Branded

No, I have not been branded a Scarlet Woman. Far from it. Not my thing.

But I have been branded. Literally.

I’m at that age when a woman glances in the mirror with a mixture of fascination and curiosity (and, okay, a hint of dismay) while observing life’s etchings upon her face.

And while I have no intention of pursuing any drastic measures to rid myself of this artwork, neither did I have any intention of contributing to it with my own hand.

But I did.

I burned my face with a curling iron. (Yes, I occasionally use hairstyling paraphernalia although my method of choice is wash and wear.) I’m now sporting a patch of brownish-pinkish skin just below my left cheekbone to complement my rosy red cheeks. Lovely.

And it’s the strangest thing. While I do hope the mark eventually disappears, I’m really not at all perturbed by the thought it might not. I wonder why?

Do I feel that as well as revealing my character through laugh and frown lines I should also display stupid lines?

Or have I finally come to that point in life where I just don’t give a damn as to the natural or self-inflicted wear and tear associated with my face and body?

Perhaps a bit of both. However, I do plan on being more alert and careful when using potential branding instruments. I shudder to think what I might do with hot electric rollers.



Photo credit: www.brandish.com

Do Not Mess With Me

Background:

Three year old television displaying 3 vertical lines on screen.

One service repair visit and 40 million phone calls later, the manufacturer of said TV decides it is not worth repairing. Exchange for a new TV approved and arranged. Thank God for extended warranties.

Saturday morning:

Enter HUGE well-known store where TV originally purchased (and which has been notified of the exchange) and go to Customer (Don’t) Care Desk.

State business in a pleasant and friendly manner.

C.C. Dude: “The guy who deals with this kind of thing isn’t in until later this afternoon.”

Me: “Well, I’m here now. It’s a simple exchange – just bigger than usual.”

C.C. Dude repeats: “…the guy’s not in until…”

Me: “But I’m here now. I don’t see why it can’t be done.”

He starts up again with the same friggin’ line.

I interrupt. “I see 2 customer care people who aren’t busy, 2 salesmen over by the TVs, I have all the necessary papers with me and the store was notified of the exchange.”

Stare down.

He caved. I won. Deal done.

New TV to be delivered Wednesday.

Moral of the story: Go in with a chip on your shoulder and every damn scrap of paper you possess regarding the exchange/deal because you know they will mess with your head – especially if you’re a woman.

My shoulder is getting bruised from all my self-congratulatory pats.

Rip-Snortin' Raunchy Good Time Had By All

Last night. Best Book Club Meeting ever!! At my place. Of course. ;)

(The post title is somewhat misleading – my fellow raunchees are in the minority.)

Wine and LOTS of junk food served.

Two people hadn’t finished the book (we’re a lenient bunch…) and only one person liked it. Despite this, the book discussion was great.

The meeting lasted longer than any previous one and yet, not one woman had to use the ladies’ room. How very unusual.

But what made it the best meeting ever?

We got crazy silly – laughed and laughed. Mascara was running. I actually snorted.

How many years have we been meeting and NOT laughed like this? Far too many. A bridge has been crossed – there’s no going back. (I hope.)

There are few things more pleasurable in life (yes, I qualified that) than getting together with a bunch of women, telling tales, righting the wrongs of the world and experiencing such exhilarating laughter.

And, no, we weren’t laughing about the book - or about men.

Only one sour note to the evening. After everyone had left, I experienced approximately 15 minutes of the hiccups. I don’t recommend drinking massive amounts of water late at night as a remedy.

"To Move a Woman..."

“It took so little to move a woman...
Whether this spoke to the fragility or to the strength of the gender, he wasn’t sure.”

Testimony - Anita Shreve


I love it when a sentence leaps off the page (yes, a hackneyed phrase but it works) and captures my attention. No more relaxed reading. I am riveted and left pondering the truth or un-truth of it.

I agree that it takes, “…so little to move a woman” – a touch, a smile, certain words, gestures. It’s the fragility or strength part I had to think about.

My conclusion? It’s because women possess the strength to be open, to be vulnerable (in a sense, fragile) and emotionally receptive to love and acts of kindness that enables us to be touched and moved by “so little.” This same strength also enables us to recognize the importance of the little things, not only in the giving but in the receiving.

And, yes, there’s a downside to this – women tend to be more easily hurt than men. Still, I think we’re fortunate to possess this gift. I believe it makes the world a kinder, gentler place.

"As Useless As..."

I experienced a time of sober reflection and self-flagellation (not of the physical sort) while at the hairdresser’s yesterday. In fact, I am still reeling.

I overheard a woman (approximately my age) relate the following activities she has either recently engaged in or will be taking part in.

(Note – eavesdropping is a given at a hair salon. You can’t help but overhear these conversations.)

Her “To Do” List

Climb a mountain this summer.
Be a guest speaker on a cruise ship.
Host a party for 18 that evening.

Her “Recently Done” List

Completed a 10K run and came second.
Something about a massage. I think she gives massages. (Sometimes it’s difficult to hear over the sound of the hairdryers.)

I’m not 100% sure, but I think she is also a motivational speaker. (She certainly motivated me to get off my ass and do something…)

There was more, but I didn’t catch all the details. (Again, interference from the damn hairdryers.)

Not impressed? Well, if I heard all of this in under half an hour, just imagine what else she’s doing.

To add insult to injury, she has naturally curly hair.

I feel shallow and under motivated.

I am shallow and under motivated.

And I am NOT posting my own “To Do” list.

Lolita

I had a pedicure yesterday. To those who know me very well, this is no lie. I have the baby soft heels to prove it.

There were four of us in the “feet area” – age range 20’s to 70’s. Two of the ladies were later escorted to other rooms to have further essential (and mysterious!) things done to their bodies.

I know this is all about taking care of one’s body but as I pondered what went on in those other rooms, this unsettling thought came to me.

Women endure a great deal of pain-in-the-a** “work” done in order to appear attractive and presentable to society. And in terms of attracting a mate for breeding purposes, some of this work makes sense. Such a phenomenon occurs in nature as well.

But the list of torturous activities is mind-boggling - waxing, bleaching, liposuction, botox, hair dye (mea culpa), laser surgery, electrolysis...

If taken to the extreme, what have you got? A female who (with the exception of that dyed and styled hairdo) is absolutely hairless (and I mean everywhere), wrinkle and spot free with pouty lips and smooth soft skin.

In essence, you have a prepubescent female!! (With breasts, of course.)

This is the ultimate goal for women to attain??

Who is responsible for creating such an unnatural standard of attractiveness? And while many women apparently strive for it, I have to wonder if men actually are attracted to such a female ideal. That seems a little kinky…

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for a little pampering (the leg massage that was part and parcel of the pedicure was heaven) and I do believe in appearing presentable and well-groomed (despite my own feeble attempts) but I believe society has gone too far. An unrealistic ideal of the ultimate attractive female has been created. Somehow, letting nature take its course has become obsolete and unacceptable.

I’m out of the running – by choice. And this provides me with the freedom to occasionally display a little stubble on the legs.

Hey, men display 5 o’clock shadow and no one objects!

Live and Learn

Things I Learned at the Cottage This Weekend


1. You do not walk on the seemingly frozen lake at this time of year. The ice is melting.

2. Three women are perfectly capable of pushing a car out of a snow bank and clear of the sheet of ice that caused the skid into said snow bank. (Next time bring salt.)

3. Sadly, some birds mistook the windows at the front deck for an area of clear sailing and met their demise. This feathery discovery was made by my friend who has a fear of birds (ornithophobia).

4. A monarch butterfly can survive a winter in an unheated porch. (How?)

5. The mice at the cottage are stupid. They do not get into the food but attempted to eat some of the decorative wooden beads on a sunhat.

6. (And speaking of stupid…) When imbibing wine and then pausing to do shooters, it is best to stop after two shooters if one continues with the wine. (Best for me, anyway.)

7. It is wonderful when your sister owns a latte machine. (Good morning!)

8. You do not get the full visual effect of Earth Hour at the cottage. There weren’t any lights to be seen outside before Earth Hour took place. (But our candlelight hour was lovely.)


P.S. The out-of-focus photo is of the above-mentioned butterfly and that is NOT a wine stain on the cushion.

Little Gi*ls and Big B*llies

At what age are little gi*ls taught it is not appropriate to stick out their tummies whenever they feel so inclined?

I love this picture simply because this child is so unselfconscious as to her body.

A b*lly just is. And if you want to stick it out, you just do.

And then you grow up and learn to suck it in, make it as flat as possible. Or worse, you undergo a tummy-tuck.

Why? Because the world tells you that’s how you attract a man – with a flat b*lly and some perky or big b**bs.

The original Barbie doll's measurements would have been an incredible 39-18-33. In response to criticism that these measurements might create unrealistic expectations for young girls to live up to, Mattel has since adjusted the chest measurement down and the waist measurement up.

(Might create unrealistic expectations? I had Barbie and Ken dolls. Never mind Barbie - if you took Ken’s body as a definitive example of manhood, you were in for a big shock.)

The admonition to suck in my gut stayed with me. I simply can’t bring myself to stick it out (any further than it already does). As for the b**bs? They’re fine as is. No lift, augmentation or implants are in the cards – even if some day the awesome twosome appear as though they could use some help. What you see is what you get. (So to speak.)

That little gi*l in the picture? Yeah, it’s me. I love her unselfconscious stance. And the fly-away-hair thing at the back? It still happens.


(Have edited this post re: undesirable hits.)

A Little Rage Would Have Been Good

A sidewalk repairman yelled at me yesterday. A very loud yell. I heard it through my closed car window. He also raised his fist. Okay, maybe he just furiously waved his arm.

Yes, buddy, I noticed work being done on the sidewalk by the parking garage. I also noticed that the actual entrance to the garage was clear. There was nothing and no one blocking it. And, so, yeah, I was about to turn in. Bingo. I set off the maniac.

You know what infuriates me more than the guy yelling at me? The fact that I got all weepy when he did. Not mad — just bloody weepy and wimpy. (Despite the picture shown above, no actual tears were shed in the creation of this scenario.)

Road rage is a disturbing phenomenon but, jeez, a little rage on my part would have been entirely appropriate. Maybe even giving him the finger. (As if that’s part of my driving repertoire.)

My anger didn’t even start until a good twenty seconds after the yell. Much too late to be of any use and most of it was directed at myself. Why that weepy feeling? I came up with a few explanations/rationalizations. They make me feel better.

I was on my way to a doctor’s appointment and wondering if I was going to be the recipient of bad news. (I wasn’t.) Thus, vulnerable. I was also listening to a sad song — Lose You by Peter Yorn. (A great song but a real tear jerker if it reminds you of someone you love.) Again, vulnerable. And that nasty dude actually scared me. He was a beefy looking tough guy.

And I hate to admit it, but part of the reason for my crazy response was due to the fact I’m female. No male would ever get sad if yelled at. Most women wouldn’t either.

If it happens again? (And I’m sure it will. It seems to me people are getting more short-tempered and mean these days.) Would I ever yell back? Only if I had a better get-a-way route. Would I ever get out of my car and confront the creep? No. Weepy + sad does not = suicidal. Make a face? This one kind of works for me. Not too confrontational.

What I really don’t want to do is go all wishy-washy female again. Boo-hoo. You hurt my feelings.

But you know what? He did.

Hidden Beauty

Perhaps everyone’s already viewed the fascinating video Evolution put out by Dove and their “Campaign For Real Beauty.” (I’m usually at the tail-end of these Internet/email share things.)

If you’ve seen it, forgive me. If you haven’t, watch it by clicking on the above link.

My response was mixed. I was fascinated, appalled, depressed, ticked off, envious, etc., (my usual gamut of emotions). There’s no need for me to blog on and on about it — the video speaks for itself.

I had a moment’s hesitation as to posting this. Am I allowed to? I finally decided Dove would be okay with it. They want the message spread, right? And I do have a disclaimer on my site (at the very, very bottom). If they want to rap my knuckles, they know where to find me.

And, no, I’m not promoting Dove products, although I do use them. I’m a charter member of the dry, extremely sensitive category of skin types. There’s not a chance in hell I could ever be transformed into a “beauty” — be it an illusion or otherwise. I can’t even use make-up. The stuff turns me into a scary, blotchy, red-faced witch.

I’m forced to go with the natural look (which is kind of scary, too.)