressive over space and stuff. He constantly bought items to fill his house and then would grow irrationally angry over the clutter that was everywhere.
When I finally moved out of that house all I wanted to do was get rid of all my stuff. It was all such a burden. It was the reason I'd stayed longer than I should have wanting to find a way to take all my stuff with me when I left.
Even after giving away countless bags and boxes of things to friends and the Arc I still have so much stuff. If I leave something in a room my Aunt doesn't think it should be in I will find that she has moved it somewhere. The house is slowly depleting in items until sometime very soon there will be nothing left. And everyone will celebrate that they succeeded in removing all the junk that cluttered and then when everything's gone and the house is gone and Grandma is gone they will be sad that nothing is there.
People suffer from chronic dissatisfaction. It is toxic and contagious and I despise being around it. Nothing is good enough, nothing is quite right, there's more to be done and why do we still have this and we need a new one of those and so on and so forth.
If I never kept anything I could be out of everyone's way and be no bother at all and maybe I'd be left alone.
And maybe the passive aggressive controlling misers would think I needed stuff and start giving me things because I didn't have them. And then they'd fume when I left my cup on their side of the counter.
I think Mr.Indecisive had it down. He owned so few possessions that he could fit it all neatly in his car.
It makes an escape that much easier to make.
Hats off to you, Alaska.
My beautiful things are killing me slowly.
My Grandfather passed away last year and since then my Aunts and Grandma have devoted hours and felt great stress over getting rid of all kinds of things my Grandma and Grandpa kept for years. I don't understand because I've never dealt with it directly but watching how much time they spend agonizing over where to send certain things, who needs to take what, I always wonder why they don't just ship it all off to Goodwill or hire movers to come take everything away to donate to people who really need it. I think that everyone associates significance with things and also with space.
I lived with someone who was controlling and passive aggressive over space and stuff. He constantly bought items to fill his house and then would grow irrationally angry over the clutter that was everywhere.
When I finally moved out of that house all I wanted to do was get rid of all my stuff. It was all such a burden. It was the reason I'd stayed longer than I should have wanting to find a way to take all my stuff with me when I left.
Even after giving away countless bags and boxes of things to friends and the Arc I still have so much stuff. If I leave something in a room my Aunt doesn't think it should be in I will find that she has moved it somewhere. The house is slowly depleting in items until sometime very soon there will be nothing left. And everyone will celebrate that they succeeded in removing all the junk that cluttered and then when everything's gone and the house is gone and Grandma is gone they will be sad that nothing is there.
People suffer from chronic dissatisfaction. It is toxic and contagious and I despise being around it. Nothing is good enough, nothing is quite right, there's more to be done and why do we still have this and we need a new one of those and so on and so forth.
If I never kept anything I could be out of everyone's way and be no bother at all and maybe I'd be left alone.
And maybe the passive aggressive controlling misers would think I needed stuff and start giving me things because I didn't have them. And then they'd fume when I left my cup on their side of the counter.
I think Mr.Indecisive had it down. He owned so few possessions that he could fit it all neatly in his car.
It makes an escape that much easier to make.
Hats off to you, Alaska.
My beautiful things are killing me slowly.
Merry Christmas, you filthy animal
"Christmas is for kids," someone told me and I agreed with them because it seemed the right thing to do. There are times when stating an opinion seems relevant and times when just nodding your head in agreement seems to take presidence.
Once I told a co worker that I wasn't sure if I ever wanted to get married and especially didn't know if I wanted to have kids. She squinted her eyes at me and with all sincerity asked, "Then what's the point?"
Hmm. It makes you wonder.
If holidays are not for adults but for children, if my sole life purpose is to bear children and I don't then according to our society I am...what?
Without?
Without what exactly?
Jesus said we are to become like children. WE are meaning who we are right now as boring blase insignificant adults because there is a child in all of us, a spirit in each of us desiring to be seen, to be valued and appreciated.
I'm so tired of feeling like the only purpose anyone thinks I should have is to get married and have kids. I'm so damn stubborn that I feel like if God ever put that desire on my heart I'd fight it just in spite of everyone. I know those people who are married because they had nothing better to do and had kids because it seemed the time to have them and maybe some of them are genuinely happy or maybe they're wondering why they let their life become something they thought it should be rather than allow the unpredictable peculiarities of life to shape theirs into something only suited for them.
The people of remembrance we read biographies about, inventors and scientists, artists with their radical ideas, the doctor who was dubbed a looney for suggesting they wash their hands in between patients so as not to infect another patient, they all went against the accepted protocol, the monotony of daily life, the drones of people who were convincing one another theirs was the way things were to be.
Why is Christmas a holiday for children? Isn't it the celebration of the birth of Jesus? Was He not born for me as much as He was born for a 5 year old? Why do so many adults stop giving gifts as adults? Is it important to teach a child to find value in stuff and learn that love wraps itself in brightly colored paper and multiple toys but once you're old enough to buy your own toys don't expect anyone else to buy them for you? You want to feel loved as an adult, go buy it yourself. Because now shopping for you is a burden. Only kids bring joy. Adults bring headaches.
And then we wonder why we're all so isolated and lonely and unhappy and taking four different medications just to keep from killing our neighbor.
Don't adults need love, attention, affection, more than children?
Don't kids begin crying and cease sobbing just as quickly as they began because something sparkly caught their eye? Isn't it the grownups who huddle in corners alone, late at night wondering why, feeling without, feeling alone?
It makes me sad to think I'm part of a culture that only celebrates certain life traditions. If I never marry, never have kids I might as well move to a tropical island away from pitying eyes who wonder what my point is.
My point?
How about this for a point.
To live my life loving God, learning to put Him first, learning to love and accept myself in spite of who I am and refusing to give up on everyone else, determined to overcome evil with good.
No matter what any of you has to say about that.
Once I told a co worker that I wasn't sure if I ever wanted to get married and especially didn't know if I wanted to have kids. She squinted her eyes at me and with all sincerity asked, "Then what's the point?"
Hmm. It makes you wonder.
If holidays are not for adults but for children, if my sole life purpose is to bear children and I don't then according to our society I am...what?
Without?
Without what exactly?
Jesus said we are to become like children. WE are meaning who we are right now as boring blase insignificant adults because there is a child in all of us, a spirit in each of us desiring to be seen, to be valued and appreciated.
I'm so tired of feeling like the only purpose anyone thinks I should have is to get married and have kids. I'm so damn stubborn that I feel like if God ever put that desire on my heart I'd fight it just in spite of everyone. I know those people who are married because they had nothing better to do and had kids because it seemed the time to have them and maybe some of them are genuinely happy or maybe they're wondering why they let their life become something they thought it should be rather than allow the unpredictable peculiarities of life to shape theirs into something only suited for them.
The people of remembrance we read biographies about, inventors and scientists, artists with their radical ideas, the doctor who was dubbed a looney for suggesting they wash their hands in between patients so as not to infect another patient, they all went against the accepted protocol, the monotony of daily life, the drones of people who were convincing one another theirs was the way things were to be.
Why is Christmas a holiday for children? Isn't it the celebration of the birth of Jesus? Was He not born for me as much as He was born for a 5 year old? Why do so many adults stop giving gifts as adults? Is it important to teach a child to find value in stuff and learn that love wraps itself in brightly colored paper and multiple toys but once you're old enough to buy your own toys don't expect anyone else to buy them for you? You want to feel loved as an adult, go buy it yourself. Because now shopping for you is a burden. Only kids bring joy. Adults bring headaches.
And then we wonder why we're all so isolated and lonely and unhappy and taking four different medications just to keep from killing our neighbor.
Don't adults need love, attention, affection, more than children?
Don't kids begin crying and cease sobbing just as quickly as they began because something sparkly caught their eye? Isn't it the grownups who huddle in corners alone, late at night wondering why, feeling without, feeling alone?
It makes me sad to think I'm part of a culture that only celebrates certain life traditions. If I never marry, never have kids I might as well move to a tropical island away from pitying eyes who wonder what my point is.
My point?
How about this for a point.
To live my life loving God, learning to put Him first, learning to love and accept myself in spite of who I am and refusing to give up on everyone else, determined to overcome evil with good.
No matter what any of you has to say about that.
Mmm, Sa-tis-fied
"I've gained ten pounds in the last couple months," a friend told me. She said it dejectedly, as though she were an alcoholic admitting to polishing off a vodka fifth the night prior.
When she mentioned that I thought of my own last couple months and realized I think I've gained something like 10 pounds myself. Do I have a scale? No, but I can tell by the way my dresses fit. Ten pounds is really not a whole heck of a lot but it's enough to notice how easily a zipper slides over your hips and for some women it can be the reason they order the fruit cup instead of the pancakes at brunch.
I also made another discovery. Since gaining this weight I have been pursued by more men than I was ten pounds ago. My point? Unless you can look me in the eyes and honestly say that your goal to lose Ten-Fifteen-Fifty-seven pounds is for your own eyes, your health, your desire to run for breast cancer then don't skip the pancakes for the Mens, darling. They either like you or they don't. And fitting into a size six instead of your current twelve isn't going to be the magic spell that makes them fall for you. Maybe you'll attract the undesirables who would only like you smaller. Maybe you'll feel more confident because you'll be more comfy in your own skin and if that's the case I say more power to ya!
But most gals I know want to be a different size because they think the one they currently are isn't good enough and isn't desirable.
And that, well that just makes them "so pretty" for being so damn foolish.
So eat your damn scone and enjoy it. And go for a walk with a friend and tell each other how beautiful you each are. And look up at that incredible sky and marvel at all the things you've lived through under that same moon.
You're still you no matter what the tag says on your jeans.
Isn't it time you started appreciating that woman and stopped worrying about how others see her?
Maybe I'm attracting more men because I've learned to love this curvy gal, with her past mistakes and errors in judgment included. And maybe love attracts love.
Maybe when you're content alone with your cup of coffee that's when someone's gonna wanna join you and learn why you can't seem to stop smiling.
When she mentioned that I thought of my own last couple months and realized I think I've gained something like 10 pounds myself. Do I have a scale? No, but I can tell by the way my dresses fit. Ten pounds is really not a whole heck of a lot but it's enough to notice how easily a zipper slides over your hips and for some women it can be the reason they order the fruit cup instead of the pancakes at brunch.
I also made another discovery. Since gaining this weight I have been pursued by more men than I was ten pounds ago. My point? Unless you can look me in the eyes and honestly say that your goal to lose Ten-Fifteen-Fifty-seven pounds is for your own eyes, your health, your desire to run for breast cancer then don't skip the pancakes for the Mens, darling. They either like you or they don't. And fitting into a size six instead of your current twelve isn't going to be the magic spell that makes them fall for you. Maybe you'll attract the undesirables who would only like you smaller. Maybe you'll feel more confident because you'll be more comfy in your own skin and if that's the case I say more power to ya!
But most gals I know want to be a different size because they think the one they currently are isn't good enough and isn't desirable.
And that, well that just makes them "so pretty" for being so damn foolish.
So eat your damn scone and enjoy it. And go for a walk with a friend and tell each other how beautiful you each are. And look up at that incredible sky and marvel at all the things you've lived through under that same moon.
You're still you no matter what the tag says on your jeans.
Isn't it time you started appreciating that woman and stopped worrying about how others see her?
Maybe I'm attracting more men because I've learned to love this curvy gal, with her past mistakes and errors in judgment included. And maybe love attracts love.
Maybe when you're content alone with your cup of coffee that's when someone's gonna wanna join you and learn why you can't seem to stop smiling.
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