Is this a church meeting or is this a blog? Make some noise!

"I am the first one to admit that my body isn't perfect. I love my curves. Starving myself? So not my thing." -Cosmopolitan Summer '06

I love Tyra. Were it not for her, I would never be as interested in fashion and style as I am now. There's a tiny, skinny, grapefruit-eating model inside of me that requires me to open up Vogue and study the editorials inside. However, there is one thing that keeps me from diving nose first into the fashion industry as a whole....

Tyra stands firm on her beliefs of a healthy self-image... as do I. There are a lot of women, and men, who cannot differentiate the sides of reality and fashion.

"As a heterosexual male, I've never been even slightly attracted to the skinny fashion models -- and I've never met any other men who are. The clothing they model isn't generally meant to be worn -- it's art, and so the models are part of this art -- it's certainly not meant to attract heterosexual males.

Read more at: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kira-craft/the-economics-of-skinny-m_b_126310.html

" -rma2108

Read more at: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kira-craft/the-economics-of-skinny-m_b_126310.html

, Kira Craft article comment

Nail... hammer... yada yada.

What most young women, and men, DON'T understand is that these super-skinny models are not actually supposed to be the "ideal" image we should conform to in order to feel beautiful or accepted as beautiful by society. They are, in essence, clothes hangers. The less curves, the more the clothing is the focus. A pretty or even unusual face added on completes the package. It's art combining flesh and thread to make money. The majority of the clothing you see on the runway isn't the same product they shovel out to retailers.

There IS the other side of the argument, however, that these women are hired to be sexy and sell the entire package as sexy. I've never looked at an emaciated woman and felt my hormones race at the thought of touching her. I always imagined bruising her accidentally by hugging her.

The look on Tyra's face, the image on the right, is probably her reaction to this horribly photoshopped ideal of femininity. (I dare Ralph Lauren to try to sue ME for copyright infringement.... it has their damned name on it! It's THEIR problem.) If designers are photochopping to shit their finished product, what does that say about the already rail-thin model in the photograph? It's probably her skeletal frame keeping her from losing the extra 15 pounds it would take for Ralph Lauren to find her ideal for their campaign with out having to smear tool her torso.

The general public should not look at these images and say to themselves, "They're in a magazine.. so they must be what is considered attractive. I look nothing like this. There is something wrong with me." This is typically followed by failing self-esteem and/or eating-disorders to become comparable to magazine models. Not always, mind you, but it will chip away any healthy self-image a young, impressionable girl may have.

Fact: it's absolutely ludicrous to compare yourself to ANY one else, regardless of their height, weight, proportions or age. Your actual weight says nothing if you don't look overweight and carry no health risks unless designated by a health professional. If you're that concerned, go see your doctor.




Tyra's take on body and self-image? Be who you are and embrace it. Eat what you want, just don't overeat. Exercise to relax and maintain an overall good health, not become the image you think you should be projecting. Project you, not some one else's idea of you. No one can tell you what your body should look like.

no, in fact, you're never right

Why am I not the type of person who feels the need to "better themselves"?.....



The meaning behind that narcissistic phrase and it's materialistic definition is another story entirely, but I digress.

I'm just not that type of person. Getting bored is one thing or needing something that better fits your schedule (or social life) or any other legit reasoning. I suppose this is why I'm an angry person with a sunny disposition that works with the public.

Who really enjoys working with the public? Even the few nice, genuine people you meet while working in customer service are too far and inbetween (and so many flawed) that it can't recover for what the whole of society has done to the business.

For instance, it may not bother you at first, but soon you'll realize that you are doing these people favors, all day long, regardless you're getting paid (and very poorly, at that). Is it really that much to expect the money be handed to us? Not just thrown onto the counter, actually HANDED to us! I'm not trying to bitch (I do this subconsciously). You expect us to hand you your change. You should hand us your money. How do I know this? I test it every single time.

My hand is always laying on the counter when awaiting payment. Not open, but in waiting. Regardless that I'm obviously waiting for you to fish your change or crumpled up bills, you still lay it on the counter. Sometimes near the hand, sometimes as far as possible from it. After putting away your $100 bill and yanking out your $95 in change, your hand is out, OPEN and expecting. Why? Why should you be handed your money when you cannot initiate that kind of respect for me? I will, have and always promise to wait for you to open your hand.... then drop it on the counter. If you're lucky, your receipt will be in your bag, and not wadded up into the mess of singles I've laid out for you.

I do believe that Barney needs to come back on television. I clearly remember the song, "Please and thank you! They're the magic words." Even the tune is etched.. no.. burned deeply into my brain tissue. These words have all but disappeared not only in mass public but ever so especially in anyone between the ages of 10-25.

• "Can you open this (body jewelery case)?" Yes, I can. I have the keys. Can you?
• "What's your 5 for $10 sale? Is that only redline items?" Let's ask the sign you read that off of. He'll know.
• "Is the receipt in the bag?" No, I'm just trying to trap you with an in-store credit return. I'm that much of an asshole.
• "Would you get that down for me?" I use the ladder to retrieve an out of reach item. I give it to the customer. Twenty minutes later, they do not purchase it and instead lay it in the clearance area where another customer finds it and demands that I give her a reduced price because of where it was found.

When some one asks you how you're doing, do you just look at them and smile? Do you completely ignore them?
We are paid absolute shit (comparatively speaking) to be utterly kind to you. There are those of us who give a shit about putting our best effort into everything we do, regardless if assholes like you belittle people who take positions such as this. You know, the positions that are built to serve the common public... you.

Like the old saying goes... this job would be great if it weren't for the fucking customer.

Snifflesticks. I feel so bummed out today.. but I'm NOT the type of person to boo-fucking-hoo into a blog for pity and attention. Bitching, however, is a different story.

I hate money. I like it, because it gets me unnecessary material items that I enjoy holding from time to time, but don't we all like money for that reason? We only hate money when we don't have any. It's like what a lot of teenagers say about their ex's that they get back together with within six months of breaking up with them. You talk shit about them while they're gone, how horrible they treated you, that you never loved them anyway, but as soon as they call you and let you know they want you back in their lives, they're the smile on your face. I'd wear money on my face... IF I HAD ANY.

I'm rather sick of starting blog posts and then never finishing them, either. My blog suddenly became that friend that you used to love talking to, but then stopped, and started to feel guilty... but you two had nothing to talk about! SHIT!!! How to mend this relationship!? You can't... you can't force anything, least especially mindless banter. I need to start carrying a journal and writing all of the things I'm thinking down. That would make for more entertainment than Cary randomly bitching. Though, ironically, that's why people call her funny. She thinks you're all weird.

Is it not funny that you can meet the NICEST people at a WWE event but the biggest bunch of douchebags at a Slipknot concert? Hey, hey now! Aren't we all angry at the same thing...? Why all the hostility!? I didn't make you angry... hell, Slipknot made *me* angry. Go stand in front of them! They didn't pay for their seat-.... stage... wait yes they did. Shut the fuck up and sit down. You aren't even old enough to be smoking that cigarette. That's why I smacked it out of your hand, dumbass. Oh, and for the record, you've accomplished nothing when you tell a bitch she is a bitch. Captain fucking Obvious.

ultimate nerddom

I had a dream that I wrote the most PERFECT and short blog entry, just in the nick of time before I left for my LARP (we'll get into that later, but start snickering now). Whatever I wrote, it was witty, insightful and relevant... to what I'm unsure. Here, in waking hours, I have no frigging idea what I wrote about.

ALAS, as I squander the time I should be using to shower, get decent and trek to my parent's house to find last season's mask, I sit and drink a Pepsi, reveling in the upcoming excitement! It's LARP weekend!!!

If you are unsure of what a LARP is, it is Live Action Role Playing. The ultimate in nerddom.
Typically four times a year (three this year.. boo) we gather at Camp Piomingo to indulge in fictional storylines and lives. Not once this weekend, from 10pm Friday until 6am Sunday will I be Cary. Nor will I sleep at all Saturday night.

I would love to post more, but with out witnessing the continuation of the storyline, I have nothing more to add. Sunday, however, you will get to see the few images I will take and hear a smidgen more about my nerdiness. Whether you're interested or not, or just really want something to laugh about, you'll have it soon.

jesus christ!

So, here we are. Easter Sunday. The day Jesus was risen from .. wherever the hell he was.. after being crucified by the Romans for being a heretic. There was blood, grief, man-panties and a dramatic sunset. Probably a few crows and vulchers. Just guessing.

Somehow that translates to baby bunnies, chics, lambs, colored eggs and pastel decorations. Wait, what?

Ostara is the pagan celebration of the renewed fertility of the earth. The halfway point between the beginning of the year (Samhain/Halloween) and the next year. This was celebrated with bright, "spring" colors, decorating eggs and using baby animals as a sign of birth and renewal to example the earth's birth and renewal after a cold winter.

Tell a Christian this and if they were your friend, they probably aren't after you explain it. Goddamn ignorant sons of bitches... YES, early Christians stole pagan/Wiccan holidays and implemented their own ideas and beliefs of their god into them. Hence, how we go from Jesus dying on a cross after being tortured for hours to fluffy rabbits and candy!
SOME ONE explain to me how the Christians can continue to celebrate the day their god was risen from the dead and let their children go on egg hunts on the same day! Can they also tell me where the ideas for such things came about?? Did JESUS decree that because he was risen, we should celebrate with baby animals and eating hardboiled eggs in THANKS? OH GEE! Thank you, Jesus, for dying for my sins, though I never really had any until your followers decreed I had any. This basket of Cadbury eggs is for you!

And I'm going to eat them, slowly, pretending they're your followers.

i has a bubble

Subway is my default, go-to lunch when I forget to pack one.
I don't know WHAT was going on, but I can only assume that of the two sammichers that were working today, one is a total douche.

During the noon to one lunch rush, I stood patiently awaiting my foot long fantasy. I stood behind a woman who turned around and smiled at me. I genuinely smiled back as we shared that moment of "Mmmm... we're about to get our sub on." The line inched forward slowly and as the douche, or man, was adding cheese to the polite woman's six inch wheat sammich, he walks away. The douch, or man, and the older woman working had been exchanging words. Words that I was ignoring.

I should have paid attention. The man was gone for nearly ten minutes while that poor, flat, little wheat sammich laid cold on it's wax paper bed. The woman feverishly rang up the two customers in front of us and ran back to the abandoned sammich, apologizing for our wait, or weight. Skinny broad...

The man returns and washes his hands. The woman bitched him out as I chuckled softly yet loud enough to be heard within earshot. He may have bowel problems or is still pissing out last night's alcohol, though no excuse is acceptable to abandon an order like he did.

Now, while all of this is going on, I'm standing by the beginning of the first glass case. An older gentleman, probably near 55 or 60, continually shuffled closer to me. I shuffled myself a little further down. He shuffles closer yet again. I do this two more times as does he. I still don't understand why he felt the need to so eagerly stare at the meat and cheese selections, as though he had never seen such an array of the same, stale flavors Subway has had since it's debut.

At this point I've lost my patience (which doesn't take long... it took perhaps 2-3 minutes). I turn my head to the old bastard and snapped, "Jesus CHRIST, do you drive like that, too!? Back off!"

With out even making eye contact with me, he shuffled his decrepid ass backwards and continued to stare into the plain of slaughtered delights.
I really do try to avoid having to snap at strangers, but it usually ends up the same. I huff and attempt to show them the error of their ways, like a rattlesnake hissing and... uh... rattling. And after a few moments of unacknowledgement, I break like a tree branch....... and stab them. Proverbially speaking, of course.

a thought

If pubic hair were gummie bears, would we still need razors?