Archive for August 10, 2014

Yep, it’s time for another one of my rants about my world. Wow, you just can’t beat television as a valuable source of material for rants. I’ve struck the mother lode with this medium.

First, it’s important to talk a little bit about “set precedents.” For years, Hollywood has given all of us “real women” an incredibly impossible ideal that all women need to strive for in order to achieve “perfect beauty”: a size 0 (that’s a “zero”, not an “O”, in case you’re also a blond, skinny, chick reading this right now).

Okay, before I start getting responses that accuse me of being sexist, ageist, “fattist” or whatever the latest PC term for overweight is, I will own up to my own figure. I am not, I repeat, NOT one of those women who fit into size 0 pants. If math serves me correctly here, I’m more of a size 14(ish). Bigger on the days I’m retaining water. Less on the days I drink more coffee. Needless to say, I’m “full bodied”. But, I can carry it off better than, say someone the size of a professional jockey. I’m tall. I used to be tall and thin, now I’m just tall. Genetics, aging, childbirth, and not watching my weight (because I no longer care) has added several unwanted, unneccesary pounds to my 5’10″(ish) height. I say “ish” because according to my doctor, I’ve shrunk. I think I was just slouching on that day she measured me.

I own my weight issues and certainly can’t do anything about my height issues. I just thought I’d put this out there so nobody could come back at me and say “Well, you can say all this because YOU don’t have anything to talk about!” (I’m also “blond”, so that argument goes out the window too, nyah!)

But, of course, I do have something to say. Ladies, it is time we take some things back — like weight issues and hair issues.

I saw a preview for the latest round of reality TV shows called “More to Love”, and this one looks like nothing more than an excuse to take the sting out of the word “fat” and soften it up with the euphemism: “real woman”. Are you kidding me?

The premise behind this concept is simple: a bachelor is searching for his “Miss Right” (sound familiar here?). But, with a twist. This time, the chubby chaser is looking for a–yes–they said it out loud, “real woman”. Translation: women somewhere in the 5′-5’6″ height range and between 175 – 215 lbs (rough estimate based on some quick calculations I made regarding circumference) As I once heard it said: “Just a hugging and a chalking I go”. I’m no math wizard here, but I know “fat” when I see it. And folks, these women are “fat”.

I don’t have a problem with the premise of the show. Fat women need love too. I totally support anyone who can find the love of their life — skinny, fat, pimply faced, etc. So long as they aren’t searching for an abusive, controlling, addicted, waste of a human being, who am I to argue or complain?

The problem I have is in the euphemistic and patronizing tone of the words “Real woman”. Come on, let’s call it like we see it. Am I any less “real” as a woman because I don’t weigh 215 (approximately) pounds? Am I less of a “real woman” because I was blessed with long legs and a short torso?

I have an entirely different definition of “real woman”, and it has nothing to do with weight or height, but everything to do with character:

1. A real woman isn’t afraid to leave the house without full make up on, uncombed hair or even an unshowered body.

2. A real woman isn’t afraid to put a worm on a hook, land the fish, kiss the first one for good luck, and pry the bloody hook from the fish’s mouth.

3. A real woman couldn’t tell you the difference between Donna Karan and Dolce Gabbana, but she can hogtie a calf, castrate a bull and chop a chord of wood, if need be — all before noon on a blistering summer day (or midnight on a frigid winter’s night).

4. A real woman doesn’t sit around and whine about her man’s failings, or the fact that she can’t find a decent man, or she’s too fat, too ugly, too poor, etc. She just works with what she has. If she decides to drop any weight, let’s hope it’s the man who doesn’t love her for who she is, not because he told her so.

5. A real woman doesn’t sit around comparing herself to other women. I get that Jennifer Aniston is a size 0. I accept that she is “knock-‘em-dead” gorgeous. She also has a personal trainer, most likely a professional chef, a stylist, personal shopper, etc. Her job is to BE gorgeous and she does it well.

6. A real woman doesn’t let society define or determine who she is, especially if these criteria are coming from a male-dominated industry.

These are just a few things I consider to be part of a real woman’s treasure trove of value. Notice nowhere in there did I say “a-real-woman-is-actually-a-fat-woman-upset-at-being-called-fat-who-is-really-just-trying-to-find-her-place-in-a-society-that-has-created-impossibly-unrealistic-expectations-of-beauty-and-worth.” However, I bet that’s the first thing the pitch people for this reality show said to the network producers as they were hauling out the contract to sign.

It’s time we stopped with all this nonsense about beauty and how it is defined. I, myself, could lose some pounds. As I said before, I own this statement. But, let’s drop the euphemisms and start calling it like we see it.  These women on this show are fat. If TV producers want to create a show called “Real Women”, then I say they search for more appropriate and fitting women to answer their audition calls– and sit back to see how many really do show up after all.

Because a real woman would have the confidence to say “No, I don’t need the spotlight of television to show the world how beautiful I know I am.”

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This post has been temporarily put on hold. I apologize for the inconvenience.

animal_buffalo cartoon bison wild west angry buffaloThere’s a bison in my basin
down the basement
of my house.
It jumped into the basin
When it glanced upon a mouse.

I cannot help but wonder,
while I sit around and pout,
If this bison leaves my basement
What will happen to my house?

To keep a bison in the basin
of the basement in my house
I must build a big encasement
or that bison will get out.

This encasement in the basement
must be strong enough to hold
a bison from his childhood
Up until he grows too old.

Still I cannot help but wonder,
Would he be better in a zoo?
Oh my goodness!
I’ve just noticed
that my bison count is TWO!

Now two bison in my basement
where before there was just one.
And to think I thought my bison
was going to bring me lots of fun.

But with two there’s added trouble
and I cannot help but think,
How do I wash two bison,
when they both begin to stink?

Alas, a bigger basin’s needed
to relieve my misery.
Oh no, I can’t believe it.
Now my bison count is THREE!

As I stare ‘round in amazement
at three bison in my basement
I have a feeling the encasement
will be in need of strong replacement.

My busy basement building
to increase my bison’s pen
has me sweating and regretting
that first bison that moved in.

Whoo! — I’ve finally contained them
back behind my basement door.
Oh no, don’t even tell me –
Has the head count grown to FOUR?

From one to four the bison number
in the basement of my home.
And the trouble they’ve created
makes me wish I were alone.

All the needings and the feedings
keep my bison all alive.
Oh yikes, I can’t control them!
As I count to number… FIVE???

Oh my goodness, someone help me!
I can’t hold them anymore.
I can see them quickly climbing
up the stairs and out the door.

Grab a broom and help me guide them.
Or use a great big stick.
I don’t care where we must hide them.
Just as long as…oh no, SIX!

It seems as quickly as I count them
there arrives another one.
Six and seven, eight and nine then
Final number? How ’bout TEN!!.

So as I struggle to contain them
in the basement of my house,
I won’t forget how all this started –
I can thank that one darn mouse!

203mouse

Copyright 2009. Unauthorized copying of this material is strictly prohibited.

Unspoken Grief

Posted: August 10, 2014 in Uncategorized

Unspoken Grief.

Time ticks by

A day becomes a month.
Months flow into years.
Years churn slowly
into decades.

Never again
do we meet

face to face.

Our time
began,
occurred,
and ended
within such
a short span –

less than twenty-four hours.

Before you
became

somebody else’s.

I do not speak of you
mouth closed
by fear,
trepidation,
and

self-imposed silence.

Shut down
by others
who choose to believe

what happened
what I did-
is

easily forgettable.

But my sin

still haunts me.

Wrapped inside
the baby boy
who slipped
from my embrace
to her’s.

Born
not under her heart
But

from within