I'm calling a fashion bullshit!

I'm not short. I'm not tall either. I'm exactly the right height for me. That height is 65 inches, just shy of 5.5 feet tall. My dear friend Carlsinna is tall, thin, willowy, all those things. We compare ourselves to our dogs. Her dog Gretchen, is skinny, mine, Mrs. Maya is "ahem" curvy. aka...curvy bitch and skinny bitch She and I have discussed in the past our various complaints with fashion. Her's with jeans being too stretchy and too short, mine, well I don't like the stretchy thing either, but jeans are too long for me. And petite sizes are way low rise or old lady. My complaint that I'm focused on today is activewear. When I complain about running tights and shirts being way long in the leg, arm and torso..Carlsinna points out that natural runners are built like her, long and lean. Whatever, I run, just not really fast, but I can grind through the miles. But I grudgingly accept her explanation because it's logical. But yoga pants...oh hell no! Yoga originated in areas of Asia. Think for a second..."areas of Asia". Like India! Now let me be frank, and don't get all offended. But homo sapiens native to that region are of smaller stature. Shorter! You know, the type like me that don't need 32 freaking inches of fabric on our yoga pants. So where is the logic in that!

Comments

The Rats Exposed!

I yelled that once. Not really yelled, more like exclaimed it loudly and with panic. Panic caused by the fear of projectile vomit coming out all over me and everyone else at the table. I was on Roatan, with two friends, Missy and Prissy. We had been "dolphin trainers for a day" and had chosen to buy the cheap lunch with the locals. We were told they had only two plates of fish left and than the conejo. Conejo is spanish for "rabbit". So I made the sacrifce and let the twins have the fish. It's not my favorite meat, but I figured what the heck..when in rome... All was good until the american dolphin trainer walked by and was kind enough to tell me that "conejo" wasn't the "rabbit" I was thinking of. She said the magic word.."Watusa" Abruptly a plate with rice and fried plantain appear with a dark sweet smelling meat...Watusa. That's when the yelling came in and the controlled gag reflex fyi....Watusa is a damm r

I miss my mom!

I can't express to anyone why the ache of missing my Mom comes and goes at is does. Perhaps it's because I am approaching the anniversary of her death, September 28, 1988. But beyond that, right now, this moment, I am aching for my Mom. I had such jealousy of my friends who passed by the bullshit of teen years and got to know their Mom's as fellow adults. Cohorts that supported each other. In reality of my three closes friends none of them have had that much extra time with their Mom's. Missy and Prissy lost their mom to cancer not long after I did. Graybelle has lost her mom to the absence of other distractions. But still I ache. I want to know what my Mom's favorite color was. I want to know what she wanted to be when she grew up. I want to know how she felt about gay marriage. My gut tells me she wouldn't have given a fig, which is how I feel. But mostly I want the warm embrace. The hug she gave me when I started my period at Burgerville. I

Good Friday..memories of fish

I was raised catholic. I migrated away from the church in my teens. Moving to an evangelical church, motivated by my acceptance of Christ at 12. I don't think my Dad was completely on board with the whole thing, but really, he let me go to a Christian summer camp, what did he think was going to happen. So for years I lived a double life, catachism and mass on Sunday, and youth group at a Christian church during the week. Until I started driving, and than I'd go to two church services on Sunday. And to be perfectly honest I was happy. I enjoyed that much fellowship and the church as a whole, Catholic of other, is a home for me. I should make it very clear that to me the Catholic church was a place of comfort and safety. I never experienced any abuse, and I have nothing by sorrow and sympathy, and anger about, the abuse suffered by so many others. On Good Friday at St. Patrick's church we had a fish feed. Earlier in the day there was fish sandwiches at school for

Embrace the Bacongal, and what ever I'm itching to say !

Search This Blog