A Long Walk to the Short Bus

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

I was involved in a rumble at the bus stop. Not exactly a West Side Story rumble. Ok, not exactly a rumble either, more like a small physical altercation, some screaming, flailing and a crowd of on lookers appalled at my behavior. What else is new? As it does with these things it started out innocently enough I had just moved toSan   Diegowas settling in nicely. I was looking at new things to do; new ways to explore the town. I live just north of Golden Hill which is not far from downtown where there is lots of goings on. I wanted to open that area up as a playground for me to enjoy the galleries, the waterfront all the goodness it offered the tourists. The problem for me is driving downtown is dangerous. Much more so for others as I am not a fan of pedestrians in mass milling about, they start to look like bowling pins after a few corners. Not good.  The first alternative to driving for me is walking but it would be about 3-4 miles some of which had some hinky territory.  I wanted to walk around all day and to add the 6 or 8 miles getting there that is a bit much even for someone with a 36 inch inseam and the stride of a giraffe.

I love trains, as romantic as they are; they were out for this endeavor.  One of these I will take a long train ride and get a sleeper car; I don’t care where the destination is. Though en route I might feel the need to wear a 1940 nipped at the waist boiled wool suit like Myrna Loy did in The Thin Man. That and hang out in the bar car drinking manhattans with the perfect shade red lipstick. But that was not today.

So with that retro-adventure off the list I was up to try the bus. There is a number 2 bus that runs right outside my apartment and I decided to research it and see what the route was, how much it costs.  What an average person would think encompasses all the key data one must know for a successful bus experience. I hate being the dolt standing at the platform at the front of the bus fumbling for cash, tokens and route maps with a line of tired, hungry folks queued up behind me. I find it very uncomfortable to be the center of attention especially with strangers and then there is the whole bumble, fumble witness aspect that turns me beet red. The bus went to the heart of downtown where I wanted to go and all the way to harbor drive so I could get to prime walking territory. I was thrilled and hey it was a new adventure and very green. I have taken loads of buses when I lived in Manhattan, I even took a local city bus in Phoenix when I had 5 hours to kill on a layover, but I had never taken a bus in California in all the times I have lived here. I am not counting my adventures on Grey Hound fromPensacolatoNew   Orleanshere because that is a whole other kind of bus trip; we are taking city bus only.

I like to be a passenger, I enjoy taking in all the scenery of daily life as I move past. Being single and chaufferless I rarely get to indulge. I can be distracted easily as a driver (not something I am proud of), but what I am proud of however is I hardly hit things because of it. So riding around on a bus to see the sights is very appealing. I get my change ready for the ride and wander out to the bus stop and wait. No more than 5 minutes later the bus comes, I climb up the steps and try to put my quarters in the change hookey dookie( this may or may not be a technical term).  The change is not registering; the driver looks up and says forget the rest of the money it’s on the fritz sit down. Score! I get a sale price for my first trip on aSan Diegobus. I get a seat and watch the world go by. I make note how and when folks pull the cord for stops, I get familiar with the culture when my time comes. Again this is a little nerve wracking because I am shy and klutzy so doing something as to not invite conversation with strangers is key. I know I am hyper-vigilant; I like to know the answers before someone asks the question. I want the least amount of muss and fuss going through life. I also know that life is not orderly, linear or neat. It is not fair, it frequently does not make sense, and I need to go with the flow as upstream is futile. So that being said I travel along to my stop downstream and successful disembark at the harbor. Here I start a wonderful day of exploring San Diego complete with a long walk at the harbor, taking pictures, finding a great seafood place and end with a movie I wanted to see at a downtown cinema I love. I am feeling happy and smug my bus trip worked out so well. Yes, too soon to feel smug you might say, and you would be right.

I wander back to the Broadway bus stop I had scoped out on the ride down to the harbor and see it is starting to fill up. I am downtown later than I planned as the sun is setting I am getting really cold. The day was hot when I started so my shorts, sandals and sleeveless shirt were perfect, now with the sun dipping behind the building it was getting nipply for sure. I waited for the bus pacing a little to keep warm. There were construction workers, students, and all kinds of folks starting to gather as we waited and waited for the bus. There was no bus in sight. Standing there pacing trying to keep warm I watched an very elderly woman in a wheelchair with arthritic crippled hands struggle to get her jacket out of a small pouch and try to put it on. I watched her for about 7 minutes struggly struggle that only the truly uncoordinated can fully appreciate. She looked to be in her 80’s and in rough shape. As I watched I saw her jacket slipped out of her claw like hands and fell to the sidewalk. I stepped up and bent over to give it back to her I had wanted to help all along but had restrained myself. As I touched her jacket she let out a wail and started shouting.

“Stop, stop, don’t steal my jacket, get your hands off” she screamed in a four pack, one quart of bourbon voice.

Stunned I let the jacket fall onto her lap.  I stared at her shocked at her shrieking and windmill type motions her arms in an attempt to strike me and secure her jacket. I was only just starting to stand straight when her windmill motion and the energy of her screaming tipped back her wheelchair sending her bird like cranium toward the sidewalk. I was startled enough to take a step back as the screaming and flailing and was no near to help right her even if she could let me close. Her trip backward had not registered with my friend as she was not only enraged but it was now clear to me mentally ill. I had seen her as old, true, disabled yes, but this was unanticipated. As I imagine mental illness always is from a distance. Both the construction workers who I had spotted earlier rose from the bus bench and stopped the backward progress of the chair unnoticed, lucky them, by the crone.  All eyes were on me, the jacket thief. She calmed down slightly as I backed away trying to avoid contact with the now 20 or so folks standing waiting for the bus. Evidently I was chanting “I’m sorry” as I backed up. The heat in my face was near nuclear and I was shaking. I took a deep breath as I was starting to get light headed as another old woman came up to me. Oh great I thought here is round two, they are tag teaming me.

“Dear you can’t help them sometimes you just have to leave them alone. They don’t understand” she smiled broadly with her three teeth.

“I get that now” I muttered and shook my head. I smiled and stepped closer to the construction workers. They were looking at me with smiles too. We laughed as I shrugged. The one of the guys starts patting his pockets down and looks at me sharply.

“Hey where’s my wallet?”

“If you had your coat in it I might have been tempted”. There was laughter all around and then they focused on my feet each of which displayed a brightly colored sponge bob band aid clearly visible through my sandals.

“What happened there?” one pointed.

“A different miscalculation” I smiled and slid away from my new friends shaking my head.

The bus lumbered up 10 minutes later just shortly after the stares had stopped sizing up the jacket thief. As I stepped up into the bus the old adage “no good deed goes unpunished” was running loops in my head. I found a seat and stared out the window trying to breath. The wrath that was unleashed was so unexpected it hit me physically, what can I say I am a delicate flower.  Sure externally I am 6 1”, fit, strong and have my moments of clarity and intelligence. I however got into a physical altercation with a mentally ill disabled woman twice my age and she kicked my ass.

I am also learning disabled, I am dyslexic and dysgraphic and probably a few other things as of yet undiagnosed. I hated school and was set apart, not on the short bus per se mostly because we lived too close to the school, so I was a walker. This is one of the things that got me here today, this walking thing. And in the end, when everyone else at that bus stop knew that the answer was to walk away from the crazy lady I finally earned my seat on the short bus …

I was all by myself.

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The Last Ride

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

Last August I wandered into a cigar bar and had a few martinis’ to celebrate my sister Amy’s life on the anniversary of her death. I do not smoke, so the martinis were medicinal in order to control the choke factor of my honey flavored cigar.  I also remember her on her birthday in July but the end of a life is significant in many ways and hers is no exception. Death is the best teacher I know. I have met him through friends and family over the years but only once had the privilege to help shepherd someone over and sit by their side as they went. Another one of the many things Amy gave me; she taught me how to live.

So in celebration of life–mine, yours and Amy’s– let’s look at some of what we have lived through so far– besides the basics of surviving the homes we all grew up in which is monumental, because those homes made us mental. Our house, Amy’s and mine, was a particular cornucopia of nuts. It was there we got a first taste of all that life has to offer, love, disappointment, laughter, struggle for acceptance and regret. And of course talking about regrets leads me to bad fashion and particularly those captured in school and holiday photos. The ugly truth is, well we were ugly.  Sometimes we merely made ugly choices and Kodak was there to document those precious memories. Ah yes childhood is a proving ground, a place to learn about the ups and downs of the world on a shaky carnival roller coaster.

One memory of a particularly harrowing dip that comes to mind was when my mother, Terry-bell, in trying to save money made me a pair of pants. She hated to sew and unfortunately for me that hatred bubbled out in her choice of fabric, thick green and red plaid scratchy wool. The pants she made had an elastic waist, not to give you the wrong impression there was a waistband, because there was not. What was there was was a bunchy strip where the fabric was folded over a piece of elastic so the pants would stay in place. I cannot say whether she recycled the elastic from our old underwear or not and refuse to even look further to see if it was out of my grandmothers bloomers. Ok, not only was the material an abomination but so was the cut. It seems that what she knew of crotches in pants was that the legs came together. The placement of the crotch in the pants in relation to the human body was not accounted for what so ever.  So in wearing said green and red plaid thick scratchy wool pants my pant crotch was almost level with my knee causing me to get caught in the crotch of the pant when I walked.  I was already tall then; legs and arms all akimbo, so picture a praying mantis trying to walk in thick wool plaid low slung crotched pants. I was drowning in them.  I believe these pants were an early form of birth control and put me at the bottom of everyone’s dance card in the school and outlaying area from Long Island NY to Toledo Ohio.

Yes, my mother made me wear these monstrosities until they had help unraveling in the wash. But other choices that proved embarrassing were not always my mother’s doing. An example is when Amy would don a particular fetching outfit when she was feeling fun and fancy free. It was her homemade super hero garb. It consisted of white long johns belted with a thin red plastic disco belt. There were black sock boots on her feet, and some kind of thin red filmy 1950 lingerie bathrobe tied around her neck by a red silk ribbon used as a decorative bow on the robe for a cape.  And those who understand the role and responsibilities of super hero’s know silk capes are a bad call here but hey Amy was only about 10 years old at the time so you have to let that tactical error in judgment go. The cape fell down her back with the arms bodice of the robe flapping out behind her as she zoomed from room to room. She had cobalt blue socks on her hands up to her forearm and a bright red full face ski mask on her head. As if this was not enough she added a jaunty little multicolored Scottish cap with a pom-pom on top. Really it was quite a stunning ensemble.

Now think back to what your particular bad outfits were, a style, bad haircuts, was it a 1980 mall perm like I had? If nothing comes to mind look down at what you are wearing now, because you might be a repeat offender and don’t know it. If we didn’t know we looked bad there were always other confidence crushers in our childhoods we have hopefully moved past.  Did you have glasses? A full set of braces so when you ate your sister told you it looked like a train wreck? If you were me you had both of those birth control devices through puberty. When it was time to get my braces put on the orthodontist asked my dad “why does she need them?”  My dad replied without a beat “she’s cutting down trees in the backyard and dating a beaver.”  Willy-boy was old school in tough love and so were his daughters.

Amy had a beloved stuffed German shepherd with a rubber face. It was an awful looking creature she adored. People in supermarkets would stop my mother looking down on Amy who would be clutching the beast and ask my mom why in the love of god did she have our dog stuffed? It was that creepy. Unfortunately for Amy the stuffed animal became more unstable as Amy grew up and it was not uncommon for her to find that he had hung himself while she was watching “The New Zoo Review”. Siblings are evil, twisted and sometimes very funny while teaching each other about life’s hard knocks and where to hide your stuffed animals.  It was a fine balance of humor and torture in our house which I find as I get older is exactly like life.

That balance of humor and torture, of joy and sorrow, yin and yang, The Captain and Tennille is what the show is all about folks. Sitting in the Cancer Bin at the bedside of a brilliant, hilarious, vibrant 36- year-old woman in camouflage pajamas, a feather boa while watching “Shaun of the Dead” and cracking wise is how to live in the process. Sure we survive alright but don’t get out of our box or appreciate the wondrous ride life can be.

Life is about stringing the high points together to make the dips, tunnels and abysses livable and mutable. Which is all they are.  My sister Chris told me recently after having not read my writing for a while that in reading it again she realized how much she missed it, that it filled a hole in her she had forgotten about. I could not think of anything to say to that, and still can’t. It is the nicest thing anyone, much less someone I adore has ever said about my work. That is a high point I will remember when I hit another low, I will remember the welling up of gratitude and love from my core for her and hole on tight when life takes another plunge.

Years ago I was walking along 7th Avenue in Manhattan with my roommate Barbara who was dealing with a break-up and talking about how horrible life was. I pointed out to her that there were good things to focus on too, but in the end truth be told none of us was getting out alive. She told me that was the stupidest thing she ever heard someone say. I shrugged it off. Years later she said she finally understood what I had meant. In the end we die, so it’s best to be present and live the best life we know how while we can. We are transitory creatures and so is this roller coaster, so sit back, belt in and enjoy every dip, roll and hair raising spin it takes you on because when the ride pulls in to the platform and the wild eyed Carney with no teeth lets you out you will be glad you did. Amy was.

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An ass by any other name …

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

This past winter I purchased a whimsical piece of art by Leigh Standley. Along with wonderful colorful images she has the phrase “I am fairly certain that given a cape and a nice tiara I could save the world.” It appealed to me on many levels, as a counselor, life coach and as an overall know-it-all. Saving the world or myself starts with change, new ideas, beliefs and behaviors to follow suit. In theory this is wonderful stuff but put to the test much trickier to do. Some folks are ready, willing and able to look at themselves honestly and want to change, grow and own that they have to change their behavior for a desired outcome. Some don’t, which is all fine and good– I can respect someone who is happy with where they are and are clear on that.  We all fall into that category during periods if not the entirety of our lives.  Then there is that that small cross population, which says they want to grow, learn and move toward making changes yet…in reality not so much. To be clear I have and do fall in all of these categories on any given day, subject area or Sybil style personality having been triggered.

There are many flavors of these behaviors I have demonstrated in the face of change, I will try to document a few here to make my point and show my stellar ability to make poor choices.

“The Collector” is the first that comes to mind, I buy the latest and greatest book or tool on how to change whatever it is I am looking to change. It could be weight loss, organization, spiritual, career, romance, anything really. I rarely read the whole book, sometimes none at all; I might go to lectures or book signing by the authors but cannot commit to a class or workshop for such. Each new tool I purchase is touted as the Holy Grail and sits on a bookshelf until it is relegated to the closet filled with yesterday’s grails. There is no follow through or use of any of the tools I find longer than 24 hours. When I moved west this last time I had a Holy Grail garage sale.

“The Hummingbird” is when I take “The Collector” to the next step. I buy all the accoutrement for the desired change and generally buy the best, tools, books, crystals, clothing i.e. hiking if I want to get fit or gym clothes for the gym, all the accessories I will need to delve into the change process. I sign up and take a workshop, a class, get a video and start to work at it in earnest. Shortly down the road I hit a tough spot. That spot can be I meet resistance (both internal and external,) when it becomes uncomfortable or when I challenge old beliefs and behaviors. As an example when a trip to the dentist for root canal naked with my hair on fire while listening  to Celione Dion music sounds better than going to the gym I know I hit a nerve.  I don’t always know what it is but usually it is the size and weight of the Titanic and I need to look at it. Sometimes those around me find my new behaviors threatening and try to sabotage or push back. When friends or family see you trying to get fit and they are couch potatoes they will try to entice you to stay home and be a french fry . Sometimes that spot can be boredom if the desired change does not hit the manufactured time line I have set for success. Here I lose momentum and becomes disillusioned. Like when I didn’t lose 40lbs in 10 days while only eating cabbage soup and doing Kegel exercises I gave up.  At this point rather than pushing through to the other side I look around for the next expert’s book, class or system to invest in. Trying hummingbird style landed me with $500 pair of back country skis, gym memberships in every state I lived where I would go for the first 2 months, scads of workshops, classes, and a close personal relationship with Mayflower Moving because what better way to change than start fresh in a new state! Problem was I was still doing the same thing that didn’t work for me in the last state. Ok, there may or may not have been law enforcement challenges involved in some of those skips, uhh, moves.

“The Researcher” I cannot say this better than Mother Teresa did, “Creating change is serious business, either in yourself or the world around you. One cannot be will-nilly about such endeavors” Now that I think about it this might have been said by Chef Boyardee, I get those two mixed up. “The Researcher” does just that, studies what method is the best, then chooses, umm maybe, rush to judgment is not an option and there is new data coming in at any given moment so picking anything is delayed. I buy reference books, talk to experts, organize and collate facts and figures and then think. I spend a huge amount of time thinking about how best to go about my desired change. I do not want to choose wrong, or start anything without all the angles covered, explored and documented. The end result is I never make a misstep or a mistake. Because I never start anything. Mistakes and missteps are great learning tools, embarrassing yes, sometimes you fall down and go boom in yoga on your first class or three and everyone giggles… uh I heard. But making a misstep has taught me what not to do, which lead me down the road to what works. Researching the road ahead left me behind in a Stuckies at the truck stop doing calculations and eating pecan logs. On a side I found out those little bastards can be rough on your teeth, taste nasty, not to mention that it was a waste of some 20 years and made me fat, I am just saying.

“The Lawyer” here we have someone who argues or handles the counter point to any given point for a living. In this carnation I will come to you for advice on change, of course I don’t want it I want to justify my current choice. But I don’t always know that going in, I’ll ask “What can I do to find the relationship I want, lose weight, and find a job that makes me feel fulfilled and get in touch with my higher self.” As a Life Coach folks also come to me with these types of questions when they are going through transitions and need someone to help.  Unlike a bank teller let’s say, who might find these types of questions disconcerting when folks are coming to the bulletproof glass with relationships woes and deposit slips. I get paid to ask people questions that help guide them to their truths. This is kind of a discovery mode, I can make comments, give suggestions on small steps but mostly I want them to come up with what works for them and makes them comfortable while going forward.

But back to me, if a friend or family member has achieved a goal I would like to achieve, I ask what steps worked for them. As they offer up each small discreet step I shoot it down with why it won’t work for me. Every point, every piece of minutia they mention I tell how it would never work because of things like, I don’t get up that early, stay up late, eat any form of fruit or vegetable, are too busy, my brain does not work like that, the stock market could go in the dumper again, I don’t want to make a mistake and have to start again, school is expensive, I am out of tin foil and the aliens are listening in to my thoughts…blah, blah blah. The reality is that all of these counter points are true because I believe them to be, because I choose behaviors to support those beliefs. So yes Virginia if you choose the same behavior over and over you get the same outcome over and over. Expecting a different outcome is the definition of insanity. I have spent a good deal of time justifying behavior that no longer served me. I grew up in a house where verbal jousting was an art and if you didn’t stand up for yourself and your beliefs you got steam rolled over and someone took your pork chop. It was an ugly dinnertime at the Freeburg’s house every night at 6pm sharp cloth napkins and all. I learned to focus on why things wouldn’t work, what was too big, too scary, and the impossible. It was safer than focusing on what I could do, what might be uncomfortable for me to look at, my ability to own my actions and mistakes.

The above list is an example of some of the types of reactions I have to change, to trying to move forward or not. You may see people you know other than me in there, you would especially see me if you are one of the poor sods I have cajoled into trying to help me or guide me. Sorry about that. What I know is this. Very few people listen unless they are ready to hear, nobody reads information whether it is an email or a book unless they deem that information important and are ready, nobody acts and continues to do so unless they choose to go forward, however crooked forward might be. You cannot force someone to grow, learn or change no matter what kind of muddle they are in. I know it was best for folks to stand back be supportive and let me flounder however difficult and frustrating that was. I am also learning to let those who come to me not quite ready to invest in themselves flounder. I will have to go to my learned friends to see how they stood patiently by and supported yet did not scream in my face the solutions to my woes. I am deaf on many levels it seems.

So here it is some folks will ask for help but are no way looking for it. They just want a fan, a witness, sympathy or to justify their beliefs. I have learned this after having been on both sides of the equation. I cannot take it personal when someone asks and does not take my advice and can only ask others to do the same with me. Because I can promise you that my inaction or wrong turn has nothing to do with you at all, it’s all about me. I used to think someone was serious about needing help for the first 137 times they asked me and as  I bumped up against the above behaviors I was frustrated and mad. Now I understand after the 3rd time they seek me out for advice or help for the same thing perhaps I need to stand back and honor where they are in their journey as my wise family and friends do with me.

The reason we say that the teacher appears when the student is ready is we are all teachers and students. Most of the time however the teacher part of us is on coffee/martini breaks waiting. We are waiting for that flash of intent from someone, intent on learning, growing, changing. For me doing anything before someone is keyed in is like offering to push a jackass up hill.  It doesn’t go well for anyone involved and demonstrates that I am the bigger of the two asses even though I am wearing a cape and a tiara.

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It’s not like I have a drinking problem…

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

It starts in November, I never know exactly when but always before Thanksgiving. My anticipation is great; the window of indulgence always too small, it lasts only till New Years. I know it’s best that way; to extend it in any way would put me in program. I have trouble maintaining for the holiday season as it is without a lot of compensating. And these days I am compensating all the time.

This year it was earlier than last, I started checking the store shelves in anticipation the first week of November and got nadda. So you can imagine my surprise that same week going into a Starbucks and seeing the sign that the read the eggnog lattes were back. Yes! I have a nog problem, I am a nogaholic. Not my term, a friend coined about me a few years ago when he had heard me order one too many times.

“I’ll have a Grande eggnog latte, heavy on the nog”.

I don’t know when my love affair began with the nog but I believe because of my love of all products of the cow, maybe forever. Please, a woman who picks milk as one of her three desert island foods, need I say more? As with all folks who have a deep thirst I can take it any which way as long as I get it. I try to start the season slowly so I am not running 5 miles a day to compensate for its gut spreading goodness. I start the season with soy, yes there is soy nog, and a light version at that. The purest will say this is a bastardization of all that is pure and merry and they would be right. They also are people who know what moderation is, the middle of the road sort of speak, I do not. I have a passing recognition of moderation as I careen from one side of the road to the other. That being the case I start with light soy nog for the first week or two and try to limit my lattes to once a week, though not always successfully. There have been times in my past when I didn’t limit my trips to Starbucks at all and gave the barista a nasty stalker scare. He didn’t know I was just there for the nog, poor lamb. So one eggnog latte a week keeps money in my pocket and me out of the court system, really a win-win my attorney assures me.

Typically I start my days with a little nog in my coffee, just as a pick me up. The nog helps smooth out the morning and get me in the right frame of mind for the day. Sometimes I might have a latte on the go or have a nog at lunch to celebrate the season. I don’t do this every day but there are so many holiday lunches, parties and pot lucks. Someone always has a little nog stowed away, and no it is not always me, sometimes there are more of us. It’s not like I don’t have rules about these things, I am in total control. What is important is I always wait till it gets dark for the nutmeg to come out. I use a whole nutmeg and grate it fresh every time, I got the nutmeg from a guy I know with a small set up in midtown Manhattan. It cost a fortune but hey last time a friend bought it for me, granted he was the one to coin the phrase “nogaholic”. Yea, he thinks he is a funny guy but he’s a writer and you know how they are. Once in a blue moon I might add brandy or rum but really why use a mixer? It just dilutes the nog, that’s strictly “armature hour” my dad would say

By the 2nd week of the season I am no longer satisfied with the soy, what was delicious for its novelty and newness at the kick off no longer meets my needs. I am ready for the light eggnog. For the love of the cow I am satisfied for at least 2 to 3 weeks with light eggnog and try all the brands on the market in search for the perfect light. I do notice during this time my pants are getting tight, I am drinking a lot of coffee to get going in the morning and it is always very light from the nog. On the weekends I might add a little nutmeg to the coffee grounds to kick it up a notch. What can a bump hurt to the brew? I know the fully leaded is coming, the full fat nog with its creamy rich velvety sweetness that coats everything in its path with Christmas cheer. I stall as long as I can because I don’t ever go full fat till Christmas week. Leading up to that week I am wearing a lot more forgiving fabrics and styles. I have Omar the tent maker on speed dial for holiday party situations that might arise.

I was getting close to Christmas week and looking forward to the full splendor of my holiday cheer when I noticed what might be a fly in the ointment. I started walking past bakery windows and perusing stollen. As per Wikipedia for those of you who are not familiar with this seasonal treat.

“Stollen is a traditional German cake, usually eaten during the Christmas season, when called Weihnachtsstollen or Christstollen. A similar cake from the Dutch cuisine is called a Kerststol in Dutch while in Italian cuisine the Panettone also shows a likeness.”

I finally got my nerve up and went in and placed an order for one. It was a 3 day wait but it was a good bakery and I was sure it would be pretty high end stuff. Plus I was two weeks out from full fat nog and this would be nice with the light version till then. I picked up the stollen and had them cut it for me so I could individually wrap each slice in saran and double bag it to freeze it. I did this in hopes that I could go slow, just a little here and there. I wanted the cake to get me to the holiday. It was an attempt at staying to the middle of the road. I never had a chance. This stuff was full of butter, sugar, nuts and nirvana. I was working my microwave hard to keep up on the demand. I was even caught once or twice in public with powered sugar on my clothes and upper lip. But thankfully always by those close to me, people with discretion. I didn’t think a little stollen would hurt, what I have learned is like nog there is never enough.

As I sit here and write this my freezer is bare of baked goods. I have two jugs of Hungry Girl’s, a diet maven and recipe genius’s, lean rendition of eggnog in my refrigerator. I just needed a week to clean up before Christmas, to pull it together and get out of my sweat pants. I might have to reconsider my priorities during the holidays and choice of celebratory accoutrement. I started talking to some people; they are pretty nice and very supportive. They are the ones that turned me onto the homemade light version recipes and resources. It’s a weekly group who made me take a hard look at things, things from my past, my choices, and my denial. What I know now is when I made that jump from nog to stollen, the hard stuff; it was a cry for help. With their guidance I saw my beloved nog for what it truly was, a crutch. I am not going to get on a soap box here; I know how that can be. I just wanted to own that I might have a problem, and more importantly that nog is a gateway drug.

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A Tale of Two

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

I try to write one or two blogs every month and this one I will get in under the wire but I will get it in for November as promised and threatened. I have been writing on and off in some form for over 20 years. I have studied, avoided, loved and hated it for most of that time. I started many books, a few screen plays over those years but finished none until last year. In October 2008 I finished my first book; it was a memoir I started it in roughly 2001. It took seven years to write and more than that to live. It took a year to rewrite it over and over to make it as presentable as I could. I finished the rewriting process this past October in 2009. When the end of the month rolled around I saw November looming, I had just started a new business and had heard, new ventures take time to get rolling. I wanted to call myself forth in another way, push on a different frontier. So I remembered Nanowrimo is in November. What that stands for is National Novel Writing Month. Essentially it is a month long challenge to write a 50k, or more, fiction novel from start to finish from November 1st through November 30th. There is a website and community you sign up for and with and cheer each other on. Everyone commits to try to write a novel in 30 days of at least 50k, its nuts.

Two or three years ago one of my best friends and writing buddies did it. We have very different writing styles, as well as output, though there are some small overlaps. He is an engineer, I can talk to engineers. He is very analytical, clever and calculating. I can mostly spell those things, uh with spell check. When he writes he actually has an idea where he is heading, how to get there and how it all ends. I find this fascinating, because I never know till I read what has appeared on my screen. It’s a fly by the seat of my pants, crazy chase of thoughts like leaves in a courtyard. So my friend G signs up and does the math, something he loves, that he has to write a little over 1600 words a day and then some to hit 50k. Every single day he has to write at least that. He did it, it was painful, and he wanted to finish the story so many times but was no where near his 50k but he gutted it out. He had to learn to write sideways, and explore threads of thought and story to places he was not sure where they went. It made him anxious I think. He lost a lot of sleep because of that word count, in fact he messed up his sleep pattern for years, yesVirginiahe is a delicate flower. Bottom line he won and hit the mark. As it was always was with him I learned a lot watching him, reading his work, and cheering him on. I thought long and hard about jumping out of what was an 8 year project into something like this. I thought about it for maybe ten whole minutes. I had no way of knowing the business I had just started would build quickly and I would juggle like a mad woman all month. But hey that’s how I roll…

I signed up on 10/30/09 with little to no idea what I would write. I only had a little better idea came the Sunday the 1st and I had started writing. I was two or three paragraphs in had an idea about the main character and some of her misadventures but by the close of Sunday I had written over my word count and knew the premise of the novel.  Hell it was fiction which basically was lying and I have been doing that since I could talk. How hard could it be? Let me back up for a moment, when I started my memoir years ago a good writing day consisted of between 300-500 words. I kid you not. It was a slow and painful. Part of that was I was reliving some hellish times in my life and trying to be a true to my story. Memoir is very different stuff than fiction, as I said that is just telling tall tales pure and simple. In finishing that book I got to where I could write between 2-3 thousand words a day on a good day. Though I still needed large blocks of time to do it in.  Sometimes I had to go back through journals to find threads, and it was labor intensive and a birth by any other name, which makes me glad I had my tubes tied.

What I found in writing this new book was I could write fast, it was fun, dialogue flowed like crazy. I just followed a bunch of people around in my head and reported what they did. I spent at lest 2-3 hours a day with these folks. It was stressful to work the time around clients and other responsibilities but I found I could write almost anywhere. I brought my lap top to the mechanics and knocked out 2k in 2 hours waiting on my car. He was fascinated, and so was I. I had just found out who killed the upstairs neighbor! The next morning I mentioned it in before yoga to a classmate, she thought I was talking real life. I was so involved with characters and story the lines were blurring. I had to explain that my neighbor was not killed last night it was character in a book I was writing She now puts her yoga mat across the studio from me. I have always had trouble with stories in my head, or on TV and my actual existence and getting those all mixed up. Which turns out is great for a writer but makes you a nut ball in every day existence. I am guessing I won’t get the eccentric tag till I’m older, now it’s just move away and don’t make eye contact.

The end result was I wrote a 51, 057 word novel in 27 days. I was stunned and very proud of myself. In the writing of it I never went back and reread or rewrote any of it, I just went forward. Which was a tip from the Nanowrimo site; I took it and ran with it. There is a lot to learn from that. I had wished my writing friend was around to talk to during this, share it with, cheer me on, but he is long gone. I guess I am not worth the trouble, what can I say? In trying to get my daily word count I had to go back to the keyboard even when I got stuck, when it didn’t work, when it was bad. I just kept going forward with the story. Then there were other times the writing flew and I was astounded that people were saying things that I had no idea where it was coming from or how it would tie in. By people, I mean characters. They were a troublesome lot with minds of their own and big mouths… kind of like me. So I had to respect that and let them be who they were. I gave them room to go sideways and stumble, even when it looked like sometimes they were messing things up. I had to let it go, which is hard for me especially when I don’t understand.  After I finish this blog I have a monster rewrite on the novel. I know it will be more fun than the last one, easier, for many reasons. One of which is that I am much better at getting out of my way than I used to be.

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Weird Science

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

I’ve got a lot of theories. Some are based on observation of others, some are based on experiences. Others are based on equal parts intuition, bullshit and ego. This theory is based on the last one on the list.

I spend a lot of time walking, I love to walk. I walk to keep fit, when I am sad, angry, and even bored. I find it can reverse a downward spiral better than a double dip of mint chip. I walk to restaurants and bars especially in the evenings when I want to imbibe. So this puts me out and about San Diego 5, 6, 7 days a week walking some where. During my travels I generally get hellos from other travelers anything from verbal greetings, head nods to smiles of acknowledgement I am out there hoofing it too. What I also get on these walks on a regular basis, is a shout out from the male homeless community.

These gentlemen say things like…

“I love that red hair”

“Smile, beautiful”

“Girl, you got some strong legs on you”

“Hello my lovely”

These gentleman are never rude or nasty in their comments, it is quite the opposite. They are always respectful in their tone and demeanor. There is always a good natured open appreciation of the female form and garish hair color. There have even been times I have even been with my Ex and it has happened. He would just shake his head and laugh.  It doesn’t seem to matter if I am accompanied or not, they just go ahead and give me the shout out. When I was younger and living in Manhattan things like this happened with construction workers, business me anything with a third leg, but those comments were overtly sexual, nasty and had a bad juju attached to them. This has none of that. This happens almost on a weekly basis and it made me start to think about my appeal to men. Being recently single, 48, and a 6 1” redhead, knowing my marketability helps me sleep at night. That and knowing that buying those push up bras were really an investment. But did my shout outs mean I only held appeal to the fringe?

I started to watch and notice more eye contact with what looked to be clean, employed, and sober gentleman. Sometimes there was a head nod or a smile in the produce aisle, even some small talk. All the contact with these guys was subtle in fact I was unaware of it till I started to look for it. I was seeing trending, this was good. But what did it mean? I needed more data, I had a hunch but more extensive samples needed to be gathered. I needed to expand the scope of my study plain and simple. Having the tall bald guy chat me up in yoga by asking me “if I was wearing heels” at the water fountain was not going to be statistically significant.

My scope expanded on the trolley to La Mesa, public transportation can do that for you. I once took the bus downtown one Saturday to give it a try and it garnered me a blog, well mostly because there was an incident. If you can call a physical altercation with a mentally and physically handicapped octogenarian an incident, so be it. Ok, back to the trolley, Le Mesa was having an Oktoberfest and taking the trolley was a responsible way to enjoy adult beverages and brats along with being green while not having to drive under the influence of German Cuisine. I did my research like all good OCD girls as to where to find nearest station, fare, etc, and took off for uncharted territories.

I found the station, got my ticket with not too many gyrations and hopped aboard when the trolley when it pulled in. Across from me sat down a nattily dressed young man who smiled and began chatting immediately. He revealed some gang guys tried to talk to him on the way to the train but he ignored them. I nodded and smiled. He then paused, took a long look at me and said.

“Are you rich?”

“No, I’m unemployed”

“You look very nice”

“I use a lot of soap and water”

I knew what had happened as this unfolded. I had expanded my scope in an unexpected way.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he continued.

“Yes” I lied.

One of the lies I tell on a consistent basis because it seems kinder than the alternative.

“Can I be your boyfriend too?” He asked expectantly.

“No, I only have one at a time, but thanks”.

The conversation dwindled after that as it should. I knew where he was coming from, and sadly it was a group home. When he started to speak about the gang bangers I had an idea about this young man, but the boyfriend offer was much unexpected. Ok I had now added mentally challenged to men who I appeal to along with the men of the streets, the great unwashed. My theory was starting to come together. It wasn’t pretty, but it had strong legs too it seemed. Oh yea my appeal on the fringe was heating up!

The Oktoberfest was uneventful which is fine. I walked around, looked at the harvest art, leather crafts, cheap jewelry, kitchen gadgets all the while avoiding the offers for aluminum siding, real wood kitchen cabinets and water delivery from the hawkers. I had my brat, my German beer; a chocolate covered strawberry and hopped back on the trolley forSan Diego. Riding back I thought about what the morning’s proposal had given me, I was thinking these groups might be the tip of the iceberg. They had things in common that were obvious.

As I got closer to my stop the train got emptier and emptier. At the edge of town two guys in their 30’s bounded aboard all smiles. They saw me and smiled bigger.

“Hello there, how are you today?” one of the guys asked.

“So far, so good” I respond unfolding from my seat as it is close to my stop.

The one guy stopped agape looking up at me, swaying slightly.

“Wow, you’re tall” he beams and slurs just a tad.

“Yes” I say.

His friend chimes in “tall and beautiful!”

I smile, nod and disembark

Ah yes a third demographic has been heard from; drunk men have joined the ranks of my admirers. What they have given me is my proof to the first part of my theory. All these groups of men, my admirers, have no social filters, no editors in their heads; they blurt exactly what they are thinking. Bless their hearts. So whether it is homeless, mentally challenged, or drunk, these guys see me and react. And frankly that reaction is they love me. My theory is these non-filter guys are the tip of the iceberg, my appeal is wider. They are the uncontrolled group, so to speak. I have a friend who just got asked out by a 22 year old blind guy, she is twice his age. He was impetuous at their meeting in a gallery even after she told him she how old she was, and he still called her a few days later to ask her out. She is running her own parallel study it seems. So the last part of my theory where it comes down to bullshit and ego is these uncontrolled groups are just the canary in the coal mine.  I believe I am attracting more than the fringe but they are the only ones being so obvious I am picking up on it. Unfortunately I am fairly oblivious to most things happening outside my tiny little skull. So unless a guy is shouting his adoration, asking me out, or telling me I’m a doll, they are off my radar. So to all those poor sods out there being subtle forget it, until you crash your cart into me in the supermarket and tell me I have beautiful eyes or ask me out for coffee none of us is getting any. As to those push up bras, well there will be no return on investment is all I can say, damn.

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A Modern Woman

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

Being a modern woman is hard, but I don’t complain. I can multi-task with the best of them.  My skills at ordering clothes from the GAP online while sipping a nice Pinot are tremendous. I can plan a day of errands that will take me in a loop, with all destinations on the right side of the road, no back tracking, finishing with food shopping for the perishables last, no left turns. Sometimes I even have enough gas to complete my mission. Yes, I can understand that my superior OCD skills can really work for me here. What I find however is that the running of my life sometimes is just too much. The tasks of putting food in the house, doing the laundry, cooking, cleaning, making appoints for teeth, doctors, car repair along with follow ups to insurance companies, handy men for fix its, accountants, lawyers, and bookies is over whelming. I am not even addressing the up-keep of any number of beauty professionals a woman might need to see for things like haircuts, colorist, then you may have extensions, weaves, perms etc… Then we have manicures, pedicures, bonsai for the nether region, facials, eye bow shaping, tanning, etc. Sometimes it is too difficult to have a job and fit in the rest of my life.

An example of this is dry cleaning. I rarely buy anything that needs to be dry cleaned as it can be a 3 month process for me. After wearing my outfit which now needs to be dry cleaned I drape it over a chair in my bedroom. A week later it moves to a chair in my dining room near my purse so I remember to move it to the car. It stays in the dining room for approximately 2 weeks. It then migrates to the car where it has a stay anywhere of 2 days to 2 weeks depending on the routing of errands and dry cleaner placement. The garment finally makes it into the dry cleaner. Unfortunately this is a type of prison for my clothes. I hate paying the money to get them sprung. So in addition to routing my way there on any given errand day, I have to be willing to part with the cash that could otherwise go towards a burrito for dinner. Sometimes I just drive by and wave so they know I am thinking about them. Lastly comes the release day which is generally 2 to 3 months after the gala event I attended where I dropped cocktail sauce on myself. As a side note cocktail sauce can be the familiar horseradish and ketchup shrimp type or a vodka martini… a euphemism by any other name, it’s all tricky.

When you are wealthy you can solve these problems by hiring a personal assistant to manage the day-to-day chores of your life. When you are a man, you get married. However, when you are a modern woman you are screwed. What I realized is I needed to get married. But I don’t want any stinking modern woman, I need is a 1950’s housewife. I want Donna Reed, June Cleaver, hell Maude would do and be pretty butch to boot. I want dinner waiting for me, a clean house, and a cold martini on a tray. Someone to call the insurance company to make inquiries and be available when the cable or repair man leaves me a window of 72 hours. I am a single straight girl who longs for the days I saw on TV growing up. I don’t want a modern wife, I am that, I need someone who can vacuum in pearls, makes bread from scratch, and will sleep in a separate bed like on the I Love Lucy show.

 

Even if I were a lesbian I wouldn’t hold out hope of finding a 1950’s housewife. I was given that opportunity some years ago while living inAustin. I was out with some friends for drinks after returning from a business trip. Two of my friends, Tony and Gale had had a particularly bad week while I was gone so I made what I called “life kits” for them. In the bags were chocolates, bubbles, incense, bath salts, just small things that would make them smile. They laughed and joked as they opened each little gift in the bag. Gales ex girlfriend was there visiting and was blown away with my gesture. On the way out of the restaurant the ex-girlfriend, who’s name I can’t remember, but should, came up to me and said how thoughtful that was and how great I was.

She then said, “Will you marry me?”

I was shocked and flattered, being the smart ass I am told her “Come back with a ring and we’ll talk”.

A second later Gail grabbed her ex by the arm and dragged her away. The ex then approached me looking somewhat embarrassed as we got closer to the cars and said.

“I am so sorry; I didn’t realize you were straight. I hope I didn’t offend you, or make you uncomfortable”.

“You didn’t, and what I said still goes come back with a ring and we’ll talk”

My last comment drew laughter from everyone in the group within earshot. How could I have been offended that someone found me delightful? Hell, I find me delightful. When someone asks for your hand in marriage, flirts, does anything along these lines it is a compliment no matter how you cut it. Just because we didn’t play on the same team didn’t negate the fact I am a catch! But the best I could have hoped for in that union was to become a 1950’s housewife though my aversion to cleaning, and penchant for melting the knobs on my stove when cooking did not bode well for that being a successful endeavor. Plus I don’t think she would have gone for the separate beds.

So, I seem to be stuck taking care of me, a modern woman. When I notice my house is dirty and I don’t have the time or energy to clean it, I use candle light. When I make something so inedible even I can’t choke it down, I dial Lugi’s Pizzeria and make sure there are lots of veggies on it. When I have a list of chores a mile long I look at them with a critical eye, making sure there are at least 1 or 2 fun ones sprinkled in the day. I doubt that on my deathbed I will be worried that I left my silk skirt in the big house.

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Nancy Sinatra

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

She kept repeating,” It’s a Cinderella Story” as I walked around the store. I could see her point about it being akin to Cinderella but odder, yet not freakish. I wasn’t wearing a puffy dress or anything. The last time I tried anything the least bit puffed I looked into the mirror and thought those age old words “What was I thinking?” I turned to my ex who was watching and said that aloud and continued with “I look like a washer woman”. He paused a nano-second and said” yea, in an eastern block country”. Which was true, I took puffy back. But this Cinderella Story is about the slipper or cowboy boot in this case.

I was inDenvervisiting one of my best partners-in-crime Marsue and we were shopping at Cry Baby Ranch. This is a store we had found this past April on a road trip where we were on a mission to find her a new home. We went fromBouldertoDenver, toSanta FeandAlbuquerqueand back toDenverin 4.5 days. We were power touring the landscape to find a good fit. On that trip we found this fabulous store with great cowboy boots, western wear, kitsch and coolness. When Marsue chooseDenverand moved there I booked my ticket for playtime and that we did. We retuned to the store and were touring around the goods and wandered back to the boot section. We were checking out the budget cowboy boots at $295 and the high end customs are at $795 playing “what would you buy if you had money” … a good job, ok any job. There were two very nice sales girls who had been chatting us up and one came back to see if we needed anything. She gave us the details on the boots we were looking at. I told her this was all about looking that funds were low. She was joined by the second sales clerk who was talking boots to us as well. She looked down at my feet and paused mid sentence.

“What size are you?”

Before I answered her she continued with “you have really long narrow feet”.

“Yes, I know, my sister used to call them 2×4’s growing up”.

“I have some dead stock in men’s boots that have never been worn and are years and years old, vintage almost. Men don’t have feet that narrow and women don’t have them that long usually. Wait here”.

Ya, I was aware of both those facts and happy it made her day. I also was interested in what she had as I do love cowboy boots and don’t have a good pair anymore. I understand to some folks that is an oxymoron but hey I lived inTexasa few years and have a keen appreciation for fine footwear.

The clerk came out with three pairs of boots. All of them very nice looking I would have gone home with any of them really.

“These were made in the 50’s or 60’s and are called ‘dead stock’, nobody has worn them” she said as she dusted them off.

It sounded like it was all that was left after they bought some cool old boot stock from a warehouse or something.

I tried on all three pair which was no small feat, only narrow, because at least two of them were so tight in the bend to get into the foot part that I am sure nobody every tried them on. It took some huffing and puffing to get my 2×4 into the boot. Now let me be clear here, I don’t have the condition known as cankels. Which for those who don’t know are calves that go right into ankles with no sliming or discernable difference in shape or size. I am small boned and don’t have that feature, I have many other features that are as challenging to dress around but not that one.

There was one pair of boots that fit especially well, almost perfect. They were black, long and pointy that I could not help but fall in love. They were old school killing roaches in the corner kind of boot, almost comical but in a cool way. Nancy Sinatra eat your heart out. The young sales girl was chanting Cinderella the whole trying on of the boots. She was more excited than I was that she thought of the dead stock, and I was pretty damn excited. She called the owner to confirm the tiny price for these custom killer, skinny boots and I was sold. I tried them on one more time and wandered up and down the store to make sure I could and would wear them. I know that no matter how cool, pretty, etc. a shoe is I have very sensitive feet. I am a delicate flower. There have been vacations where my travel companion looked down at my band-aided sandaled feet and counted 12 band aids. We walked a lot and I had some rubbage. I love to walk and just muscled up piled on the Curads and kept going. I will avoid any shoe in my closet in general is there is any foot to shoe conflict.

These were stiff bottomed but felt better and better as I paced the store. I didn’t feel like Cinderella per say. That could have been because I was wearing camouflage surfer shorts, a tee shirt and black cowboy boots. At least I had the sense to tuck in the knee socks the sales clerk loaned me to try on the boots. Cinderella no, I felt, and looked a lot more like Bill Murray in “Caddy Shack”. His dialogue from the movie kept playing in my head “Cinderella story. Outta nowhere. A former greenskeeper, now, about to become the Masters champion. It looks like a mirac… It’s in the hole! It’s in the hole! It’s in the hole!” I had that sound track each time I got a glimpse of myself in the long store mirrors. Mirrors are a funny thing, they are like portals. You are one place in your ego, in your head and then you take a look and are transported. Whoa Nelly, you land eons from where you were. Sometimes it is in an eastern block country with a scrub brush wearing a silk, gray, crinkly puffy dress but other times you are wearing kick ass cowboy boots that go with everything! Life is good, Yippee-ki-yay all.

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Shelf Life

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

The article said “70-85% of women are wearing the wrong size bra.” What more it stated “you can look 10 pounds thinner by wearing the correct sized garment.” Sure makes sense I think. The ‘girls’ should be where nature intended to give you a waist otherwise you are sporting more of a bubby look. Reading that tidbit was what landed me at Macy’s lingerie department 4 years ago cruising for an expert. The first person who stopped me to see if I needed help was a perky, in every sense of the word, nubile with a big friendly smile and a size A cup. I have to tell you I am shallow, prejudice, and a crone and there was no way this lovely young thing had the experience I needed in hoisting anything except maybe a Zima or white wine spritzer. I know that is wrong of me to think, but I wanted someone with more experience and cuppage of their own as I was seeking expertise. So I thanked Ms. Acup said I was fine and wandered about looking at styles of under things. Finally I spotted her across the floor close to a fitting room with an armload of bras and slips. She was in her late 60’s maybe early 100’s it was hard to tell. She had jet black hair perfectly coifed into a clever little saucy up do. Her eyebrows were Joan Crawford perfect and the twin set was lilac and so was she when I got closer and got a whiff. “Ah, yes the Bra Whisper” I thought looking at the ancient hills nestled in the faux cashmere sweater at just the right height. Bingo!

Her brushed bronze name tag said “Arlene” and her three pack a day whisky voice said “be with you in a minute hon” as she racked the slips. I hadn’t uttered a word; she must have known looking at me, sheesh that was harsh. Finally Arlene turned and looked up at me waiting “I need to be fitted for a bra.” I blurted.  She nodded once and clicked her dentures twice and led me to the fitting room from where she had emerged earlier.

“Gonna need to measure you hon, take your shirt off let me see what we are working with here”.

I pulled my tee shirt over my head and she looked at my current bra and clicked her dentures again shaking her head slightly.

Arlene slipped the tape measure from around her neck and reached her short arms around me as best she could. I got a full on assault of lilac as a puff of fine powder wafted away from décolletage up into my face. She pulled the tape tight under my ribcage and looked at the number, let it loose and pulled it tight again in a slightly different spot. Then adjusted my arms and went in for a third measurement yet again up against my ribs. Taking a step back she scribbled the number on a scratch pad that she had tucked in her skirt pocket. She then proceeded to measure and manipulate, yes some cuppage occurred in two other areas finishing with notes. Generally someone has to buy me a drink or two to get to second base. Arlene was the first to get there on a first “date” without libation. It was no fun. My face was beet red as I stood there counting ceiling tiles. But when it was all said and done I had the magical numbers from Arlene. She went out and brought me back half dozen bras to try on. The result was astounding. I looked good, I looked thinner, and I looked sexy, hot damn!

I thanked Arlene profusely as she rung me up for my new bras and matching panties. It was not like there was anyone who was going to see them other than me at that point in time but it didn’t matter; it made getting dressed in the morning more fun. I felt better about myself. But this is just half the story…

As most women know we can put on one style in one size and we look wonderful, then try another style in that same size and oh my Quasimodo in a dress. It’s bad, there is a reason why hand guns and bathing suits and pretty lace things are sold miles apart in Wal-Mart. Not to mention the morgue lighting many stores use in the fitting rooms, but I digress. There are times where I think I get it right, I think “oh yea I got it going on”. The sad part is I don’t and the sales girl I asked of the case of the black Bustier in Fredrick’s was either blind, stupid or had a mean streak a mile wide. Other items I had figured out for myself. Some things are self evident. I had been exercising diligently, lost some serious weight and was going on a trip with my beaux. I wanted lingerie something new and well a little tarty. I don’t know if that’s like being a little pregnant but hey I’m going with it.  There were several things I wanted to try one the aforementioned bustier and the second was animal prints. Lastly I threw in rhinestones tastefully done, I know an oxymoron, all this along with a diet mountain dew for stamina.

First off Fredrick’s ofHollywood, really is MOREReno, and has very kind lighting. I am saying that on the onset. That was the first thing I learned in this marathon session of trying scary tartware. The next nugget of knowledge was the only place I can wear rhinestones is the corners on my reading glasses. The third thing that became shockingly apparent was that if you are roughly the same size as the animal in the animal print, don’t even try it on.  It was like a Girls Gone Wild and Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom episode had melted on the same reel of film. Anything over a B cup just won’t work no matter how small the rest of you happens to be. There were some nice surprises in simple push up bras but I was holding out great hope for the bustier. I pulled it on and the sales girl came back to help lace me up and adjust. Yes I was getting very familiar with strange women tugging on my undergarments in the name of vanity, God BlessAmerica. We looked at it and she said “wow you look great.” I was thinking, “yea it’s a little familiar but different, I like it.” Ok different in this context was not good. Different in the context of breast shape can be bad; I just didn’t process it at the time. It was daring, new, and intimated me a little so me being me said, “change is good.” I bought it and a few other items and packed them off toBerlin. Well if Liza could do it…

Late one morning mid trip I planned to try the black bustier. My beaux had gone off to the city pool to do some laps and pick up some rolls for lunch. I jumped into the shower as soon as he was out the door doing all the girlie prep work one does in hopes of hot sex in the afternoon. I heard him come back just as I was struggling to get myself situated in the shelf like cups of Fredrick’s finest. I planned on asking him to do the final lace up and surprise him. I walked out of the bathroom as he was coming out of the kitchen. He paused a micro second in mid step as he looked up, I asked him to lace me up. He nodded and put the bag of rolls back on the kitchen counter. I said something like “I wanted to see if I could get this contraption on by myself.” His sole reaction after that was, “ok there you go, want me to make the sandwiches” then he fled. I got out of it with a whole lot less effort and put it in the bottom of the suitcase.

A month later we were talking in bed and I asked him what the deal was that afternoon. I am smart enough to never ask that kind of thing in the heat of the moment. The less emotion involved the better for this type of query. He sighed and said it looked awful on me essentially doing bad things to my lovely breasts by making them 1950’s torpedos. It was as if Cloris Leachman’s Nurse Diesel had crashed the vacation. Those were not his words but that was the image I got thinking back to my image in the mirror, now I got why it was familiar, drat.

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Playground Style

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

What I have found is woman get stuck in a look, style of clothes, hair or makeup from a time period in their life when they felt good about themselves. Not all woman do this, but many do, they find their era and stay. This ages the daylights out of you faster than smoking, the sun and drinking cheap booze. One look and you are transported back to a forgotten time, and there is a reason we call it that. We need to let go. It is one thing to have a signature style but even those are influenced by how you change over decades. I am a creature who likes change I am on the other end of that pendulum swing of the stuck folks. I morph and change with time including my clothes, hair style and color, and I do this in sometimes unflattering and frankly embarrassing ways. That is the downside of refreshing your look over time with reckless abandon.

 

Taming the feminine wiles has always been difficult for me. Some things about being female I enjoy and have done well at like make-up or rather eye shadow. The whole face production has been a learning process over the years as the terrain changes. I always have been a girl who tilted toward neutral shadows even in the 70’s and the 80’s when ice blue and high drama was all the rage. I found being confronted by a frosty glitter blue gaze to be unsettling in a Barbie meets android way. So I chose not to inflict it on others. My high drama comes in the form of hair; my once blonde tresses were not as big as the Jersey Girls but pretty damn good for aLong Islandchicklette armed with Aqua Net. High school was the beginning of Farrah and wings which my honey hued locks worked well with.  Then I kicked it up a notch moving into streaky blonde hot rollered hair sprayed into a mane, no wall of bangs though. I left those to the others from the bridge and tunnel crowd. Then came my softer curls with a bandana or do-rag, yesVirginiajust like Bananarama. There was even a bad Peter Frampton mall perm which thankfully there are only one or two pictures of. When I came home with that bush I stood in the shower crying combing White Rain cream rinse though till I was pruney. My brother in law said the only nice thing about that look, “With all that hair you don’t have such a pea head anymore” a charming man to this day. I even had a spiky new wave not quite Flock of Seagulls action in the late 80’s when I worked in a recording studio inManhattan. It was almost a requirement to go with my all black wardrobe. My success was always spotty when it came to hair some of these things looked good, others were frightful. I just moved through each with a sense of adventure, fun and impermanence.

 

Just looking at the array of hair styles above from the 70’s and 80’s you can see I enjoy the act of reinventing myself. The hard part over the years has been finding a good stylist. I have lived in 5 states over the last 15 years and the two key ingredients to success for me in the move are finding an honest and competent mechanic and a talented hairdresser. I like change but have no clue on what would look good on me. I need someone who can assess me, my lack of skill with a round brush and blow dryer then adapt. Oh yea I only have 4 hairs on my head so the cut and perfect product to simulate hair is essential. In the old days that was a rat tailed comb, hair spray or a perm. Thank god for science! My sister Chris only has 3 hairs on her head. I never knew till I went to adjust her necklace while she was driving. My hand kept moving through the line of where her hair was yet I could not feel it. It was not solid; it was some kind of spectacular Vegas mirage. Now that is good hair. Working with a hair stylist who listens and knows you is more important than choosing the right underwear for white pants. That kind of stylist is difficult to find. Making a poor choice is near terminal, not just for you hair but the extraction. Any woman knows it is much harder, near impossible to break up with a hairdresser than a boyfriend. I told my ex this once and he laughed his ass off, what does a man who has his own Flowbee barbering kit know? Women stay with stylists for years because we don’t know how or want to imagine the drama of breaking it off. God forbid we want to see someone in the same shop. Divorce can be less complicated than a feat such as this. I guess it can add another layer to how woman get stuck.

 

Given the choice over the years to move or stay, I move, except when it comes to exercise. I jump states, jobs, hair color and style easily; all of these things are mutable. What is a constant, something I depend on over time is me. My sense of humor, ability to right myself in a difficult situation, my bad timing and good luck are things that don’t change. The external package is a playground; the internal landscape is my currency. So even though there are a slew of bad photo’s littered about I am ok with that. It could be I am more of a “beg for forgiveness” person rather than “ask for permission”. I don’t wait for all the data to be in, I don’t think it ever is. I take a censes and jump in thinking “what’s the worst that can happen?” To do nothing is a choice, just one I rarely pick. There are times in a whirl of emotion, a fragile moment I do choose to do nothing, it’s just never happens while I’m sitting with a wet head in a rubber purple smock is all I’m saying.

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