For Women Only: Tips For Staying Youthful Looking

Granma-hippieWaking up and checking our smartphones is a sign of the times I think.

I check to see if my kiddo needs me. I check to see what the schedule is like at work, the weather, how many of you read my latest post, and what some small-minded arsehole of a man has decided I need to know about making myself beautiful.

Ok, the last point – I really don’t wake up to read that. I am exposed to it.

This morning, while scrolling through my feed Cheech Marin shared a post that suggested what not to do to stay youthful looking. Some of the tips included;

Do not wear jersey anything

Do not wear long hair.

Don’t wear loose fitting anything, but don’t wear skinny jeans either

Don’t wear chunky, funky frames for your glasses.

Don’t wear a specific shade of pantyhose.

Although some of the suggestions may feel right to some of the women out there, it all felt a little too 1950’s-keep-your-ankles-crossed to me.

And really, Cheech Marin is sharing this? Cheech, I’ve got news for you; grown women don’t give a shit what you think, and perhaps you might take a look in the mirror? Oh, no, I’m not going there and being nasty about his looks. Nope. That’s not what this is about.

Cheech, like everyone else on the planet is beautiful because of his smile, his authentic style, and his way of being Cheech, nothing more and nothing less.

Which brings me to the essence of what I want to say; screw everyone else’s ideas. For instance, I demanded a small piece of chocolate cake for breakfast…

Ok, maybe make healthy choices for yourself so you don’t end up with gout, but do be (doo-be-doo) sure to enjoy this life.

phyllisMy suggestions for staying youthful for women and men;

Don’t let your weight hold you back from anything. Back fat and belly rolls do not mean you deserve to be holed up in the house alone. Laughter and curiosity are healthy, no matter what your size.

Wear your hair however you damn well please, and don’t worry about it all day long.

Make-up: Do whatever makes you feel good. Some days I’m glam, some days I’m  ma’am.

Clothing; Are you comfortable? Yes? Then that’s good.

Pantyhose – do whatever floats your boat – men, women and everyone on the spectrum.

Jersey fabric – absofreakinglutely.

Eyeglasses; You likely will need them as you age. Wear something funky, wear something classic, just fucking wear them so you don’t have to ask someone else to read menus or street signs to you.

Do not be so infatuated with yourself that you miss out on the wonderful world around you. Do not be a navel gazer…

And that my darlings is your list to help you stay youthful. Look outward. See the world, and engage in it. No one cares about your hair, or your panty hose, or the shade of your frames. We do care that you are clean, authentic and kind.

Don’t stink.

Be true to your personal values.

Be nice.

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Life Without Passion Isn’t

die of passionIt’s true. Life without passion isn’t really life at all. It’s not living, and it’s absofreakinglutely no fun.

Some days it’s easier than others to ignore the grey cloud of obligation that follows some folks everywhere they go. When it casts its shadow however on  the bright light of those of us who live with passion, it’s less than enchanting.

As a matter of fact, too many consecutive days of this is  frustrating beyond belief. It’s life sucking. It’s boring as shit.

It’s the machine against which creative spirits rebel. And in that rebellion, great, wild, deliciously unforgettable adventures are experienced.

In this very present moment, I feel that I need to step out of the shadow and into the light and guess what?….

 

I am utterly spent, but more than that, I’m fierce. It is within that fierceness that the fire of my passion, my creativity, and my sense of adventure are rooted and nurtured.

If you too find yourself occasionally worn down by the lack of imagination in the world around you, you are in good company here my friend.

Take some advice from me darling; get some rest, feed your desires and find the time and space to let your creativity run wild. I dare you to feel a sin coming on.

…and if it does, I want to hear all about it.

Pithy Advice, The Artwork of Our Time

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There’s a lot of advice out there. Everyone gives it out like it’s the best thing in the world. But it’s not. It’s usually unsolicited and fucking awful.

When I’m feeling like this, the most therapeutic thing to do is to pour a beer, play some Janis Joplin on the annoying side of loud, throw my hands in the air and let the universe take over.

Nobody ever gives out cool, easy  Janis-Joplin-fuck-it advice. Nobody.

Today while meandering through a home decor store, I cruised by the aisle with the paintings and plethora of signs with pithy sayings.

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Seriously? We all know that in ‘this house’, we do life the best we can, and that all this schmarmy shit is  a bunch of Stepford-bullshit-hoo-ha.

 

left-the-gate-open

 

Oh, bugger off.

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Dream, hope, love…yes, I never want to lose those soft elements of my soul, but sometimes, it’s a little too much.

Tacky quotes have replaced art, creativity and independent thought. We have been so brainwashed that we hang our directives to suck-it-up in our living rooms.

Carl Jung is my hero. He championed the balancing of our shadow selves and touted it as the key to wholeness. If only the commoner could come to terms with their own anger, jealousy, fear and whatever other emotions aren’t considered pleasant.

I’d love to see some signs that say; you’re doing ok under the circumstances, and you are under no obligation to marginalize your less-Disney-like emotions? I once even thought I was going to embroider a sign to hang over the liquor cabinet that said:

Come unto me all who are weary…Matthews 11:28

Humour helps. When advice is plentiful and patience scarce, you don’t have to dance like no one is watching, or love like you’ve never been hurt.  Because people do watch (and give advice on how to dance better), and we’ve all been hurt.

For those who are also weary of placating the powers that be by stealing our passion and swallowing our sense of injustice, trust me when I tell you that telling the universe to fuck off once in a while can be completely, and utterly cathartic.

Now, excuse me while I commune with Janis and carry on exactly as I am.

 

 

 

What the Women’s March on Washington Means to a White Chick

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” A house divided against itself cannot stand.” ~Abraham Lincoln~

I’m as white as they come. I’m a woman. I will never be and have never been anything other than I am. I will never know what it’s like to be Black, Arab, Muslim, Jewish, financially affluent or well-connected, and the folks who identify as all of those things and many more will never know what it’s like to identify as me.

Farah Stockman’s article on the front page of the New York Times brings up a lot of really great questions about race, class, privilege and other social issues. I suggest you read it.

The Women’s March on Washington is an opportunity to come together as a community to protest the ass-hat who was elected (and yes, by a number of ‘white women’) as the next President of the United States. I believe that everyone who voted for Ms. Clinton should be in the streets to protest the twisted fuck up that is known as the Electoral College. I believe in the power of numbers and the power of kindness.

To the groups who have made the March a divisive issue, thank you for falling into the eons old trap of dividing women to diminish our power. It happens in families, in the workplace, and now, under the spotlight of a grand social scale.

For once in our history of gender, let us come together without any other motive than to access the full potential of our political clout; the marginalized power of the sacred feminine.

What spiritual, political and ethical living come down to for me is; how would you treat me if I needed your help on the street?  I like to think that we would all, when we’re eye to eye, regardless of race, creed, class, gender or anything else, reach out and help. If you don’t feel the same way because I am white ( thanks for assuming), perhaps your place is not at an inclusive March?

You’re preaching to the converted. We’re there because we support equality, and we’re not afraid to learn more.

Bring your signs. Show the world what you stand for; is it gender equality, racial equality, equal pay…??? Bring it and come in droves. But don’t hate the next person for being different, appreciate them because they are there, standing side by side with you, supporting you even though they carry a different message. What matters is the message of unity against evil.

I will stand happily with my white friends, my black friends, my Muslim and Buddhist friends; male, female, trans and anyone else who simply wants to make the world a more loving place to live. I don’t care how you identify, as long as it’s from a place of inclusiveness and love.

This is what the Women’s March means to me.

 

The Machine & Fierce Women

3x1wupaksuqncThe Machine and How it Works….an interesting string of thoughts in a book by  Thomas L. Freidman, Thank you For Being Late. Basically he talks about a writer being certain or at least having a theory about how the world works.

After dating someone I would consider to be a privileged male for a while, it’s clear to me that The Machine works way better for him than I. Dating a hearty feminist has not been easy for him, what, with me calling him on his sometimes subtle and sometimes blatant misogynistic bullshit.

But this isn’t a post about relationships. Not in the romantic way anyway. It’s about how the machine works for women. A shout out to my non-binary friends here; The Machine doesn’t work in your favour either.

What got me thinking about this was the suggestion that I provide a list of the cosmetics that I prefer to use.  This, after squeezing my belly fat and asking when I was going to the gym.

Answer to the first; whatever’s on sale. Answer to the second; none of your fucking business.

What does all of this personal interaction tell us about The Machine? The Machine is rigged to keep us submissive. It takes more energy (in the form of money) to buy our basic grooming products (soap, razors, feminine hygiene products).  We bear the judgement of society with regard to child-rearing, house-pride and keeping ourselves looking unrealistically young. And that’s just the beginning.

I shouldn’t say “we”, because I count myself and many of my friends among the witches and wise women; I honour my age and my experience, and I have no fear of poking a stick in the gears of the machine in order to bring your attention to it’s flaws.

That the leader of the free world was elected after condoning sexual assault, only reinforces the fact that The Machine works for the privileged male and the women who slip silently into their role as concubines to the system.

This Christmas, don’t let someone shame you because you don’t spend your hard earned dollars on cosmetic products with a label that do the same thing as those you can buy at the local store (if you use them at all). Ask for books, hell, ask for whatever you want, just don’t be a slave to The Machine, and don’t be a slave to fighting it either.

Instead, continue as if The Machine doesn’t exist. Live freely, with grace and integrity, but don’t be afraid to give the world the finger every now and then either. Being fierce is a feminine as it gets.

 

 

 

Firekeepers: The Responsibility of Passion

mad but magic.pngI watched the fire die down last night in the fireplace; the glowing red log and the one on top of that that heated, snapped, and eventually burnt down to a few dull embers.

Ironic, I thought. Or maybe not so much. Our language is very delicate and descriptive. Watching flames die is a lot like watching any passion burn brightly, flicker, and cool to nothingness.

Like a good fire, any passion requires tending. Firekeepers have always been valuable members of our communities, and for good reason. If a fire burns out, the life around it dies too. In relationship each person is a firekeeper, whether it’s in a workplace, a friendship, or a romantic partnership, firekeeping is everyone’s responsibility.

If you wish for stability, you have to tend your passions very carefully. Tending a flame is a lot easier and satisfying than spending energy trying to light a dead ember. Letting your passion burn brightly is less dangerous than letting it burn out.  Always, and without exception.

Your Invitation Awaits: Shine On My Wonderful Friends, Shine On!

centenary_red_tan_50406bNow that you feel comfortable in my writing space, come on over and get cozy with www.andsheshines.wordpress.com

If you are in the midst of change, and looking for inspiration, this is the place. Pack a bag and a fabulous pair of shoes my darlings…xo

See you there… https://andsheshines.wordpress.com

 

A Love Letter to Middle-Aged Men

shaving-brushesThere’s a running joke between the more experienced ladies in the office, and the young singletons. It goes something like this: We used to be attracted to  older men – until we got older.

Women get ugly and men get creepy. That seems to be the stereotype. I can’t say I know many creepy old men. I tend to avoid them like syphillis and fungal infections. My tastes rather lean toward the educated and emotionally intelligent gentleman. You know, the kind who might have a bit of a belly, but a beautiful heart.  Someone who still believes in romance, intellectual conversation and the value of intimacy.

I mean really. As we age, who truly wants to see us naked? Any of us? Sure, put Chris Pine shirtless on the big screen any day. But don’t ask me to be intimate with him. I could see myself making him a peanut butter sandwich for lunch and giving him a pat on the head as heads out the door to play, but not in my bed thanks.

I prefer my middle-aged, intelligent yet man-dumb, gives-a-crap-about-how-he-shows-up-in-the-world-every-day guy any day. And that my darlings, is hot.

There’s a lot of media out there that leads us to believe that men and women’s attractivness declines with age. I disagree.

Snuggling in with a middle-aged man has it’s advantages. First of all, they have come to some understanding that women will always think they are somewhat man-dumb, and are thus more open to communication.  They are more in tune with their  out-of-tuneness than younger men and are, at the very least, consistent.

Pay attention gents, we don’t want you to look any different than the day we met you. We don’t need you drive an expensive car or take us shopping. We just appreciate you for meeting us half-way, even after life has tossed you around a bit. We get it. We’ve been there too.

Yes, we see through bullshit at this age and we call you on it. We know you wouldn’t respect us if we didn’t. We don’t have time for that stuff.

gartersBut we do have time to appreciate your body and your soul. We think you’re sexy, and yes, we even fantasize about you.

We love the way that your your hairy old chest feels under our palms, and how your experienced body feels curled up next to ours.

We appreciate  who you are and where you’ve come from. We see you as a whole person; your intelligence, your emotions and your physical self. We can appreciate the scars and how hard you’ve worked and still see you as sensual and sexy and worth wearing our garters and stockings for when we go out for a romantic dinner.

We appreciate that you have earned your stripes as men, not boys. We have busy lives which keep us vibrant and we know how to prioritize a man who prioritizes us. As long as you share this adult handling of partnership, you are like Gods to us. We want to see you happy, satisfied, and we crave your touch.

Yes, we are as cynical as you, and yet we are still as hungry for fun, excitement and adventure as you. We are your intellectual and emotional equals and we want you. No Porsche required.

 

Sensuality; The Elixer of Life

stephanie-sarley

This is an image by Stephanie Sarley; Fruit for Feminism.

At this age, we’ve all had lovers. To be considered  a lover, one must be sensual, and as such, must be able to arouse and sate the sensuality in their beloved. Lovers are rare.

This post is about not letting your self-worth and sensuality get lost.  Don’t. Also, don’t confuse sensuality with sexuality. They are two different things, although they have a strong bond.

Enjoying and cultivating our own sensuality is something that I truly believe enhances our overall health; physical, mental, emotional and social.

Waking up alone this morning  I indulged in just-a-few-more-minutes. I spent some time thinking about neuroplasticity, and what I’ve been thinking lately.  I have spent a lot of time wondering whether I’m good enough or not; a good enough mother, a good enough partner, a good enough friend, a good enough professional…

But I always managed to make time to indulge in my own senses. After all, who doesn’t enjoy a long, slow meal at a table with friends with wine and succulent flavours? What about the smell of vanilla candles burning and a bubble bath accompanied by the dulcet tones of your favourite crooner? How about your true love reading Pablo Neruda poems to you while stretched out with your morning coffee? Perhaps it’s just the simple pleasure of being fireside with a good book, wrapped in a blanket with your fur baby curled up beside you.

I am by nature a sensual being. I believe we all are. Even Baptists. I’m not talking sexual here folks, although sensuality sure the hell does raise the bar when it comes to physical intimacy. I enjoy tastes, scents, sounds and tactile pleasure that the world has to offer. By nature I’m a kinesthetic learner.  I’m ‘touchy feely’. In relationship my need for physical contact is great.

I enjoy my wine, my bourbon, and my body. I find comfort in a soft blanket and a cool pillow. I love hugs. Not creepy-old-man-copping-a-feel-hugs, but hugs from my friends, colleagues and my kiddo. I love the strong taste of a good blue cheese, and the sweetness of a candy apple. Yesterday I stepped out the front door of my workplace just after the rain and for a few seconds was overcome by the delicious scent of the earth after an autumn rain.

This morning, I remembered how much I enjoy so many things. How I’ve let lazy lovers fool me into believing something is wrong with me; I’m too fat, I’m too needy, I’m too smart, I’m too fiery, I’m too nice, I’m too harsh, I’m too sexual. I’m not too anything, and neither are you my dear one. Today I vowed to turn my back on these judgments and re-awaken my sensuality; long, slow baths, indulgent fantasies, lingering over wine-rich meals with my friends, music, lingerie and most importantly, allowing myself to want.

 

 

Winnipeg: What Wonders Await?

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So here I am in Winnipeg.

Discovering that the curtains don’t close over the white blinds isn’t exactly a night owl’s dream.

Being woken up at precisely 6:00am by my morning lark sweetie (and not for sex)- also not delightful. And I’m all about delightful. It’s a damn good thing he’s cute and conscious of my AM limitations.

After rolling over and trying to get back to sleep I decided to get up and start the day. I opened the blinds and welcomed the sunlight, begrudgingly at that hour, but welcomed nonetheless.  I pulled up the crisply dressed all in fluffy white bed, and welcomed some quiet, ‘me time’.

The day takes me a while to ease in to you see, and I’m still adjusting to someone who is a morning person. Sweet love of Jesus, help us both.First of all, I can’t see a damn thing any more without my specs, but I can usually get to the washroom ok. Excess noise (as in anyone speaking words other than, “Would you like a coffee honey” makes my blood pressure raise in a flight or fight response, and I become at risk for a stroke, or homicide.

Despite not having my glasses on, I did spot a giant, black bug in the crack between the tub and the tiles. Suddenly I needed my glasses. Very nice. Sweetie of course was no where to be found. He was either in the gym, pool, or walking around doing some such nonsense that normal people wait to do until noon.

I was stuck with the bug.

I decided it likely wasn’t going anywhere to quickly. Big bugs aren’t like the little wirey bastards that skitter around like crack addicts. Given my AM logic, I proceeded to the in-room coffee station to make what I hoped would be passable joe.

I opted for a flip flop over a running shoe, simply because the sole is flat and I figured there’d be no losing the damn thing in the arc of the toe, or the deep grooves in the tread. Flip-flop samurai. Mission accomplished.

The coffee was a let-down, but I knew what to expect. The local Starbucks sign just down the street was taunting me, but I’m a strong woman, and I can wait until we hit the road later on today.

With my weak coffee and morning fog still lifting, I decided I would find a nice, easy jazz station to listen to while I started my first day of vacation with some writing. Right. I managed to tune in to a full-blast version of ‘Dirty Deeds’, and a twenty year old Trisha Yearwood song that reminds me of my days on the California coast. Seriously, Winnipeg? Really? This is what you’re listening to…le sigh.

I sent a quick text to my kiddo (the reason I’m here), and we laughed about the bug and my morning struggles, and in the end, were thankful to be here, together.

After my early morning of watery coffee, 70’s country and rock, and beatles in the bathtub, I don’t think this fair city can disappoint. It can only charm me….after 10:00 am of course.

In the mean-time, there is sunshine and vespers on Jazz 107.