Dakota prefers Jicky

On Friday, a friend was over, and I told her about how Jicky had perked me up. She'd never sniffed it, so she did, and put a bit on her wrist. I also mentioned to her that I was enjoying Sarah Jessica Parker's Covet, much to my surprise, and that I had picked up an ounce of it at TJ Maxx for five bucks. So, she put a bit of that on her other wrist.

She told me that when she got home, her dog, Dakota, kept sniffing the wrist with Jicky on it. She completely ignored the Coveted wrist.

Jicky has a basenote of civet. It can't be the real thing for it's no longer 1889. If I'm wrong, someone please correct me. But the scent molecule for civet is there. Can Dakota recognize that? Or perhaps Dakota just prefers Jicky,for she's a dog of very good taste.

As for my reviewing Covet, I won't. I seem to have lost the ability to say more than "I like it" or "I don't like it."

Today's scent is Annick Goutal's Encens Flamboyant. I like it.

Photo note: Dakota, with a cow's hoof in her mouth.

Do I even need to comment?

No more bare feet

Yesterday I received a prescription for orthotic shoes and inserts. Afterwards, I went for a fitting. The choice was better than I expected. My idea of orthotic shoes are the ones my grandmother used to wear - as heavy as a bowling ball, black, and ugly. Most of the orthotic shoes are indeed quite ugly, but some of them are accceptably plain and don't look like something one needs a prescription for.

I saw that there were slippers near the wall of shoes and asked if they were special. "Oh, you can't wear those", said the orthotics expert.* "Well, what should I wear in the house?" I asked, quite innocently. He answered, "the shoes." "Shoes? In the house?" I was appalled, not because I park my shoes at the door, but he seemed so deadly serious.

Then he went on to explain to me just how serious my foot conditions are, and that going barefoot, even on the beach, was now a thing of the past. I should wear lace-up shoes at all times, and if I want to put my feet up on my sofa, I'll just have to unlace my shoes. What will I do in homes (or a Buddhist meditation hall) where no shoes are allowed? I have no idea. Perhaps there are orthotic slippers out there somewhere for me, but he was adamant that they were not for me. I looked at the fleece lined slip-ons with longing.

Being told that I should never go barefoot again feels like a turning point in my life. It's not that I'll never feel the sensation of grass and sand beneath my feet, because I can certainly take off my shoes when I sit down. But somehow, that's different. The truth is, I haven't been able to walk barefoot since last Spring, when my right foot started bothering me. Since then, both my feet have gotten progressively worse, and now, even walking in the best shoes I've got makes my feet hurt so much that they wake me up at night.

So, what's the "turning point" feeling all about? It's the end of youth. Sure, I know my youth ended quite a while ago now, but this feels different. The restrictions, ever mounting, on what I eat, wear on my feet, how much I walk, what kind of exercise I can do, the amount of energy I expend in a day. . .well, this is the antithesis of youth. Youth, almost by definition, is carefree.

As I bid the past adieu, I am trying to accept what is. Today I missed the poetry workshop at Treetop Zen Center, for I woke up in the middle of the night with a terrible bout of GERD and, in the wee hours of the morning, a lot of inflammation and pain. I slept through my alarm clock and when I finally was awake enough to get up, the workshop was just starting, 45 minutes away. Even if it was down the street, I felt too awful to go. The urge to cry washed over me, but it passed as I thought about all the things I could do here at home. I can acknowledge my feelings of loss, but I don't have to let them ruin my day. Yeah, I feel like crap, but I can read, knit, write this entry, listen to some new audiobooks I just put into iTunes, and even have a nap later if need be. Perhaps I needed a day off, even as I wanted to attend the workshop. I'm beginning to listen to my body very carefully. I used to fight what my body told me it needed, as if it was something separate from myself.

So, here I am with two aching feet. Today I am looking forward to my orthotic shoes! I'm wondering what I'll do with all the lovely high heels that are sitting in my closet. Anyone have a size 8 foot? There are shoes that need good homes!

Photo note: I guess I won't be wearing these 19th century boots. I do have a pair of boots that are similar (in black). I can't bear the thought of parting with them, though I haven't worn them in at least ten years. That's a bad case of attachment!

*What he's actually called is beyond me, and I should know, considering I'm studying medical transcription. But, since I am studying medical transcription, and am taking a break at the moment, I refuse to look up the term.

And now, more soap

I enjoyed browing Google images after writing "One always needs soap." I meant to name all the files well, but I got lazy. However, I did make a mental note of this: I haven't a clue whether their products are any good, but Claus Porto sure knows how to package their soaps beautifully.

Where did my thoughts go?

What happened to the days when I wrote two or three posts? Or even one a day? I've been feeling as if I have nothing to say lately. Now, periodically I write an entry where I say that I need suggestions, and instead of taking any, I suddenly become prolific. Somehow, I don't think that's going to happen this time (but we'll see, won't we?).

My thoughts have been dry. Today, I'm wearing Guerlain's Jicky, and as I'm feeling quite tired, I'm enjoying it's sharp, crisp scent. That's all I have to say about it. Not very entertaining, eh?

I started using an anti-inflammatory gel for my arthritis. Now, this is the most boring of subjects, but the gel must be measured out on these little strips of paper so that one gets the dosing right. There's an entire booklet that comes with the prescription. In the past, I might have written an entire entry about this arthritic gel. I have enjoyed making mountains out of molehills and finding deep meaning in the littlest things in life. Lately, I see the little strips of paper as just that - little strips of paper. Yawn.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not depressed at all. I'm in a very good mood. I wonder if that's the problem. It's certainly been a suspicion of mine for years that a certain kind of depression increases my creativity. I'm afraid it might be true.

Uh oh.

Maybe I shouldn't have put the Jicky on this morning. I had had bad night's sleep, waking up at 4:00am to a lot of pain and a (thankfully) short-lived wave of intense emotional distress. When, at 7:30, I awoke to a better mood and a whole lot less pain, I was tired. I eschewed the usual suspects of scents I've been wearing lately and reached for the Jicky, thinking it would keep me buoyed up for the day, and it has. I even used it in a purely aromatherapeutic way as I was driving. I have a small roll-on bottle and I held it up to my nose. The car hit a bump and the roller ball hit me (gently) right between my nostrils. So, I'm still enjoying the scent. Any perfume that can be pleasant when deposited right under one's nose is a good one. I may even do it again the next time I'm a bit too sleepy to be driving. "Jicky - even better than caffeine."

Painting note: "Gabrielle d'Estrées et une de ses soeurs", artist unknown, 1594. Read more about this painting here. In lieu of a lively post, I resort to a bit of titillation. More paintings from the Fountainbleu school to come.

Rambling thoughts spurred by the last post

Thank you, dear readers, for your responses to the last post. I appreciate them all. I want to respond to each one of you personally, for you all had something interesting and provocative to say. I know I'll be writing again about all the topics I touched on. Aging, self image, body image, control, insecurity, strength, acceptance. I could pick any of these topics and devote an entire blog to it. But since I contend that "everything is interesting" I won't be doing that. Speaking of single subject blogs, my second side blog is not being attended to. Again, I am keenly aware that I am in need of at least three lives. Perhaps they'll cure death before I die. Somehow, I doubt it.

When I re-read what I had written, I had to disagree with myself about one thing. I wrote that I had not gotten over some of my anorexic thinking, "not by a long shot." I still have remnants of anorexic thinking, to be sure, but I am over most of them. And I want to acknowledge that, not just for myself, and not just to set the record straight, but for anyone who is suffering from an eating disorder. Yes, one can get well.

What's left? I still am attracted to extremely thin people. I admit it. One part of me recoils in horror as another part of me is attracted. But at the same time, I have come to find all shapes and sizes attractive. Unfortunately, I do not extend that to myself, but most of the time I just do not notice. Another thing that is left is what is called "body dysmorphia." When I look in the mirror I see what I feel, not what is really there. These days, this is a positive thing. I like the person in that mirror. It's only when I have to try on some pants in a dressing room that I notice I'm not thin.

In the downscale stores, the dressing rooms are a horror. The designers of these torture chambers are idiotic. For one, turn the lighting down. The room should feel candlelit, slightly romantic and luxurious. I'm not the only person who feels drained and stressed out after leaving a dressing room. The last time I tried on some jeans, I left the dressing room with sweating palms, and much to my shame, a mess. I was shaking slightly. Victoria's Secret has great dressing rooms, but they don't sell minimizing bras, so I don't go there any more. Listen up, Kohl's, if you want your next quarter to be better, pimp out those dressing rooms.

Now that I've veered off course, I'll try to reign myself in. One commentor had mentioned that Annie Lennox looked like she had plastic surgery. I'm not so sure, but I'm no expert on this. Here's what she had to say to Reuter's:
"I still want to be an empowered performer, an empowered woman. I want women to see that and think, 'It's OK, she's got a few wrinkles and it's fine.' I don't have to lie about my age ... What's to be ashamed of? And what is so wrong about being older?"
Lennox is 54 years old. She's just put out an album. Personally, I'm not all that interested in hearing it, but it's great that she's still at it. Patti Smith is still at it, too. Now, I'm fairly certain that she hasn't had "work done."

I'm not posting these photos to be catty. These women have been role models to me, as I once was a performer trying to buck the beauty standard and just perform. Of course, sex appeal and charisma are a big part of being a popular musician, no matter how edgy one is. But, there are some women who have either not relied on their looks to carry them or who have had great fun playing with their adrogyny. Patti Smith and Annie Lennox are two of them. Others that I can think of (off the top of my head) are k.d.lang, Laurie Anderson, and Sinead O'Connor.

Patti Smith genuinely changed my life. I wasn't a fan of hers. She was too "pop" for my taste. But I had never seen her in person. I was a bit too young to have seen her at CBGB's, and saw her play at at fairly small venue just when her album "Horses" came out. There were balcony seats and I was in one of them, but not for long. I was mesmerized. There was a woman on stage who was not seducing the audience with her sex appeal. She was as intense as any performer I'd ever seen. She looked like an innocent waif girl and a young street boy at the same time. She howled. She stalked. She twirled. She was doing exactly what she wanted, at least in my eyes. It was a revelation. I wound up at the edge of the stage, barely breathing, transfixed.

That week I started playing guitar in a band. I didn't give a damn what I looked like and what others thought. Seeing Patti Smith gave me that strength. Me, a terribly shy kid, almost mute, who had absolutely no faith in herself, no self-esteem, almost complete self-hatred, somehow, miraculously, played my guts out on stage. I still don't understand it.

Tonight, I'm trying to cover too much ground. The last post brought up a lot for me. The comments, too, touched me. And so, I'll end it here, for now. To be continued. . .

Addendum: I wanted to mention that TMC posted "Strength, Part I", a mosaic of strong women. I'm looking forward to Part II (and more?)

Not myself

After I've finished reading something on BitterGrace Notes or Smells Like Boi, I often think I shouldn't write. Both bloggers are such beautiful writers. Truth be told - their skills intimidate me. Yet, I must remind myself that there are many different styles of writing and ways of expressing oneself.

I hesitate to say that I write the way I think. This may sound odd, but as I meditate more, I feel as if I don't think about things all that much. Until I put voice or word to any thoughts, the thoughts waft through my mind like fast moving clouds.

I allow myself to write stream of consciousness and it's rare that I edit (as if that weren't obvious). I once participated in a short writing workshop that turned out to be about how to turn off one's internal editor. I thought, "I haven't got one!" We were told to write something as fast as possible in ten minutes. I spewed out pages and pages of nonsense. This reminds me that I sent an editor two rough drafts way back in July and haven't heard a thing from him. It's damned impolite.

See? Those last two sentences weren't on topic. But I am loathe to change. I feel as if I'd be giving up something honest about myself if I did. I don't practice the art of writing. I'm just talking to myself and letting you in on it.

Oddly, this was supposed to be the introduction to a post on anorexia. Now that seems too sudden a shift. But is it really? My allowing myself to write just as I am is related to my allowing myself to accepting myself just as I am, isn't it?

Anorexia is the antithesis of being just as one is. It is the ultimate control. Those who haven't experienced it may think that a person who stops eating has lost control of themselves (or their minds). But, most people who have had anorexia report a deep sense of satisfaction at having mastered their appetite. It feels like a triumph.

When I had nothing in my refrigerator but bottles of sparkling water and wore a size 0 pair of pants, I felt unconquerable. I also sported a crewcut. At my thinnest, I shaved my head clean. The androgyny made me feel powerful, too. Even at 5'1", I could pass for a young man and often did. Seeing my bones through my skin looked beautiful to me. I loved my sharp hip bones and the way slinky fabrics draped over them. Never mind that I had so little padding that I got bruises on those hipbones all the time and it hurt to sit on my bony backside. I felt like the master of my little universe.

Once a week I would meet with another anorexic friend and we would go to TCBY to eat frozen yogurt. It was our big, naughty treat. She was stricter than I, for she'd get the yogurt with the imitation sugar in it. I never would use that stuff. In the midst of slowing killing myself, I cared about not putting fake sugar in my body!

I didn't think I was killing myself. Not in the least. I have never believed that there was such a thing as "denial." I always thought that if a person was in the grips of an addiction or a behavior that was bad for them, they knew it. They just didn't want to or weren't able to stop. I was wrong. I had no idea that I was anorexic. I looked in the mirror and thought I looked gorgeous; like a model! I was photogenic for the first time in my life. A friend took a picture of me when I had bleached my hair. I looked a bit like David Bowie. It astounded me. Here I was, a woman who had always been plump, who had been teased for being fat and being busty when I was in elementary school, and I looked like a model or a rock star. Finally!

What I didn't know is that my doctor was planning on doing an intervention on me if I didn't stop losing weight. She was constantly encouraging me to gain a few pounds. I thought she was nuts. Me? I needed to gain weight? I'm not too thin! It was impossible for me to believe.

The intervention never happened, for I did start gaining weight. My love of food finally got to me. See? Even now, I couch the end of my anorexia with a phrase that implies that the end of being thin was something bad. I'll write it again: my love of food finally got to me. You see, a part of me still longs to be that thin. Maybe not that thin, but thin enough not to think I look like crap from the side or feel that I must wear a high turtleneck to cover my double chin. No, I'm not over this by a long shot.

I agree with my whole being when I read about being a "ferocious crone" on BitterGrace's blog. Yet, these demons still haunt me when I'm struggling to get into a pair of jeans or look at a photograph of myself. Other times, I must admit, I look in the mirror and just see me, a person whom I like.

Photo note: Somehow it seems unfair to Annie Lennox to put her face at the top of this post. I searched, in vain, for a painting that spoke to me. Then I typed the word "adrogyny" into Google, found this photo, so lovely, and said "this is it." No, Annie Lennox didn't have anorexia, as far as I know. She had a beautiful, shapely body. I thought the contrast of her womanly form and her adrogynous style was "to die for" (though I've never uttered those words in my life). In order to be more like her, and less like myself, I starved myself. No, not to be Annie Lennox exactly, but she was my ideal. She is gorgeous. And she is gorgeous still. I will find a recent photo of her to post, but not tonight. Tonight, I am done.

I'm somewhat normal

"Thus an average man—one with 120 friends—generally responds to the postings of only seven of those friends by leaving comments on the posting individual’s photos, status messages or “wall”. An average woman is slightly more sociable, responding to ten. When it comes to two-way communication such as e-mails or chats, the average man interacts with only four people and the average woman with six. Among those Facebook users with 500 friends, these numbers are somewhat higher, but not hugely so. Men leave comments for 17 friends, women for 26. Men communicate with ten, women with 16."

-"Primates on Facebook", The Guardian

So, I'm a bit under par.

Painting note: Pierre Bonnard
"Young Woman Writing" 1908 I imagine this woman is writing letters. I used to write letters when I was a girl. I had a penpal in Australia for many years. In my twenties, I sent out Christmas cards (on time). Now, I find it hard to stay in touch with anyone who doesn't use e-mail.

Now I know why I'm coming late to Facebook

It's just too much. I've only got five friends and I'm overwhelmed. However, if you're on Facebook, scroll down the sidebar and click on my badge. I do need more friends. Only five friends is an embarassment.

I'm also reminded of why, when I was in the seventh grade, I made a decision to opt out of being in a clique, even if they were all smart kids. I couldn't keep up with the social obligations.

For me, time flies by much too quickly. At the end of the day, I've never done all the things that needed doing. And to top it off, I've always tired easily.

One lifetime is not enough. Not by a long shot.

Image note: I'm blocking on the word for "piece of an image." Google didn't help. I think I'm starting to have those senior moments. . . Anyway, this is from an engraved National Times Savings Bank certificate issued in 1884. And now I googled the bank's name and came up with nothing. I think it's time for me to get off line and look at the great new (real, with paper pages) book I got in the mail today, "Bankei Zen."

Addendum: Father Time is the devil.

A bad message a day?

I think they were always there but I wasn't paying as much attention. It seems that every time I open a magazine or surf the Web I find yet another bad message. You may be thinking, "Only one?" And if you are, I'd say the question is a good one, for there are bad messages about women's bodies everywhere. And I'm sure that there's plenty of bad messages for men, too, but I haven't started noticing them yet. Just wait. I'm sure I will find them soon.

Earlier this evening I saw a banner ad for some sort of eye cream that showed a before and after shot of a woman's eye. In photo number one the undereye was puffy, creped and discolored, the lid drooping and the crow's feet deep. The after photo was perfect. Sorry folks, but without surgery (and Photoshop) this is impossible. But besides the blatant absurdity of thinking that any beauty product could produce those results (and that it was the same person's eye), the before shot was amateurishly doctored. It looked like someone had applied heavy foundation makeup under the eye and then took a hot blowdryer to it, causing it to cake and bits to fall off. You'd think it would be the lovely after shot that would look fake, but no, I suppose whoever put this sad ad campaign together assumed we wouldn't look at that awful eye for too long. What's sadder is that someone out there is buying that product.

A few hours later, this popped up in yet another banner ad:

"My wrinkles were getting worse and I felt embarassed and ashamed."

Now, you tell me why anyone would be embarassed or ashamed about wrinkles. I certainly can understand feeling poorly about watching one's face age, even as I wish that weren't so. But ashamed and embarassed? That would mean that someone had done something wrong to create the wrinkles. Is this imaginary woman feeling guilty that she hadn't used the correct creams? Maybe she'd never washed her face in her life. That must be it. Otherwise, what's there to feel ashamed by?

All kidding aside, I know that I wouldn't have these fine lines around my lips if I hadn't been a smoker, or at least they may have been put off by some more years. But still, I am not ashamed or embarassed. I have been noticing them more, and part of me thinks it isn't so much about my past smoking as my habit of pursing my lips and this certain face I make when I look in the mirror. Years and years ago, a friend pointed this out to me. When I look in the mirror, I suck in my cheeks slightly, tuck my chin in a bit, lower my eyelids and turn up the edges of my mouth. I used to try on hats on my lunchbreak years ago when I worked in midtown Manhattan. I am a bit sorry that girl pointed out this odd habit of mine, for I've been aware of it ever since (and the habit could never be broken).

Why did I do it? I probably noticed that many models hold their heads like that. I also never had any discernable cheekbones and tilting my head foreward helps create a shadow under my chin, which is very small.

Should I be ashamed and embarassed by my weak chin and lack of cheekbones? Maybe I should be. I ought to have saved the money to get plastic surgery, right? I mean, in this society, from what I gather, I'm remiss in not doing everything I can to look like the beauty standard and keep myself from looking old. If I don't, I'm not complying.

If I don't, I may even be causing others grief. Years ago, when Clinton was in office, I knew a man who groaned every time he saw Janet Reno on TV. It wasn't because he thought anything bad about her politically. It was because she was "old and ugly." He was offended that he was obliged to look at her when he watched the news. And good ol' Rush Limbaugh would probably agree with this point of view. After all, one of his reasons for not wanting Hillary Clinton to win was totally apolitical. He said he didn't want to be forced to watch a woman age in public. What a horror show!

Ideas like those above cause me to envision a dystopian future in which women will be socially ostracized for not having plastic surgery or having to cloister themselves away after they've passed their youthful "prime."

There is irony here. That glass ceiling may have been shattered in 18,000 pieces (or whatever number Clinton named), but the tyranny of the beauty standard seems to be getting worse. Or perhaps, now that my youth is gone, I am just noticing it more.

But, I think not.

Image note: Quentin Matsys' "Grotesque Old Woman", a painting I have always disliked immensely.

Yet another side blog

I've had a side blog before and I let it go. Well, I started another one a few weeks ago. It's called "Just looking." You'll see it in my blogroll - see, I'm a fan!

The only reason I'm doing this is because if I have a blog "on Sugar", I have access to all the Getty images that are copyrighted. I thought perhaps I'd move this blog other there, but Sugar is just not as good as Blogger.

Not much to check out on that site yet. A few more pics of Dior's stunning red gown that I've posted about here. An interesting black gown by an unknown designer (and if anyone knows who, please leave a comment). And three bottles of Annick Goutal's Encens Flamboyant. They do have a great image editor, but I haven't quite figured it out yet.

Image note: Portrait Of A Lady In A Yellow And Black Gown Adorned With Lilies Holding A Black Bird, 1901, by Ilya Efimovich Repin
The new blog is about fashion and art. I stay rather mum. Sounds impossible? Not in the least.

One always needs soap

Sometime in the last few weeks, I was listening to National Public Radio and heard the tail end of a news story about luxury chocolate. It seems the business of selling high-end chocolate is doing very well, even as the economy is falling apart. You can buy a house in Detroit for the price of box of chocolate these days. If you don't believe me, google "house prices in Detroit" and then go to the Godiva website.

I can't eat chocolate, but I understood the reasoning behind the uptick in upscale treat sales. I learned about the importance of purchasing the occasional luxury soap at an early age from my parents. They both had a great appreciation for beautiful packaging and scent and moaned about the ugly boxes of equally unappealing soap in this country. When my father made a trip to Europe for business, he would come back with many bars of soap.

If you're under 40, you probably don't remember that once it was hard to get a nice bar of soap. Now, you can purchase luxury bath and beauty products in any supermarket.

I remember the lecture my father gave me about soap the first time we visited the large Caswell Massey flagship store in New York City. We must have spent hours in the shop, sniffing everything, just to buy one bar. That one bar of soap cost between three and five dollars. My father told me that good soap was a poor man's luxury. One could splurge on a beautiful fragrant bar of soap but it wouldn't break the bank. And, it would not only bring you pleasure each day, but one needed soap. You could buy a bar of Ivory, but it was far better to scrimp on other things.

I don't remember ever seeing a bar of regular soap in my family's house. When I first left home, Dial, Irish Spring and the rest of the supermarket brands were a new thing for me (and I must admit that I rather liked the scent of both of them).

Now, folks don't have to eat chocolate, but the idea is pretty much the same. Most people like to pamper themselves. I suspect men use another word, but I can't think of what it might be. Nonetheless, when times are tough, the desire to soothe oneself grows. There's a lot of anxiety in the air.

Some people eat chocolate. I put Kiss My Face lavender scented moisterizer on my hands. When we were in Williamsburg, I bought a few small gorgeously packaged soaps and was sorry I didn't buy more the minute we drove out of town. And like my parents before me, I would bet that at least one of those soaps will never be opened. They sit on display in my glass front bathroom cabinet along with an old bar of L'Occitane, which is just too pretty to touch. It did occur to me the other night that I could unwrap the soap very carefully and then put the empty wrapper in the cabinet, but that seems like cheating (or something I can't put my finger on).

I wonder how the sales of luxury soaps and such are doing. I bet they're fine, or at least not as bad as home and car sales (well, that'd be an easy feat).

Now I'm off to shower with a bar of Williamsburg Lavender soap. It most certainly isn't an authentic bar of 18th century soap, but I'm not complaining. Have you ever smelled a bar of soap made with lard and lye? It's appalling. The stuff is strong and probably can clean anything. But if Colonial Williamsburg was selling true reproduction soap, they wouldn't sell much, that's for sure.

Mosaic note: I didn't have time to make my own. Check out Mimi's beautiful mosaics on Flickr.

Awful messages (a continuing series, it seems)

There's much I could write about. I notice that what I'm really thinking is that there's much I should write about. I hesitate to use expressions such as this, but, I tend to believe in the AA aphorism "don't should on yourself."

When we got home, there was a copy of Harper's Bazaar magazine in our stack of mail. It's huge. 408 pages. Two perfume inserts (both awful). Hundreds of pages of ads. Many of the models are downright scary looking. Not because they are so thin, which they are, but they stare at the camera with menacing looks that would put any death metal musician to shame.

I'm enjoying leafing through the magazine. I enjoy fashion. I also enjoy being irked. Seriously. I have come to realize that I enjoy feeling outraged, as long as it is not that serious. Being outraged by anorexia amongst fashion models is not the same as being outraged by genocide. It seems a little ridiculous to bother pointing this out.

I know I'm only supposed to look at the pictures, but I do read the copy. Here's what stuck in my craw: "We've all been there: arriving at some haute soiree positively preening over our pitch-perfect ensemble only to see her. That girl. . .Suddenly, you want to burn a cigarette into your coat. . .and lose 10 pounds in 10 minutes. . ."

Do I even need to comment?

No, I think not.

Image note: Forget about the dress. What does this mean?

Addendum: I am thinking of keeping the subscription so I have something trivial to be irritated by. The television is on right now. I hear ". . .more bad news is expected next week." More about the connection between the above to come.

Addendum II: Victor & Rolf's "Flowerbomb" perfume may actually be nice. It's nowhere near being a bomb of flowers. But, I've always wondered if those fragrance strips are accurate.

Bits and pieces of my trip

1. Dot, Bjorg and Emily 2. My father, 1941 3. Princeton University Why can't I find a picture of my aunt and uncle!? I've thrown out too much e-mail!, 4. Shaking, 5. Molten Glass at Jamestown Glasshouse, 6. Playing the Glass Armonica, 7. 27 Mary Stith House - north side, 8. Across the Potomac, 9. Blizzard

I'm back, sort of

Well. I haven't blogged for almost three weeks. I was away. I assumed there'd be internet access everywhere I went, but that was not so. I was disappointed. I had planned on blogging about my trip.

After a few days I discovered that it was good to take a break from the internet. Now, I've been home since Monday and I haven't felt like blogging. We were away for 11 days (or was it 12?) and I'm still processing everything that happened. I don't remember the last time I was away from home for that long.

This'll be a short entry. I'm bleary this morning, but I figured if I just posted a few words, it might get me back in the habit. I have no intention of abandoning this blog!

That's all for now. Stay tuned!

Painting note: This is earliest known portrait of George Washington, painted in 1772 by Charles Willson Peale. You may be wondering, "What does George Washington have to do with this post?" The only answer I'll give you now is that we visited Colonial Williamsburg and I've got a pile of books about Washington next to my sofa.

Hallmark update

Much to my surprise, I received an e-mail from Hallmark today. It's nice to know that occasionally something one does can have a positive affect. But this was beyond any of my expectations:

"My name is Deidre Mize, I work at Hallmark in Public Affairs and Communications.

I noticed your recent blog posting about one of Hallmark’s Valentine’s Day commercials and wanted to respond.

When creating this commercial we wanted to show that love can be expressed in a number of creative, economical and heartfelt ways, including Mom’s voice in a valentine.

As is our normal practice, our marketing team tested this commercial before it aired among consumers, including mothers. These consumers responded favorably, so we appreciate receiving different points of view like the one you shared on your blog.

With this new perspective from you and others we have decided to stop airing the advertisement. Please understand that it will take time to fully remove the commercial from the air but that we have begun the process and are working as expeditiously as possible.

Hallmark is about helping people connect. We are continually learning about the intricacies of these connections, and your perspective will help us to look at this differently in the future.

Thank you for your time and please feel free to contact me if you have any questions or comments. As I mentioned, perspectives like yours are important to us."

Image note: Valentine's Day postcard, circa 1900

In which I miss my mental energy

Ah, last November. I had a few days of exciting pre-election jitters, a few days of post-election elation, 21 days of novel writing craziness, and enough mental energy left over to post not just one, but sometimes three blog entries a day.

Now, I'm still in need of topic suggestions.

I'm in the middle of reading David Denby's "Snark", which normally I'd be able to read in a short evening at 122 pages. But my lack of mental energy (and clarity) is affecting not only my writing, but my reading. As to "Snark", there's a lot of food for thought in that book, and he addresses an issue that seems to be on my mind often.

That issue would be snark. Is it snarky of me to point that out?

Last time I looked at this book's Amazon page there was just one review. Now there are 41. I'm enjoying the book (slowly), but have found it to be filled with contradictions and confusing. And here I was thinking it was me, since I've been so foggy minded.

This is the first time that looking at Amazon has been a therapeutic experience. The book is muddled, not my mind. Phew.

Reality checks are a wonderful thing.

Nonetheless, I'm still foggy. And I'd like to write about snark. But not tonight. Stay tuned.

Painting note: Gustave Courbet Femme nue couchée, 1862
It's been too cold to recline nude. Then again, and I'm sure this is too much information, when one's breasts start sliding under one's armpits, it's probably time to stop reclining nude. Or is that a societal message that I should ignore?

Addendum: Speaking of snarky, as much as I love reading Margaret and Helen, I've started to find their use of the word "bitch" for women such as Ann Coulter and Sarah Palin distasteful. I've been enjoying the posts about Ann Coulter's new book, but attacking the size of the woman's feet (over and over and over again) is not amusing. I know this is not a debate, but using argumentum ad hominem (attacking a person's character instead of their ideas) may be somewhat fair in the cases of both of Coulter and Palin, but it gets wearisome.

Good and bad messages for Valentine's Day

There's a commercial for Hallmark Valentine's Day cards on TV right now that is truly offensive. I tried to find it online somewhere, but didn't succeed, so here it is:

We see a group of elementary school girls sitting in the cafeteria together. One girl opens her lunch and pulls out an apple with handmade hearts around it. Someone says something, but I'm sorry, but I forget what it is. Then, a second girl pulls out a sandwich, which has been cut into the shape of a heart. Honestly, I wasn't paying that much attention, and the thought that I had was "Oh, that's really sweet. And cute." Again, there's some remark made, but still, since I didn't know what was coming next, and I tune out when the commercials come on, I can't tell you exactly what was said. The third and last girl opens her lunch and finds a card in an envelope. Oh, it's a Hannah Montana card! She opens it and it even plays a tune! The other girls look miserable. They only got handmade things, things that weren't paid for. They only got things that their mothers actually had to put some thought and time into.

This ad sends two truly awful messages. The first is obvious: presents that are bought are superior to hand-made. But the second message is even worse: it's okay to make other kids unhappy and to tease them.

I thought we were done with kind of thing. Schools work very hard these days to stop bullying and teasing, and there's at least some effort put into stopping the clique mentality that comes along with some kids having the "right stuff" while others don't.

So, it comes as a big surprise to me to see this Hallmark ad. Hallmark, a company that's supposed to bring cheer into our lives with lovely messages, is promoting a way of behaving and thinking that I naively thought might become a thing of the past. All I can say is, "Hallmark, shame on you!"

If you're watching TV, keep your eyes open for this ad. I'd be curious to see if any of you find it as offensive as I do.

Image note: From the Martha Stewart website: "This Valentine's Day, encourage kids to show sweet sentiments with tokens of affection that go beyond the store-bought card. . .In no time, they'll have an array of adorable valentines whose messages come straight from the heart." Instructions for making flower and heart lollipops and other Valentine's goodies here.

The beginning of a weekly fashion post? Perhaps.

It was pointed out to me that fashion commentators don't like the way Johnny Depp dresses. I not only like Depp's taste in fashion; I enjoy it. He's playful. Besides, who can possibly trust experts when they call anyone wearing the the following montrosity the "best dressed of the week":


Click on the above link and you'll find page after page of bad fashion and bad judgment. I'm not writing this to be catty - I have no motive for that.

I was under the impression that high fashion had lost its taste years ago. I discovered yesterday, after spending hours perusing the web, that this is not true. There are plenty of extremely talented and creative designers out there. But that's not what the public sees. We are generally bombarded (just by standing in line at the market) with photos of celebrities on the red carpet and the comments about them. Did you know that Angelina Jolie wore a dress backwards last week? Of course, now her stylist is saying that it was intentional. That's fine with me. When I saw the photo, I thought it likely it was thought out (though I like it better with the front in the front), but in my book, anyone who has the balls to play with the designer's clothes deserves some positive credit.

But I'm missing the point of the sport of celebrity style watching entirely! It's to see who looks bad, not good. The sport involves finding the big fashion faux pax, whether it's wearing something backwards or wearing something that shows off a dreaded tummy, wearing an inappropriately revealing outfit when one should be covering up a less-than-perfect body, or covering up a body when one should be revealing it. In spite of all the hours of exercise, stylists, and surgery, finding the flaws in these god-like celebrities is sport for the jealous. And judging from the website that I linked to in the first paragraph, one needs absolutely no taste at all to participate in this sport.

If we take the celebrities out of the style equation, we are left with an abundance of great fashion design. Unfortunately, if we took the celebrities out of the equation, the designers would go out of business. But it's too bad, in my opinion, that these highly talented designers clothes, the cream of the crop, are seen only on the catwalk. Then they get pared down until they are almost devoid of their originality. And in order to satisfy the needs of how celebrities have to dress, the emphasis morphs from artistry to "does it make her look hot?" Celebrities who dare to dress too far out of the norm are setting themselves up for at least an afternoon of sniping.

The latest Dior Haute Couture line is extraordinary. One would expect to find dresses like this on exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I doubt we'll see any on the red carpet, but I'm glad I saw them on the runway (online, of course). Here's my favorite, which has no practical use whatsoever:

You should see a side view of this dress! I saw one a few days ago, but even after hours of searching the web, I couldn't find it again. To see the entire collection, go to Vogue's website.

I adore high fashion. When I was in college, I bought Vogue, W, and many European fashion magazines whose names I have no memory of. I've always loved historical costume; why not enjoy haute couture? Yet, this hobby was one that had its pitfalls. I felt lousy about being so short (I'm only five feet tall) and being so poor. But that didn't stop me entirely. I could sew, and I wore many of my own creations. I wondered why I didn't go to Fashion Institute of Technology, instead of regular art school, but I never persued that thought any further, which, in retrospect, was a shame. I much prefer fabric and fiber to paint. But the fashion world nearly repulses me. Any endeavor that depends on the whims of the rich to stay alive is one that I don't want to be a part of.

And that is a thought that deserves a whole post of its own.

Meanwhile, I did find an outfit that I would wear:

It would be a muddy mess by the time I walked from my house to the general store, but if I get an invitation to some major event, I think I'll give John Paul Gaultier a call.

On second thought, that John Galliano for Dior red dress would be great for me. It would hide all my tattoos. It's a good thing I won't have any reason to have to make up my mind.

I couldn't help myself

It seemed outrageous to have a post of celebrity crushes without him, even though I said I wouldn't, since we've all seen his face enough times.

Who am I kidding? One can't see his face enough times! Sorry, kids, no pirate pics. I chose this one because I liked the gray scarf (and I've never seen it before).

Is there anyone who doesn't find this man attractive? If you're out there, and you're not just being argumentative, please leave a comment. I (and millions of other people, of all persuasions)find Mr. Depp knee-weakeningly sexy.

This is something of my response to the last post's comments. Yes, I did use the word "sex" in the last post (and again, in the above paragraph).

Yes, I agree that whom we find attractive can be an important subject. It depends on how one approaches it. If it's just "OMG! OMG!", well, that isn't much of a conversation starter. But, I did bring up some other topics besides "Who does Julie think is cute?"

And I realized, much as I enjoy the guy, Mr. Brand does not substitute for Mr. Depp "in a pinch." Sorry, Russell, but you seem to be play-acting your sexuality (even if you have a "sex addiction"). Johnny Depp sure has fun with his looks, no doubt at about it, but somehow it never seems forced. Ah, maybe, even celebrity crushes are blind.