This isn’t necessarily a bad thing… I’ve been saying I want to lose girth for months. (I haven’t really lost much ‘weight’ so much as ’roundness’.)
It’s just… well…
It seems a lot of things are shrinking, not just my waistline which seems to be reducing proportionally with the rest of me. This means I still do not resemble Sophia Loren OR Raquel Welch.
What it also means is… my feet are even smaller.
WHAT is going ON?
Either that, or shoe manufacturers are making smaller sizes larger… and my old shoes have REEEALLY stretched out.
And clothing is a problem. Now I’m wearing pants at least a full size smaller. Not complaining about that. Don’t mind that at all.
The PROBLEM lies in buying dresses. You see… my dress size has remained a full two sizes larger than my pants size. Why?
Because the one thing on me that is NOT shrinking is my chest. Ok, not really my chest, so much as my boobs. (No. I can’t really much complain about that either.) So… blouses must be larger, by at least two sizes, than my pants/skirts. I am now shaped like… um… a carrot. (And unless we’re using some sort of “dangle the carrot” metaphor… that’s not a good thing. Wait, even using that metaphor probably wouldn’t be a good thing. I don’t want to be dangled anywhere. Er… well… ok, no.)
Dress shopping is frustrating, because anything that fits the bust does NOT fit the waist. Everything looks like a tent. Anything meant to be form fitting results in all sorts of weird fabric baggage around the back, waist and hips, SOMEtimes while the buttonup bodice is STILL so tight that I have serious (and embarrassing) gappage at the placket.
Gappage at the placket. Scourge of the ladylike.
Now… these things could be dealt with by buying clothes and having them tailored, or just tailoring clothes to fit me.
‘cept… I don’t sew. And I’m broke, so I can’t pay someone to sew FOR me.
Woe to me.
I get what I wanted… and it’s ALSO a pain in the ass. And I’m still not skinny or curvy. Just… shrunken.
It is to sigh.
(The title is an homage to GQS)
Rant mode = on
Pet peeve #143
Women who cannot find it within themselves to behave in a dignified manner.
Imagine a woman walking through a parking lot shouting to her ‘friend’, calling that friend a whore and generally calling attention to herself. A woman who… really… shouldn’t want to call attention to herself.
I’m not talking about ‘acting out’ and being funny, or crazy, or whatever you call it, among friends. BE a loudmouth with your pals. Be the pushy broad, or the funny chick, or whatever.
But don’t subject ME to it in a setting that is inappropriate.
In fact, I know tough girls and larger-than-life personalities… who don’t take shit, and can dish it with the best. BUT… they still carry themselves with dignity in public. They don’t subject the entire world to “look at me, I’m so hardcore I can call my friends names from across a parking lot and they won’t do anything about it.”
They just ARE hardcore, because that’s who they are and they don’t feel the need to demonstrate it to strangers. (Unless said strangers decide to be offensive.)
A real woman, whether she is the quiet and reserved sort or the gregarious sort, does not need to broadcast and call attention to herself. If she deserves attention she will have it, and usually it will be because people notice her bearing, her self-assured behavior, and her ability to be appropriate to the setting.
You don’t need to call attention to yourself if you’re worthy of attention.
Meh. That goes for men, too, I guess.
Come ON people. It is NOT hard to be classy in everything you do. If *I* can walk around with a little integrity, why can’t you? I’m not so very special.
Oooh, let’s rant about superficial. Can’t abide that either. People who talk about celebrities, and avidly watch so-called celebrities who are celebrities NOT for talent or intelligence, but because they happened to have been in the right place at the right time and took their clothes off for the right person, or they once did something and got a ‘name’ and now to keep that ‘name’ out there they have to participate in some ridiculous charade, or something equally shallow. Seriously… you’re TALKING about this? You’re talking about the life someone else is leading, watching ‘reality’ with bated breath, because apparently it beats the shit out of YOUR reality? You want to be those people? You want to be that two dimensional? You make time to sit your ass down and stare at THEM prancing through the day being… whatever it is they are?
You and the rest of the sheep, I guess.
I shudder to think of it. I shudder more violently when I realize that people like ‘you’ (you who love that shit) are considered ‘cool’ and people like me are considered nerds, geeks, or dorks because we aren’t well-versed in the ways of the shallow. We are undesirables in the eyes of current society because we demand substance in our entertainment, in our conversations, in associates.
Perhaps you think I’m aloof and uninterested. Perhaps I require something other than the same thing, over and over and over. Perhaps I don’t have time to care about the daily artificial play-acting of life that some vapid dingbat displays for the camera.
I’d rather go live my own reality. It’s not always pleasant, but it does keep me busy.
I’m still working on it, but my goal is to live fully, conquer the day, and suck the marrow from its bones. EVERY day. How I conquer it may not be how someone else would, but I want to know that I lived that day, and not have it slide into the morass of all the days before and all the days after, each indistinguishable from the others.
Life is too damned short to waste on things I don’t need or care about. Focus on that which matters.
Ok… so let’s see. Carry myself with dignity. Check. Not make an ass of myself. Eh, usually. Avoid the shallow and superficial. Check. Live. No… REALLY live. Workin’ on that.
Right, then.
Rant mode = off
I’m a dork, but I’m on the podcast.
Also… the Rogue is a travel destination!
It’s global? GET IT FRESNO?
Instead… a blogthingy.
Okay. I’m not a boy. But IF I was…
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| Which Action Hero Would You Be? v. 2.0 created with QuizFarm.com |
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| You scored as James Bond, Agent 007
James Bond is MI6’s best agent, a suave, sophisticated super spy with charm, cunning, and a license’s to kill. He doesn’t care about rules or regulations and somewhat amoral. He does care about saving humanity though, as well as the beautiful women who fill his world. Bond has expensive tastes, a wide knowledge of many subjects, and his usually armed with a clever gadget and an appropriate one-liner.
|
To My
Valentine
I am playing
for your heart
Another bobblehead Valentine!
(I like that third pose… the eyes all wacky-askew… just the kind of crazed person I want to be MY Valentine… oh yeah.)
I gave in and actually watched TV last night. Don’t do that much anymore, but the Godfather series has been on, so I stayed up later than I should have to watch III…
Did my ears deceive me, or did I hear a commercial with someone poorly impersonating Elvis singing “Vivaaaaaaa… Viagra!” ???
THIS is why I so rarely watch television anymore. Ok, that, and “reality tv”, and “Access Hollywood” and “Entertainment Tonight” and “TMZ” and…
Yes. There are many reasons I don’t watch TV.
So I got to bed late, was awakened abruptly in the middle of the night, went back to sleep only to be plagued by VERY strange and typically disjointed nightmares.
However, had I not got so little sleep, I might have awakened earlier and not been on the road at the right time to see the following license plates.
BEYND L8
and even better…
EECHUTA (which was in a frame that said “How Rude” at the bottom) The car also sported both Superman and Batman decals on the rear window. Gotta love geeks.
No. Really.
I’m partial to geeks.
Oh, life is just a whirl of excitement. I’ve been too busy to blog.
Thursday, the evil VD day… was a lovely evening of wonderful conversation, fantastic food, and good friends. That will be blogged later, and added to Fresnocentric.com. Suffice it to say, though, that it was probably the best Feb. 14th I’ve had in 23 years.
Friday was the podling’s birthday. She’s a teen now. I’m skeered.
Not really. She’s a fabulous kid, a wonderful person, an intelligent young lady, and just plain fun to be around. Thursday afternoon I had taken her to one of her favorite stores in the Tower District to pick her gift, since I’d rather give her a present she actually LIKES than give her something she doesn’t value. She got some lovely silver drop earrings with gemstones. On Friday night my parents joined us and her dad to have dinner at TGI Fridays and go see Spiderwick. It was entertaining, but she was deeply disappointed with the way the books were translated to the screen. She had found the books to be diverting and magical. She refers to the movie as “Two hours of a troll blustering around and breaking things.”
Saturday was a day of hanging out, being at home, relaxing. Kinda nice.
Saturday evening I had picked up a gig to go dance for a birthday party at a local nightclub/hookah bar. A friend of mine couldn’t do the gig, so she called me and asked if I would do it. The pay was less than I would normally ask, but I didn’t have anything going on, and didn’t mind doing it.
THAT was interesting. I had danced there when the place first opened as a restaurant. The clientele was nice, the food was great. Then they switched over to a more nightclub/bar atmosphere, but I’d gone there a few times to see friends dance, and it still seemed a fun and classy atmosphere despite the fact that the food took a nosedive.
This time, I walked in and saw four girls on pedestals set up on the dance floor… in cheezy beaded/coined costumes… um… wiggling. They weren’t really dancing. Sometimes they gyrated. Mostly it was wiggling. Maybe it was because there wasn’t a whole lot of room on the little platforms on which they stood. Still… I couldn’t help but think, “Wow… the atmosphere of THIS place has changed. And not for the better.”
But I was there to do a job. I found the young lady that hired me and introduced myself. She asked if I would wait for a half hour to an hour later to perform than the performance time stated on the contract. I told her I would be happy to do that, but that there would be a $20 charge for every 15 minutes past the original agreed upon performance time. Her exact words were, “You’re going to CHARGE me?!” I smiled and said, “It’s in the contract you signed.” She decided she would not wait, and was going to pay me right away. She wrote a check and I proceeded to wait.
And wait. She was still having guests arrive, so I decided to be flexible about time and not charge her for the first 15 minutes past performance time.
I probably waited 20 minutes past the original performance time before she told me it was a good time for my set. Great! I gave my cd to the DJ, explained how long it was, and prepared to do a 16 1/2 minute set of Isis wings, cane, belly beads, a drum, and some fun songs to get birthday girl and guests out dancing. I had planned this set because I was told she had specifically requested “interesting” dancing, especially props.
Before I went on, I clearly explained to her that the first 3 songs were prop dances, and then I would invite people out to dance and have fun on the fourth song.
The music started, I wafted in dramatically with wings, and that seemed to go over well… once the pedestal girls realized that if they didn’t get down OFF the pedestals they might get smacked with the wings. As the music changed over to the second song, I went to drop the wings and pick up my cane… when the birthday girl and her party decided to swarm the dance floor. I struggled not to hit people with the cane as I attempted to do my number, but then decided to just chuck the cane and let them do their thing.
It was clear at that point that a bellydancer was hired not to actually perform, but just be atmosphere and background.
That’s cool. It’s her party. So, I remained on the floor and danced with the group, pictures were taken, it seemed like people were having fun. Though no one was tipping. I got the distinct impression that these people were unfamiliar with the idea.
When my music was up I gracefully exited the floor, gathered my things, put on my coverup and prepared to leave when one of the girls came over, gave me a hug, thanked me for being able to come out on such short notice and pressed some bills into my hand, saying “This is for you.” It’s not the first time people have waited until after the fact to offer a gratuity. I thanked her and said I hoped everyone had a good time, then left.
The next morning, when I counted the ‘tip’ she had given me, it was sizable, but not the largest tip I had ever received. The fact that it was the same amount as the fee for dancing didn’t seem TOO unusual. In the past I have had my original fee more than doubled by tips received after the fact.
I reported back to my friend about the gig, what had happened, how it went, since it was her agency that the booking had gone through.
Two days later, my friend called me to say that the girl had called and said I had been paid twice. When told that I had thought it was a gratuity she said “Who would tip THAT much?” Apparently this girl has no idea what bellydancers really get paid. She said she’d stop payment on her check. My friend said the check had already been deposited. So… now we have to send this very confused young lady a check for her mistake. Then she apparently went on to complain that I hadn’t done much. Well, of course I didn’t. My friend replied that I had prepared a set of more than 15 minutes with several prop portions but was not able to do them because the party took over the dance floor before I had a chance to do more than one of them.
Note to self: Do not dance at this particular establishment again. Given that they have ‘fake bellydancers’ on pedestals wiggling, it seems the clientele don’t understand what a real dance performance entails, and don’t know how to respond appropriately. I did not feel comfortable walking in because of the atmosphere. It made me feel sad that these girls were tarted up in barely-there coins and beads to wiggle on display, and I honestly did not want to be associated with that in any way. Given that feeling, it would be a waste of my time to dance there again, especially for the low compensation for my trouble.
It’s just so sad. I remember how nice the owners were back when we started, and I remember how much I enjoyed dancing there and being around those people.
I can’t really blame them. You have to do what makes money, and I guess sex sells. At least it’s not a strip bar…
Sunday I got to take the podling to spend her birthday money on some new clothes (as was her grandmother’s intention). It was fun, except for the part where one of her friends called her and wanted her to come to the park. In the middle of our shopping trip. She got grumpy when I told her that was not going to be possible. Other than that, much retail therapy was accomplished, and she found a few cosmic bargains, getting pants IN HER TEENY LITTLE MINISCULE SIZE for $7 on clearance. You go podling.
Now… I have to gear up for the next weekend, which is a bellydance showcase on Saturday (that I still need to advertise and get the word out about), and Ananka’s tech rehearsal on Sunday… though… I may or may NOT be singing for them now, because the sound equipment issue is still up in the air.
Whee…
Valentine Greetings
To Doris J.
From Mildred Anderson
(Did she think it was Jaeger, not Yager, perhaps?)
Adjusting doggy’s little bow makes the eyes move a bit.
To One I Love
To Glen
From Willi
Ok, here we have a little boy’s dream Valentine…
A cow blowing snot on two little lovers, ostensibly as a loving greeting.
Uh huh.
So… Happy Sappy Crap Day, everyone. This is JUST for you. What could possibly be more romantic than being snotted on by a bovine?
With most sincere sentiment,
Joy
No, I’m not going to talk about diseases.
Nor do I intend to rail, rant, and rave about the disease that I think Valentine’s Day is. I know. It’s a tradition. I’ve been doing it for years, in a string of online blogs, and email exchanges with dear friends. Let’s break tradition.
I know some people still believe in love. Why blow it for the poor saps while they’re still happy? They don’t need ME to harsh their mellow. That will come of its own accord sooner or later.
So… enjoy hearts and flowers. Enjoy candlelight. Hopefully, somebody, somewhere is being adored by the person they adore most. Maybe it’s you. Good for you.
Because I’m not. And I doubt I ever will be again. I’m still not okay with that idea; probably never will reconcile with it. I can still smile. It’s just a little more weak, a little more watery around the eyes, slightly less open. Battered animals are slightly more timid and cautious ever after.
Red. The color of blood. And pink. The color of rent flesh. The colors that bring to mind the state of my heart after a man who swore he loved me more than anyone reached in, ripped it out, threw it on the floor, stomped around on it gleefully, then ground it under his heel for good measure.
Still, in the spirit of the day… or, at least, the spirit of what the day has become, I offer what follows.
Be happy. Gaze into that loved one’s eyes and drown there. Touch. Hold. Connect and don’t let go.
When you’re in the thick of it… it’s glorious. I remember. A bit too vividly for comfort.
And if you need more Valentine goodness, click the “Valentines Year Round” link over in the “Categories” box, or check out the Valentines Year Round on my old blog site. I’m sharing vintage Valentines weekly (when I remember), until I run out of new ones to scan. Some of them are more than 80 years old. Cynic that I am, even I find them to be sweet and entertaining. (And they make me think of my beloved Grandmother, who also lived the majority of her adult life without the person she adored most. She was a phenomenal human being. I can be, too.)
Edit:
For those of you who think I’m wallowing in the despair and futility of it all… well, I WILL admit I’m wearing all black today in honor of those who have fallen (to that barbarian, Cupid’s, arrows, and to the corporate machinations of greeting card companies who have commandeered romance and cheapened gestures of caring to the price of a card or stuffed animal), but I’m also wearing pretty pink things beneath all that black. I’m not completely hopeless, ya know.