Rebirth, renewal, pedicure

Mrs. Euphrosyne needs a makeover.

She’s slowly regaining a waistline (she always has great gams) and is hoping that the girls will be subsiding soon as well. It’s been two years and a bit since she worked outside the home; most of her work wardrobe, which was rather snazzy if she says so herself, is long gone to relatives or Goodwill, and anyway she’s not really interested in looking teacherish, even cute teacherish, on a daily basis.

But she’s realized lately that her wardrobe has gone completely over to the dark side…

MommyWear.

She doesn’t wear the de rigeur MommyWear capris – they cut her off at the precisely least flattering level, and she does have some pride – but she owns more knee-length crops and slim bermudas than she cares to admit. She has two types of shirts: t-shirts and toddler-stained t-shirts. She has good but unbearably dull undergarments. She has flats and sandals. Her earring piercings may have closed. Her nails are short because she’s been working with resin (she claims) and the residue is hard to clean (so she says). The truth is she simply doesn’t want to deal with the maintenance.

Or maybe, just maybe, she does.  And here’s the damnedest thing: she can dress everyone else, but evaluating her own lack of style and amending this problem is hellahard, possibly because she has no idea what the options are. Prissy schoolgirl: got it. Artsy student: did it. Party girl: nailed it. Teacher: aced it. Non-slob mommy?

No frickin clue.

Somebody, somebody, come to my rescue and take me shopping. Force me to try things on. Block my Landsend account. Veto boring shoes. Make me commit to accessories.

Tim Gunn, I cry for you in the wilderness.

Irises

Thank you, JPolly. They are almost as lovely as you.

Oh, and I’ve been reading this:

Beat the Bitch?

Especially this part:

“The fact that it was a woman who dropped the B-bomb at the McCain event is the perfect example of socially sanctioned self-sabotage.”

See, I understand the concept of “taking back” perjoratives, redefining words that hurt as words that empower. But I do not believe for one second that’s what was happening in the pea-sized brain of that woman at the McCain rally… and here’s the real sticking point:

You’re not allowed to do that for anyone else. Period.

If I want to use the term “whoring around” to describe my sexual activities in my twenties, the people who know me will understand what I’m doing. If I want to describe myself as a bitch, ironically or not, I’ll do it, and Susan Faludi can bite my left ovary. But throwing “bitch” at another woman in front of a crowd full of men – nope. No way. No how. Especially when what she means by “bitch” is “smart, successful, assertive woman whom I don’t happen to like and whom I know none of the people around me will defend.” It’s cowardice and pandering and self-loathing in a one-word package.

What a bitch.

Estrogen alert

I hope the “puking about boys” saga hasn’t produced the impression that I am in any way a misandrist (if that’s the right word). Far from it. I like men in approximately the same proportion as I like women – impossible to quantify accurately, but hovering below the 5% mark.* The same characteristics that will annoy me in a woman will annoy me in a man, although those traits are generally expressed differently due to brain chemistry and socialization, nature and nurture.**

I’m also very much aware of the historical and contemporary oppression of women by male-dominated societies. I teach about it, I read about it, I think about it every day as I raise my daughter. I have and will call people on it when their actions get my attention or affect someone powerless. I belong to NOW. I kick women*** who disparage feminism as unimportant to their own lives.

What I will NOT do is hold individuals, male or female,**** responsible for the history of the human race. Cynically working an unjust system for fun and profit when you know you’re the advantaged party – that sucks, and if you keep it up, karma will kick your ass and I’ll cheer from the sidelines.***** Living your life trying to be a decent person and occasionally tripping over your own biases – that’s human. That’s better than average, really, and if you’re willing to examine your prejudices sometimes in a productive environment, you’re golden in my book.****** Anyone who considers him or herself free from -isms of any kind is suffering from the worst -ism of all: blind self-righteous… ism.

Okay, that didn’t work. But you get the point.

* that’s just the kind of loving, generous person I am – can’t help it
** for example, oversized car speakers as opposed to two-inch acrylic fingernails
*** smaller, weaker women
**** especially the ones I happen to like
***** while nursing my own sore buttocks
****** and if you give me presents, you’re in like Flynn

Bansheegrrl and the “you did WHAT?” moment

I was so jazzed that BG recognized the road of our youth that it didn’t hit me until a couple of days later. Somewhere in her comments she said something about biking UP that road to go make out with The Pumpkinhead Formerly Known as Rhett. UP that road.

Okay, the Scenic Loop part had some moderate ups and downs, but as I recall, the last leg of the trek would have had to involve the Hell Hill; the one that my V8 station wagon behemoth could barely handle, the one that taught me the purpose of downshifting and the fear of ice. That tiny mite of a girl, that wisp of a thing biked HALF A MILE UP AT AN 80° ANGLE to make out with someone? IN A TEXAS SUMMER? Not to mention the return journey, during which she must have been riding her brakes until they ignited. I am awestruck by more than one element of this epic tale.

1. The power of hormones in the adolescent female body.
2. The unsuspected (by me, anyway) mojo of the aforementioned Pumpkinhead.
3. The serious need of the young BG for a big boot of self-esteem right in the ass. I can only hope that by now she has realized her own attractions and would never, ever again risk sunstroke, dehydration and sudden heart failure in order to get some. Although she must have had incredible calves by the end of that summer…
4. Oh, and the sheer balls to the wall (if that’s the phrase I want) determination to do what she wanted in spite of weather, terrain, and lack of non-leg-powered transportation.

I’m going to have to add this one to the “dumb things to do for love” life lesson. Well played, young Bansheegrrl. Well played indeed.

(edited to add) More about this famous road later – I wonder if Bansheegrrl remembers all of the convenient places to park late at night?

Osun: Yoruban Goddess of Love

“When she possesses her followers she dances, flirts and then weeps – because no one can love her enough, and the world is not as beautiful as she knows it could be.”

Oh. That strikes a chord.

The Orisha, Oshun

Linda Falorio 1994

I wanted a girl.

I confess. The morning Brian woke me up to say,”The amnio results came in, everything’s fine – and we’re having a girl,” these two thoughts see-sawed through my head:

“Oh thank God, everything is fine.”

“Ha ha! A girl!”

Then I went back to sleep, imagining the unimaginable little person to come.