Yellow eyebrows
May 20, 2010
“My sister was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease when she was in her early 40′s. By the time they figured out what she had, they gave her three months to live. She ended up living for three years, due in large part to her fervent love for her young daughters.
Her name is Kathy. She was technically my half sister, but was like a mother to me. I packed up all of my things and moved from Florida to California at her suggestion when I was in my early 20′s. It never occurred to me that anything ‘bad’ could happen to a young woman in a car alone on a three or four day trip across the country with all of her possessions in her car, including a large television more or less in plain view in the back seat; and nothing bad did happen.
She took me into the fold, made me part of her family. We would take long walks and she would listen to me rattle off incessantly about whoever I was dating at the time – she was patient with me as I painstakingly dissected every conversation and wrung my hands over every nuance of what was said.
She was home.
So I painted her. Tried to convey the strength of my love for her and the power of her courage with the color choices. Most of all I tried to capture the pain in her eyes. The resignation. The fear. And a glimmer of hope in her yellow eyebrows.
It occurred to me long after the painting was done that her eyes were green. Mine are blue.
I had painted my eyes into her face.”
-Art and story by Lisa Valle, 44, from Portland, Oregon
Wild woman rule: #1
December 14, 2009
I’m bored with rules from self-proclaimed experts. I’d rather hear refreshing stories from wild women that chuck instructions in the recycling bin: the type of women who read two paragraphs of “How To …” magazine articles and decide they’d rather head to the rock climbing gym than finish the article. I admire that crowd.
Writing her own rules: Caitlin Kelley
In response to an excerpt from The Rules by Ellen Fein and Sherrie Schneider, Caitlin Kelley wrote her own rule for meeting new friends and finding romance:
“Play social sports. Play to the best of your ability, and don’t be afraid to get sweaty & dirty. Don’t bother changing back into regular clothes when going to the bar afterwards. Dominate the flip cup or beer pong table, and you can show your feminine side by dancing when Rhianna or Lady Gaga plays from the jukebox.”
Next time you read or hear a rule you abhor, write your own. Send it to me (TheMathematicsofGlamour@hotmail.com), and I’ll post.
A rupture in the rules
December 9, 2009
“When you’re with a man you like, be quiet and mysterious, act ladylike, cross your legs and smile. Don’t talk so much. Wear black sheer pantyhose and hike up your skirt to entice the opposite sex! You might feel offended by these suggestions and argue this will suppress your intelligence or vivacious personality. You may feel that you won’t be able to be yourself, but men will love it!”
-From The Rules by Ellen Fein and Sherrie Schneider
Write your own rules. Send to me, and I’ll share.
Mating call
July 28, 2009
His nose is loaded with lotion. My nose is hidden inside of a book.
I’ve been quiet.
The best feature of reading is re-reading. A favorite book of mine entered my realm post-College and pre-European Adventure. I needed a few “bus books” for the trip, and I stumbled across a good one: The Girl’s Guide To Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Bank.
The story follows Jane through her relationships with the most important men in her life: Father, Brother, First Love, Idealistic Love, Oodles of Lovers in Between, and the Real Love. The witty writing makes you light up, and the reality of truth, in the storyline, makes you dim down.
Bank reminds you of all that is “beautiful and funny and sad and true.”
Every time I re-read, I revel.
On the beach, Linda became her social-scientist self and said, “At the top of the social hierarchy is the blond man on the elevated white chair. The symbolic throne.”
“I believe the common term ‘lifeguard’ signifies his desire to copulate,” I said, “i.e., to guard the perpetuation of the species.”
“Note that he paints his nose white,” she said. “Not unlike the chiefs of many sub-Saharan tribes.”
The lifeguard stood up and blew his whistle.
I said, “Mating call.”
-The Girls’ Guide to Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Bank
Modern-Day Popeye and Olive Oyl
April 14, 2009
I’ve only dated a few men that are shorter than me. And when I say “a few”, I mean one. Maybe two if I really dig – deep into the Dead Sea perhaps. I have definitely dated a lot of guys that are within an inch or two of my own height.
Being in a relationship with a shorter man does not bother me one bit. In fact, I think there should be more couples with shorter men and taller women. But if I have no problem at all, why do I usually find myself with those 6’2″ fellows?
Perhaps I’m a liar. A hypocrite sounds less harsh – I yam what I yam.
I pretend to be more open than I really am. Or are shorter men not as attracted to me? Maybe they don’t want to date taller women? Don’t get me wrong, I know that there are plenty of men that love taller women, and there are oodles of online groups that advertise their passion for long legs and height. I get it. There’s a lot of love floating in cyberspace. It is appreciated.
But despite those select groups of men, would the majority of men date an Olive Oyl? Are there really oceans of Popeyes that are blind to height? Maybe not even blind, but do these mysterious men find big feet, lanky bodies, and chicken-legs endearing?
Katie Holmes & Tom have nothing on Popeye & Olive Oyl’s chemistry. I don’t care if my favorite couple is based upon a cartoon, they work together. Who tops them?
Mickey and Minnie: Exactly the same height = perfect for googly eyes and lots of floating hearts, but Minnie doesn’t have Olive’s sass, and Popeye could take down Mickey with his pipe.
Barney and Betty: I forgot the height disparity here, and I’d like to favor this couple, but I never saw the attraction as a kid, and I still don’t. I always thought Wilma and Fred were the sexier couple. Maybe I need to watch some Saturday cartoons and give the Rubbles another look. Eh, probably won’t happen.
Homer and Marge: Out of the running by default. Does hair really count as height? Another topic, another time. Despite my warm affection for the humorous 40-year-old and his high school sweetheart, I can’t commit to this relationship.
Until I find a better couple, and I’m convinced otherwise, I’m sticking with my Popeye and Olive Oyl. And I’m considering an anchor tattoo or adding spinach to my diet. It’s a toss-up.
Me Pirate Has Stubble
March 3, 2009
Humor changes with every person, every height, and every culture.
But come on mate, who does not chuckle when you wake up next to a Pirate? A LEGO Pirate … with just the right splattering of stubble. I have always been a fan of facial hair.
My squiffy pirate joined my life last Friday after a visit to F.A.O. Schwartz. I had wanted LEGO loot back in me life for a long time, and I finally bought the booty.
As soon as I got back to my ship slash apartment, I immediately dived into the bucket of adventure.
The creative juices were squirting all over the place, and I built my dream house with multiple floors and an ideal outdoor living space for Dandy Lions, millipedes, and sunlight.
Blimey! One block got loose, and half of me house crumbled to the floor. I tried not to get irritated, but at that point I went to the kitchen and poured a glass of spirits for me-self.
Building, building, stacking, building. Memories flowed. Back when I was a lass, I was in fact a LEGO Master.
Yo-ho-ho! The house crumbled again. Another sip of spirits. Or two. Or three.
I had originally thought the night would be relaxing, but I was getting fussy. I mean – I remember my castles breaking here and there when I was a lass, but I did not remember such frustration. Sitting on my bed, as an adult, I felt more immature and impatient than ever. I gave up on my dream house with my sexy pirate. I walked away.
An hour passed. I could not ignore the fact that me pirate needed a home. And I had an empty shelf waiting. The coffee mug was not suitable for any matey of mine. I strutted my se
a-legs back to my bucket of toys. And damnit, I built.
Look at the handsome home.
I do need ye to help me with a name for me stubbly mate. Does my pirate look like a Rufus or Billy? Suggestions welcome. Aye?
The High-Heel Challenge: Day 1
February 23, 2009
The pump of the evening
I had originally planned to wait until Monday to start this month-long disaster of a challenge. But as I dressed myself up for a friend’s birthday celebration, and I made my hair as big as possible, I decided that there was absolutely no reason to avoid my new best friend, the high-heel. Big hair, Big heels, Big night. Right?
I jumped into my 3-inch gold pumps which i had worn only once before in December. Immediately, as I left my apartment and walked towards the subway, I remembered how awkward I walk in heels. I’m a very fast walker, normally, and I was very frustrated as the pumps slowed me down. It made me wonder if women that wear heels usually just take taxi cabs everywhere in the city. I’ll start paying more attention to the shoes women are wearing in the subway system. Homework.
I attacked the bar scene with my 6’2″ frame. Well, I don’t know if I attacked it, but that was the goal. Most of my friends were encouraging, and I even received a text message from my brother after I sent him, “Randy, I look like I just learned how to walk for the first time”. His words of wisdom made me chuckle: “Be Strong”.
Other than the physical pain of standing in the heels, I enjoyed the added attention. And there was definitely more attention compared to the usual night; I was glad my hair was extra big and wavy with lots of hairspray. I was not as comfortable with my height as I would like to be, though. I think I would be more confident if I felt more natural walking around. I have some things to work on this month. It will be an interesting experience.
