Flashback Outfit: Flygirl Edition

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Oh HAAAAAY boos. Seems like I can’t quite get my shit together when it comes to writing this year. Now that I have:

Not 1.

Not 2.

but 3 jobs, finding free time is a bit impetuous. But that’s okay because free time always gets this lady into trouble.

Speaking of trouble, let’s lace up your dance shoes and get ready to do the Running Man. Where you going, girl? In Living Color called and they was wondering if you could do a couple of chest thrusts and step-ball-changes in between skits. Life as a Fly-girl can be rough on the callous. No matter. I’ma still wear my hat sideways.

Apparently I didn’t get the hip-hop memo that it’s not cool for a white girl from New Haven to wear a fake diamond chain around her neck. Not only a fake diamond chain – but a chain in the shape of a money symbol. Now that’s some pre-Ke$ha bullshit.

The T-shirt I’m wearing is a H&M classic. I remember when the store opened in Boston, I was invited to the pre-opening. That’s only because I was running a modeling agency and had loads of pretty girls at my disposal. Let me tell you something: pretty girls will get you into more premieres than puppies. Because old men don’t like to fuck puppies – unless they’re really bat-shit-CRA. Old men like to pretend that they are going to fuck young girls and they will give you all sort of perks in hopes of getting into some panties. Of course, being the protective Mama-Bear that I was, that never happened. But anticipation, like Tim Curry says in The Rocky Horror Picture Show, makes a man shiver. And a shivering man with a shrinking hard-on will give gift-bags and fruit loops to any lady carting around 18 years olds. Trust.

Now let’s get back to the 1995-flashback:

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Tiger Rant: Disney Princesses

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In yet another pedophilic attempt to over-sexulize young girls, the big wigs of Disney have converted my favorite Disney princess, Merdia, into a thinner, sexier version of her former self. Better teach these little ones to have big boobs rather than to be Brave:

Princess Merida before and after

I’ll say this opinion comes from a bias place. I hate Disney princesses and everything they teach girls to stand for: mainly find a man by twirling around and acting helpless (and sexy) otherwise you’ll be washed up. So imagine my surprise when I watched Brave – finally a girl after my own heart! Merida would rather shoot arrows and play outside than be wrapped up in bondage of boring romances. Brave was the Disney movie I would actually show my kids if I had them. Why? Because little girls have to grow up to believe they are more than pretty objects to be bought and traded – either figuratively or literally by men. Up. There I go. Getting all Fem-nazi again. But wait a minute, here’s a quote from the original director of Brave, Brenda Chapman, to the Hollywood Reporter on Merida’s makeover:

“Merida was created to break that mold — to give young girls a better, stronger role model, a more attainable role model, something of substance, not just a pretty face that waits around for romance.”

Look, I grew up believing that the dreams you dream really do come true. It’s just that my dreams were about running companies – not getting married to Prince Charming. In fact, I don’t think I’ve had one wedding fantasy in my life – except for getting married by Elvis in Vegas. As far Prince Charming(s), they’re like nachos – you can never eat only one.

Thankfully there has been a tremendous amount of backlash about Merida’s redesign. Change.org put out a petition garnishing over 200,000 signatures and as of today the old Merida is on its Disney Princess site. Bippity-boppity-boo.

In other news, Jaime Moore, a photographer from Austin, Texas, middle-fingered The Disney Princess franchise by celebrating her daughter’s 5th birthday another way. In a creative move that I can only describe as epic, Jaime dressed up her daughter Emma as 5 influential woman of our age: Amelia Earhart, Coco Chanel, Susan B Anthony, Helen Keller and Jane Goodall.  Moore says, “‘My daughter wasn’t born into royalty, she was born into a country where she can now vote, become a doctor, a pilot, an astronaut, or even President if she wants and that’s what REALLY matters.”

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Death, Gratitude and a Led Zeppelin Song.

This is a trip we took to Jerome, AZ. He gladly got on the horsey so I could take the picture.

This is a trip we took to Jerome, AZ. He gladly got on the horsey so I could take the picture.

I am back after a long-ass hiatus. This hiatus was far from a vacation – frankly it was a bit of a shit storm. Lucky for me, I have pirating-viking-navationational skills. Kids. Please don’t try this at home.

My brain has been unable to form sentences since my mind left town for a ping-pong tournament. Forgive me, it’s my default button to make light of something very serious. Something I wish was a joke.  My boyfriend died 3 weeks ago today. Zach and I had been a couple for over 8 months, a short amount of time in normal-couple world – record long for me. If you know me or read this blog, I’m not slutty, I’m just lucky and prefer the company of myself over any man. For one, they whine. A lot. For two, they’re needy, sneak behind your back and fart. For me, having someone stick around for more than 2 days is like winning the Super Bowl with one leg. Virtually impossible. Yet Zach and I lived together for 3 months.

This is more an explanation of my cyber absence – not a dumpster dive for sympathy. I’m not looking for pity. I’m looking to celebrate. I was blessed with an opportunity of knowing, loving (and farting) with someone special for over 8 months. I’m not particular happy either. I find the absence of his presence the most overwhelming to handle – but I’m handling it – soberly too (perhaps the greatest miracle of all). I didn’t know what I would write when I sat down to write. I just knew I’ve been offline for a long time – and wanted to come back with a bang of sad tidings. Again, not to bum my readers out. Just to express and acknowledge how lucky I fucking am.

I won’t go into details about his death because that’s even sadder than his death itself. Let’s just say he’s in a better spot, pain-free and at peace. He suffered from several ailments including Type 1 Diabetes and Addison’s disease. He had been in and out of hospitals for several months and almost died back in December. As a couple, we had been through a lot. As a lady, I was in over my head. Again. I didn’t realize how sick he was until my heart got involved – and once it was involved – I couldn’t just turn around and walk away. Sickness and health took on a whole new meaning – and I wasn’t even married to this guy. A lot of my friends wondered – out loud – why I even bothered. I guess when you dig who you dig you become willing to overlook a lot of things. As women, we taught to take care of everyone around us excluding ourselves. Maybe I was living up to that notion. Swallowing what was shoved down my throat since an early age.

Moving through guilt isn’t easy. Think of squirming through quicksand with a ball and chain. Think of a hand that whacks you in the face when you least expect it. I was watching a movie the other night, ironically to get my mind off things when I was hit with a tidal wave of emotion – you can’t predict it or hear it coming. It just arrives whether you want it or not and there’s nothing left to do but deal with it.

That being said, why not laugh when you really want to cry – which I have – a lot. I’m not going to lie, losing someone, unexpectedly, changes your heart – for the best. I know. Sounds bat-shit-CRA. My heart is so heavy, hearty and strong. If it were out of my chest it would weight as much as a 1,000 pound tire those crazy personal trainers make you drag up a hill at 5am. My heart has expanded and can hold a lot of space – for a lot of people. It can feel compassion and emphasize better than it ever has before. It understands. It gets it, girl. My heart is humbled and has eaten it Wheaties. It’s ready for another round of love. Not too soon but certainly again. Truly what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. That is the gift I am left with. It is the gift that Zach has made me – in this life – and in lifetimes to come – where I hope we’ll get to spend a lot longer than 8 months together.

If you have an aversion to lame-couple-inside-jokes, you may not want to click the link below. For those of us who are as cheesy as cheese balls, this song makes me think of Zach and what our brief moment in time was all about – spiritually-speaking.  The craziest part of this whole experience is my exposure to the great unknowing. You just never know when a person will enter or exit – all you can do is keep the door open.

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Polka Dot Thrift Score!

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Despite being stuck inside, sick to death and smothered in Vick’s Vapor Rub, I can still blog about my recent thrift score. Not going to let a little brink-of-Broncitisis-coupled-with-a-cold get me down. I’ll just stuff some tissue in my right nostril and get on with my day.

Sheer is spring’s seemingly see-through trend. I get it. I dig it. As I’ve said before, I always like to follow trends without really following them. Just give hints and dabs of what’s new with what I already do. This little ditty cost $8.00 – a bit over the normal thrift score price but hey, that’s okay. Retail thrift-store therapy is the cure for the common cold. Sort of.

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This is a beach coverup that I’m turning into a dress. I’m going to pair it with a black tank-top and a hot pink pencil skirt. On my shopping list: platforms. I was pursuing Urban Outfitters’ website today looking for shoes when I realized 5 things:

1. The shorts being sold for girls today are too fucking short.

2. Everything looks like a high school flashback.

3: They are calling the 90′s “vintage.” Really.

4.  I didn’t see any clothes I would wear which indicates that I am, in fact, too old to shop at Urban Outfitters anymore….at least for anything besides shoes, accessories and housewares.

5. Looking like an extra in a hair metal band is back. Why. I’ll never know. I’ll stick to my Lady Polka Dots and leave the young Litas to their Ford:

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My Less-Than-Satisfactory Immune System.

My sick voice makes me sound like Kathleen Turner. Maybe a couple of days as a phone sex operator will lighten up my mood.

My sick voice makes me sound like Kathleen Turner. Maybe a couple of days as a phone sex operator will lighten up my mood.

Let me tell you what’s funny. Karmic-sickness. That’s right. Karma in the form of cold, cough and flu. I’ve been living a clean and sober life for over a year. Staying away from old habits; drinking Kombucha; doing yoga twice a week; meditating. I’ve never been so healthy and so fucking sick.

At this very moment I’m hacking up four lungs and a dozen ill-colored loogies – all while contemplating a two day stint as a phone sex operator. When I’m sick my voice sounds like Kathleen Turner wishing you all to come up and see me sometime. Hey, medicine costs money. Hit the hotline button and let’s give it a shot. Just close your eyes and think of a co-ed – not me in tattered brown stretch pants curled up under 15 blankets on the couch. All I’m saying is thank you Peter Jackson for putting the Hobbit on DVD so I can entertain myself.

This is the 2nd time in two months I’ve run a fever and had to cancel plans – like a whole weekend’s worth of meditation down in Mesa, AZ (In February I had the flu). When I was swinging shots and blowing lines I never got sick. It was like all the toxins in my body met the other toxins I was putting in my body and made out with each other.  Despite my roll around the disco rink 2 days a week, I was the pinnacle of health. Now I’m like a bubble baby that has to be disinfected before she steps foot inside the grocery store. Pretty soon I’ll be THAT guy: wearing face masks and plastic gloves; complaining of headaches everyday because I’ve become too sensitive to light, sound, germs, babies, gluten and nuts.

This is my immune system’s revenge. Cough. For the havoc I wreaked on it for 10 long years. Hack. This is the payback I get. Sniff. For all the recreational unnatural sniffing I’ve done. Being healthy and eating shit like kale obviously does not do the trick. The cleaner your system is the dirtier germs you inherit. I’d go on but my brain lost it’s final thought. Apparently my system just can’t tolerate Children’s Cold Medicine. Alcohol-free.

Goodnight.

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Getting Down To Business.

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I’m inspired! I went to a meeting of women entrepreneurs this past Thursday because I need for a reboot. I just forked over money to keep this blog chugging along. It’s high-time I make it work for me. Of course it would work if I – well – blogged more. Isn’t that the golden rule of blogging: to simply blog.

I dig woman in business because I am one. Since the age of 8 or 9 I can remember being surrounded by all the men in my family. We were pretty traditional as far as women’s duties were concerned. All the ladies, except me, would wait on all the men. I would do it too – just to be polite and to show good face and ample culinary skill (none of which I possess to this day). Secretly I resented that lot. I wanted to listen to the negotiations of men and their exchanges of money. Not that we had an absorbent amount. My Dad was in business for himself and I can remember thinking at a young age: This is what I want. This is what I want to be. In charge.

I found it difficult to personally claim my own in-charge. I think I was torn between the two examples my parents presented. My dad – the businessman. My mother – the homemaker. My dad – independent, risk-taking, bad-ass. My mother – quiet, graceful, a tad co-dependent. She took care of us while Dad took care of business. To me, taking care of business was much  more fun than taking care of kids. I love kids. Truly. However, I never wanted to be a mom. For the sake of sounding funny, it you look at children as money-sucking ball-in-chains, don’t have any. As cute and cuddly as they can be, motherhood is, in my eyes, a burden. That’s not to say that I don’t have profound respect and compassion for mothers all over the world. Word-up moms! You have more patience, tolerance and kindness than me. I salute you. I admire you. I’ll even watch your kids for free – just as long as I can give them back to you at the end of 4 hours.

Everyone says I’ll change my tune someday. Maybe so. Probably not. My ovarian ship will set sail in 1o years time – the same amount of time it will take me to birth another kind of child: my own business. Hey, don’t hate me because I’ll be successful. HA! I can only hope and work hard. Like motherhood, entrepreneurship is in my blood. I never answered the calling because I was afraid. Of success? Sure. Any woman who voluntarily choses to wear the pants has to brace herself for a bit of backlash. Is that changing? I don’t know. It seems woman who “have it all,” who can juggle business and family – without the help of 42 nannies – seem to have it rough. Super Moms are burning out and with good reason. I can’t imagine having to tend to anyone but my selfish-ass self at the end of a long day. I recently picked up Sheryl Sandberg’s controversial book “Lean In.” I’d like to know what a multi-millionaire lady with two Harvard degrees has to say about making it in the world. The book has been met with a firestorm of criticism – even being slapped with the most dirtiest of all F-words: feminism. Oh no! Hide your daughters under the stairs because Sandberg is going to give them an idea and it has nothing to do with wearing a mid-drif. Sorry fellas.  I’ll have a full report about the contents of this vile-evil-feminist-manifesto soon.

Flipping back to the business meeting I attended, I was mighty impressed. Women in business, like women in the world, come in all shapes and sizes. It’s refreshing to see women igniting their own passion to stand on their own two feet and make it happen. As for me, I’m just getting started so stay tuned.

If you are a lady of business who wants to meet more of the same, get involved by clicking here. 

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Learn it and learn it well.

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If you were thinking about taking a Yoga class, think of Jane Fonda. I did. I skipped my Yoga class to stay home and eat brown rice. Nothing gets my Namaste going than a piping hot bowl of late-night carbohydrates. However, I’m going to keep on staring at the picture below in the hopes that her subliminal will-power will Barbarella into my brain.

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I’m still picking myself off the floor over Jane Fonda and her 75 year old fabulousness. Can you believe this woman? Sure. I’m sure she’s had “work” done. There’s a difference between getting GOOD work done – and just getting work done. Jane got good work which is why she’s werking that Red Carpet, honey.

The bar has not only been reset. It has been remade. Say goodbye to grandma as we know it. If I could have an ounce of Jane’s good genes money, I could sail off into the aging sunset without breaking a sweat or having a hot flash.  All the women of the world have a new poster-lady to look up to.

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As a sidetone, I’ve been Jane Fondaing my way thru fitness since the tender age of 17. I’d jump up and down in my living room, doing the pony-ride and pile, until my mom told me that our 50 year-old neighbor was watching me from his car. Gross.

Anyhoo, the oscars are the oscars and I have no fashion authority whatsoever to break it down. I’m just calling it as I see it (as always). I can’t even bullshit on this one. Jane. Girl. Well-done.

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