Tornado Touchdown

Dear Texas Residents,

My heartfelt sympathies to those in Canton, and all area's effected by the tornado touchdown.  We've seen gentler and we seen harsher storms my loves and still we rise.  Hang in there and while I cannot be there with you I am thinking of you. 




Dear Tornado,

Must you always hit those whom don't deserve it while blatantly ignoring my fuckwit of a husband who is right there.  Easy pickin's tornado. E-Z pickin's.  On your next pass through, please just take him!

If I' only killed him when I first thought about it; I'd be out by now.

Time Marches On

Time does indeed march on and as you age, as I am; you will find it's marching with an entire troupe across your face.  My once resilient and impossibly youthful skin has begun to remind me that while I may feel ageless most days, it is requiring some extra care.  Between age and work environment, which in my case is quite a harsh environment my face is freaking the hell out to put it mildly.  Never before have I had to deal with this many breakouts and tenderness from my skin.  About a week ago they moved around a fair amount of stuff at work, thus sending my already irritated skin into a tailspin of "fuck you all, I'm going to turn red, rashy, and hurt like a mother fucker" began. 

I had breakouts as a teen, much the same way we all did when our youthful hormones kicked it up a notch and did their version of Stuart's, "Look what I can do!"  Yet this is completely new to me.  My youthful breakouts were nothing compared to this level of insanity.  For some of you, it will seem like hell; while to others still you'll Z-snap and say, "gurl, that ain't nothin!"  Of course each of our mileage will vary, it's just that for me personally; I'm beginning to look into the mirror and feel as though Keith Richards is staring back at me. 

I've never been one of those girls to have a massive beauty routine.  The entire notion of it bored the life out of me and made me feel like some ridiculous self absorbed princess.  I am in no way trying to turn back the hands of time and look 20 something again.  I had my time, and I lived the width and breadth of it without any regrets.  I am happy to embrace my path towards some form of maturity in all it's glory, I would simply like to do so without red, inflamed, itchy pockmarked skin.  So today, I sit with a freshly activated charcoal washed face, a clay mask now drying upon said face, and a glop of salicylic and glycolic acids waiting in the wings in the efforts and hope that my face will purge all of the ick and just calm the fuck down! 

Here's to the ageing process and seeing what I can do next!

Mid-Life Mom?

Someone told me I was a midlife mom today.  I'm not exactly sure what that means or what they meant by it, but it sounds even less appealing than being called a milf.  Then again I am completely stumped over all of this "midlife stuff" anyhow.  Sure I fully realize that I am in my mid 40's and rounding that corner to fabulous 50's, but everytime I hear someone mention "midlife" it always sounds so negative.  Why do we fight against aging with such ferocity?  We're so arrogant.  So afraid of aging, that we do everything we can to prevent it.  When will we accept that growing up and older into our authentic selves, with or without someone is a privilege afforded to so few that it's something to be cherished not feared?  Let's face it, even if we are all alone, we're all together in that too.

But They're Pink!

Not these one's thank the gods old and new.  These are the Saucony road runners, and they are like slippers with speed.  Yet low and behold I had to buy new runners, and buying just one pair with my dancers feet is not even an option.  You see when you have feet like mine you tend to go through shoes, even the expensive ones fast.  So I hunt for sales and something that isn't fucking pink!

It's always interesting buying new shoes.  At least it is for me with my way ugly dancers feet.  My toes go into a point my bunions are massive and not going anywhere ever.  So when I step on the foot sizing contraption the look upon the poor salesman's (in this case) faces is humourous.  My feet thanks to years of foot binding torture in pointe shoes has ensured that the "one size fits all" approach is not even an option.  So assuming that a B width shoe will work will have me rolling my eyes and shaking my head.  The salesman in this case was pretty good.  He didn't recoil in horror or abject fear.  As has been known to happen in the past.  Seriously.

To his credit he looked me in the eye and said, "you've got the widest feet I've ever fitted.  I imagine wearing heels would be excruciatingly painful for you."  Ahh a young man with a brain!  I liked him already.  "Yes, I can say without any preamble that high heels are a death sentence for me in 99.9% of the cases.  I have to wear something that is actually tailor made for my feet."  When he nodded and added, "any man that asks you to wear heels should be shot if he isn't paying to have them made for you then" I almost threw him to the ground and rode him like a pony.  Alas I maintained a sense of decorum and remembered that he looked to be about 24 at best.  More's the pity for me.

He and I went over what it was that I required in a shoe and discussed the best options with the best price points.  Noting that I had to buy two pairs to ensure I got through the month, he pulled out all the sale items for me, bless his heart.  (Oh that statement...)    Anyhow, we found two of my favourite brands and went with those that would give me the most flexibility around my super wide feet, yet amazingly narrow heel.  Steve brought me out the Saucony's which felt like butter (insert yiddish voiceover right there) and a pair of Asics that had me eyeing him a tad wearily.  "Steve darling, do I look like a woman that wears pink?"  I guffawed at him.  His resounding chuckle and bally's "oh sit your butt down and just try them on for me," was impressive.  Steve had chutzpah.  I like that.

Steve was also right.  Something I like and loathe.  So there I was with a pair of purple and PINK Asics on my feet and quite pleased with them.  Kudo's Steve, until we meet again.  xo The no longer barefoot ballerina.

Dear Boot Companies

When making knee high and over the calf boots, do you think you could take into account that those of us who do sports and workout do not have skinny fucking claves!  Your standard sizing of a 15 inch circumference will in NO WAY fit over my calves. 

These boots are totally cute as are other's like them.  I however have big muscled calves that have a circumference of 18.25 so unless I want to bunch them around my ankles, I can do nothing but wish they'd fit.      Do better!

Revenge Porn

I'd like to say, "What the actual fuck people?" but I cannot say that it surprises me at all.  Still I find it and things like upskirt photos and videos so fucking classless.  If it isn't consensual, it's  huge turn off and completely repulsive to me. 

We've all been hurt, and we have all, intentionally or otherwise hurt someone at sometime in our lives.  No one person is above it.  It sucks beyond the telling of it, and yes often times leaves unseen scars that have us second guessing the next partner that comes into our lives.  Unfairly too might I add.  Still we do it.  However to post on any website, another's images that in all reality were meant for your eyes only, that's just tacky,  The damage you do is beyond anything that you seem to realize. The same goes for hiden cameras, upsirt shots, groping unsuspecting people (men and women) and all that other shit so many of you fucked up twisted shits get off on. 

Grow up.

Waltzing into Hell

Did I ever regale you fellow readers of how I lost the most overtly religious friend I’ve ever had because she insisted I was hellbound over a pair of panties?  It's true of course, we are all keenly aware that if you believe in a place like hell and have come to understand me keenly enough that there will be a point where you will utter, "my god you're totally going to hell."  Come to think of it, stranger's utter it to me rather often.  In any case, I the queen of Pagan ways had one of the most overtly religious friends.

How was this even humanly possible?  Yes I am aware of the absurdity of it all too, but nevertheless I liked her.  She was in many way very kind.  Plus she was an animal lover so she couldn't be all bad right?  And then there was the fact that as different as my views can be she still wanted to be my friend, up and until the panty issue arose that is.  Now for all that I say, do, and believe; one would think that she'd have taken issue with who I was far sooner and over something far more substantial than a pair of barely there skivvies.  Alas no, it would be a scantily scarcely there set of skivvies that broke the christians moral dilemma of befriending me.

I remember laughing so hard that my sides hurt and tears ran down my face at her reaction to them.  To this day I cannot help but grin when remembering the look upon her face.  It was as though I had said to her that there was indeed no god and that her mother was once a junkie whore all rolled into one.  Her disgust was palpable, her rage tangible, and her shrieking...it was legendary.  You'd have thought that would have been her reaction to my pro-choice stance and not a pair of oh-la-la undies, but no I was setting trends and swinging for the fences.

I do wonder how the uptight young woman is every now and then, and wonder if her panties are still in a twist.  Then I picture her in granny panties and just smile.