Posts Tagged ‘women’

It’s not a good day when I’m walking the dogs, sipping coffee, & yet want to strangle both of them & cry. It’s a sign–a big flashing red neon with audio yelling, you have GOT to let it go. You have to drop what you aren’t handling and take care of yourself before you snap. You just have to.

I have avoided, stressed about, cursed myself for, battled with or neglected so many things like an impending heart attack–which, by the way, I actually thought I might be having a few weeks ago. Next stop, the cardiologist, no joke.

1. I have to get rid of this cat. She’s darling, quiet, simple, and yet her presence is stirring up the dogs, & this whole cat box thing is just grossing me out. Find her a home. Let her go.

2. I hate walking the dogs together. It stresses me out and makes me nasty. It makes me a bad dog walking mom, because they each want to stop at every. single. god. damn. bush & I never get to walk more than 10 feet without stopping. I have to walk them separately and this will mean watching one of them look positively rejected and pained, because going for a walk is the best thing about their day. One. At. A. Time.

3. I am not the ideal entrepreneur and I might well never be. I’m not going to be featured on Etsy, and I can’t remember the last time I even made the front page. I don’t sleep or sleep too late–in desperate attempts to stay off  anxiety of any given day. I stress. I fret. I get overwhelmed with how behind I am with my business–and mostly how far ahead, beautiful, stunning, well photographed, updated, blogged, pinned, newslettered and promoted other shops are–and how young. They are all so very young, hip, beautiful, and can photograph their clothes on themselves. They look like ads for Anthropologie. I can’t Photoshop away enough years to compete. It just isn’t going to happen.

I can still have two beautiful shops, I just have to give myself permission to let them be what they are, the best I can do amongst everything else, and let it be. My customer service is stellar. So I have that.

4. My life, my house, my existence is never going to look like a Pinterest board. My desk is elbow deep in papers, there are dust bunnies blowing across the wood floors, my wardrobe is so frighteningly disheveled I’m taking boho chic to a whole new low in boho recycled whatever. I am never going to run errands in those beautiful 4-inch leather sling backs I adore. My hair is never going to achieve Brazilian blowout chic, but more like Supercut’s special-of-the-week that’s been flattened because I never walk without a hat even though my skin is WAY beyond skin cancer redemption. I hate the sun in my eyes and I can’t wear the fab Jackie O sunglasses because I need them in prescription.

5. I need a part-time job, one where I go out in the world and they pay me to do something, I’m not sure what, so I can afford to keep my apartment, my dogs, my life. I have a dusty English degree. It wreaks of antiquated quaintness, like Avon perfume or an 8-track player.

I feel like “Tall, grande or venti?” will be my new version of “Would you like fries with that?”

6. I have to let ideals go and be okay with what is. That’s what this whole list comes down to. Living in the mess, but staying a course, even a zig-zag one without so much emotional attack on myself. I’m not sure how that works, but taking notice, creating a comical self-deprecating list and then laughing at. It lightens my inner critic to beat it to the punch. It’s a start, somewhere in the middle.

P.S. I can see a dozen or more edits this piece needs. Not. Going. To. Happen.

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I found this beautiful shop, Stiletto Heights, on Etsy and want very much to buy two of these photos, but they are so haunting, so wanting, I’m certain any Feng Shui artist would shake her head no. Women thinking about love should not hang portraits of lonely women on her walls. . .


Still, they are so beautiful and Stiletto Heights has many others, more cheerful, more playful, but of course, these spoke to me. Sigh. Be braver than me and go buy one. She’s having a sale.

Just lovely, dahlila.

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I went dancing last night and it should have been a lovely evening, but it was so disappointing and the very reason I left tango before. Maybe, I need a new gig. Salsa is usually fun. Maybe, I’ll take up golf.

Women preparing to go to a fancy dance:

Shop for a pretty new dress, dry clean an old one, buy new makeup to match new outfit–stockings, jewelry, shoes, purse, wrap/coat too. Iron, bathe, shave legs, wash hair, lotion, powder, pedicure, manicure, make-up, blow dry, spray, tousle, style, last touches on makeup then stockings, bra, slip, dress, adjust everything, heels, jewelry, earrings, perfume, stock purse–mints, money, lipstick. Don’t forget hostess gift–wine, present, food, etc.

What most men do to go to a fancy dance: Shower, maybe. Put on clean clothes, maybe, go.

What women do at the fancy dance: smile, be congenial, make ridiculously small talk, smile some more then wait as patiently as humanly possible for a man to ask her to dance. Wait some more.



What most men do at the fancy dance: dance as often as they like with any number of a plethora of waiting women, or non of them at all, eat, drink, ignore the plethora of beautiful waiting women.

What women end up doing when the waiting becomes so internally dreadful their own heart may truly break for all the preparation they’ve done and for the lack of notice they’ve received: walk, sneak out, try not to run for the door, holding their heads as high as humanly possible for how horrible they feel, drive home in tears vowing never to return again or to let themselves be foolishly swept away with hope and possibility.

What men end up doing when the dancing becomes exhausting, their bellies full, they go home drunk and happy, sleep soundly, vowing to return again and again because this is the sweetest deal they’ve ever come across: beautiful waiting women–younger women, even!–dancing with them, old stodgy coots, because they’re it at this gig! No younger men to compete with, few men at all! What a find! Little input, huge return! What a score!

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I am about to go off to my first job interview in over two years. It’s a bit daunting, to say the least. I took part of a happy pill to calm my nerves, then needed coffee to bring me back from feeling stoned. (I may have taken a bit too much. Oops.)

It’s just that I no longer deal very well with that world out THERE. You understand the proverbial “out there.” It’s right up there with the evil THEM. A popular term I learned from an age old friend, completely brilliant, who had a major melt down of her own in the early 90s. Now we both take happy pills and maintain a very dark humor about who we’ve become.

So, the job interview. I’m in my prescribed interview outfit: White blouse (stiff and binding), black pencil skirt (scratchy and tight) and 3″ black heels w/an ankle strap, because they’re sexy and I have to feel something other than claustrophobic going into this.

This isn’t even a REAL job. I mean it doesn’t have “career” embedded into it. It’s part time and the pay is barely one step above “would you like fries with that?” but it has benefits–not medical, just perks. It’s within walking distance from my home AND the cafe, so I’d never have to leave my own neighborhood. BIG plus. And I can walk Zephyr at lunch or go to the cafe. It’s a starter job for the reentry woman. . . . I just used the word “reentry.” Oh, God. It’s starting already.

Well, here I go. Wish me luck. I have to practice my “why do I want this job?” speech–the version they want to hear, that is. 😉


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I’ve been working on my cards for Dahlila. They’re fun but they aren’t photographing well. They don’t pop–but then they are typed, HAND typed on an old Olympia manual. The fun is fading, as is the ink ribbon. My fingers hurt and I don’t think the antiquity of it all is appreciated, really. The computer printer is calling my name. . .

See, you can’t SEE the writing. This one says, ” Sharon discovered her family’s rantings were much less grating when she mixed the Adivan into her afternoon tea,” Dahlila 2008.

Now, that’s my kind of sentiment, which is why I wrote it. 😉 d.

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Have you ever done something you new was going to get you in trouble? Not law-abiding trouble or physical-harm trouble, but emotional trouble? (I’m sure the answer is yes; you’re human, it’s our nature–but if it’s no, call me, we’ll do lunch; I’ll take notes.) I’m not sure why, but it seems I’m going there again.)

I think, somehow, I can handle whatever I’m getting into and that includes men–which is actually my worst subject. If Men were a class, I’d get an F for understanding, an F for for naivete, foolishness and  the big sucker award. I have this inane habit of believing men at that very moment they are saying something lovely to you, when they are floating in flirt mode, completely enthralled with the sheer act of flirting, like drunkenness. They are often, it seems, oblivious and simultaneously sincere–for example, “do I look like the kind of man who wouldn’t call you?”–and I hand him my number. “If you could be doing anything in the world,” I asked–really, i did, just today–, “what would it be?” A serious, yet intimate, getting-to-know-someone question, that I asked like a school girl and in return saw a blush cross over his face that left me wanting to smack MY own self. Duh, honey? WHAT DO YOU THINK HE WANTS TO DO BE DOING?

When did I get so stupid at the point of impact? When I am alone, over coffee, with gals, I think men are dogs. Truly, not in a horrible mean way, but factually–eat, sleep, play, pee, fuck everything available, begin again.  It’s biology, right? If I can’t control being an interminable dupe, then I can hardly expect men to be all pious w/self control–for WANTING, not acting, w/o consent–that’s a whole other hive of bees I would NEVER defend.

Is it nature, biology, they really can’t help?  I can’t hear through your laughter and jeering? Am I a MORON? (retorical question.)

You surely all know that classic moment when Lucy, from Peanuts, holds the football for Charlie and this time, YES, THIS TIME, he believes, she is going to hold the ball and let him kick it. And we want her to, we route for Charlie, we wish Lucy would behave, we want him to get to kick the ball, yet he never, ever does.

Simultaneously, we hate Lucy, pity Charles, want desperately to make it right for him, but also we think he’s a dupe and why can’t he SEE that Lucy is never going to change.  She is always going to yank away that damn football.

I am Charlie Brown.

What is it, besides masochistic idiocy, that makes me think this one, or that one, or the last one I’m re-circling will ever act differently? Hope? Belief? Optimism?  Or determination that I will not sucker-up to whatever wooing, or even innocent flirting is going on? Maybe, it’s a case of “if I just keep pouring salt into this wound it won’t hurt anymore, it will become numb, oblivious, ouch-less.” I will become IMMUNE. . . OOh, I like that last one. Power struggle to attain detachment. It sounds very Zen, in a not-Zen like kind of way. Hm?

I’ll leave you with that, a mountain of theraputic neccessity, yes? And by the way, I’m going with hope and optimism. Somewhere, I have faith, call me foolish (why not, I have) but I HAVE to believe and for the pesimist I tend to be, honestly, if you knew me . . . this is a good thing, I think.


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Today I was out in the world, a place I don’t always like to be. It’s evening now and I am happy to be back home. Yeah, home. Zephyr is a big furry curl upon my bed. I’m nestled in at my desk, Anna Nalick on the play list. As soon as I’m healed (knee injury–slow recovery) I ‘m dancing w/C to “Breathe (2 a.m.)”.  Ah, C. . . C is savory, and has ruined me for dancing w/anyone else.  Sigh.

Tango dancers (not me, not C, not anyone I know, but lovely.)

 Meanwhile, I craft. . . crochet, sew, button, cook, bake and walk. And when I’m good I do yoga and try breathing. . .

I’m reading Appetites: Why Women Want, (how apropos) by Caroline Knapp. She was a brilliant woman, (she died in 2002) insightful, elegant on paper and terribly wounded. The quintissential story teller of the secret lives of women. (No one wants to read the underbelly according to Martha Stewart.) You want an eloquent voice who was there, and Knapp was. Her bestsellers, Drinking: A Love Story, then Pack of Two: The Intricate Bond Between People and Dogs were amazing, but Appetites is sending me through the roof. In a nut shell, it’s about how women have learned to deprive themselves of what they really want–love, compassion, understanding, comfort, power, sex–by trading these in for more socially acceptable desires–food, alcohol, shopping and sex.  (note: sex is on both lists. You secretly want sex, so you ravenously eat; you yearn for love but settle for sex.) Of course, it’s more complicated than that, but it’s pissing me off.

Excerpt: “The great preoccupation with. . .food, shopping, appearance, in turn, is less of a genuine focus on hunger–indulging it, understanding it, making decisions about it–than it is a monumental distraction from hunger.”

So, basically all the women you see perusing malls, glutting on cinnamon rolls, maxing out their credit cards are starving for something else entirely. . . and I understand this completly. Sigh. . .

Not that anyone cares, now, but the sun came out and I shot lots of photos. So more Etsy scarflettes and scarves to post.


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The fog lifted, but has left a hard chill. I’ve abandoned felting–just for today–to crochet several scarflettes. I like how smart they look.

 Pumpkin Scarflette with Avacado Tie

You can actually wear them with urban wear and not feel overly bulky, as w/a scarf. And as I mentioned on Etsy, I hate it when my scarf falls from my shoulder onto the ground or into my coffee.  Dangerously long scarves can haphazardly fall into unwanted places in delicate situations. (Ask any woman who has ever tried to maneuver her body, coat, purse, packages, umbrella or child into a bathroom stall. The answer is in the scarflette. Now back to my crocheting.

Stay warm, d.

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