Fashion Plate

Fashion Plate

–noun

1.

a person who consistently wears the latest style in dress.

Fashion has been on my mind lately because, thanks to a new doctor, I am now taking a medicine to replace what my under active thyroid is not producing, and, as a result, have lost 15 pounds and counting.

I would jump up and down for joy except that my pants would fall down around my ankles.

I have dropped two clothing sizes and one clothing department. What I mean is that I no longer have to shop in the “hopelessly devoid of anything resembling fashion” WOMEN’S DEPARTMENT. I can go back to shopping in the Misses Department.

Now please understand, I am not and never have been, as defined above, a fashion plate. I go for classic styles, dressier rather than casual. What that means in my suburban world is that I prefer suits for work and wrap tops (silk) and heels (kitten) with my (straight leg, dark denim wash) jeans, while others are wearing some kind of non-jean pants with some kind of top for work, and faded jeans with athletic shoes everywhere else. So yes, I am somewhat more fashion-y than those around me. That doesn’t make me a fashion plate. Maybe a fashion fork? Or a fashion goblet? But definitely not a plate.

But I would like to have had clothing more stylish than I found in the WOMEN’S DEPARTMENTS of the stores in my suburban mall. It was pure torture to walk past the Misses Department and see all the nice fabrics and prints and styles, only to reach the WOMEN’S DEPARTMENTS and see nothing even faintly resembling attractive clothing. Who decided that a size 16 WOMAN couldn’t wear the same luscious print that a size 16 Missy could? Only a few pounds separate the two sizes. Who decided that all WOMEN could or would want to wear prints so large that they resemble a map of the world – life size? Who decided that WOMEN don’t deserve to have a waist, so all tops are made to hang straight down in front from the tips of our boobs, changing our shapes to something resembling the box my clothes dryer came packaged in? Or even worse, have gathered bust lines so that we all look fourteen months pregnant.

I ended up doing most of my clothes shopping on QVC, one of the shopping networks. Almost every article of clothing that they offer comes in sizes from XS to 3X. So thank you, QVC, for providing fashionable styles that WOMEN are not ashamed to be seen in.

In the mean time, I bought three pairs of straight leg, dark denim wash jeans in my new size, and those will have to do as I (hopefully) continue to lose weight. Thank goodness my new job allows wearing jeans to work.

Camellia

Are you Beautiful or Ugly?

Whoever said “Beauty is only skin deep,” was wrong.

Whoever said “Pretty is as pretty does,” was only a bit closer.

Whoever said “Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes to the bone,” was actually on the right track. They just didn’t realize it applies to both beauty and ugliness.

The truth is, beauty starts in the heart, or, more accurately, in the emotions. And so does ugly.

We hear a lot these days about how airbrushed photos in magazines and other images of impossibly beautiful women affect girls’ self images, but most times those poor self images start way before that.

If we are unloved, unwanted, and abused we know there must be a reason, and we come to know that the reason is because we deserve it. That we are unworthy of being loved and cherished. Children who are loved and cherished by the adults around them grow up with feelings of self-worth and self-love. And they rarely think they are ugly. At least, not the Ugly that goes bone deep. The Ugly so Ugly that it deserves a capitol letter.

By time I hit adolescence I thought that the only reason men were interested in me was because I was Ugly. That they believed that, since I was Ugly, I would be so grateful for their attention that I would have sex with them. Or at least let them feel me up.

And who were “they”? “They” were the construction workers who frequented the local diner where I waited tables from the time I was fifteen. The manager of the grocery store who offered to “lift me up” so I could reach the item on the top shelf instead of reaching it down for me as I had asked. The clerk who had to cup my hand in his to give me my change. The men in church who couldn’t talk to me without touching my hair or putting their hand on my back – and then sliding it down to my waist.

A lot of girls like us do go for sex because it is the closest thing we can get to love. But my reaction was different. I felt humiliated. And manipulated. And I scorned their attention.

In retrospect I think that was a good thing. It kept me out of trouble, kept me from being used, abused, and tossed aside once they were done. It left me some pride. But I still thought I was Ugly.

I had no clue that they were interested because I was built like a brick shithouse. Even though many of “them” had told me that. Not to mention I had that long, gorgeous blonde hair. That many of “them” commented on. Looking back on photos of myself I can see that I really was a walking wet dream. As many of “them” had called me.

So I got a lot of attention from men and that didn’t stop when I was married at nineteen. To a man six years older than I, who I met in collage. Who I thought only loved me for my mind. Because he told me so. And I believed him. Because I was so Ugly it had to be true.

It took a lot of years for me to understand that I was “physically attractive”. That’s the best I can get. Attractive. But at least it’s not Ugly. And when my now-husband Lionheart sees that it’s me calling on the phone he always answers it, “Hey Beautiful”. Capitol letter. And some days I almost believe it.

Camellia

Widdershins - One More Time

What a journey this has been. Since my last post, I have survived my surgery and recovered to the point where I can begin job hunting again, although there are still stitches in my throat and swelling when I talk for more than a few minutes. Not to mention a four inch scar on my neck that looks like a slasher had a go at my carotid artery. I have helped a good friend through her discovery of breast cancer and her subsequent surgery. And I have buried my only sister.

But now, at last, my energy is returning and I think there is a light at the end of the tunnel. My goal for this blog is to resume regular postings as soon as possible. And for starters, here are some things that have gotten me through this time:

Jello - which I hope never to see again in any form.

My daughter Bar, who sent her husband to the store to make sure I had an adequate selection of jello.

My cat Sassy – she always slept on my bed between the two bed pillows, but after my surgery, when I had to sleep only on my back, I would wake up trying to turn on to my side, only to find that she was laying on my shoulder and holding me down with her not insubstantial weight (16 lbs.) When I had healed enough to be able to safely turn on my side she went back to sleeping between the pillows. File this under “Things that make you go “hmm…””

Any song sung by Christian Kane.

Past episodes of “Leverage”.

Current episodes of “The Big Bang”.

And a special tribute to all those forgotten series that show up on cable, for when I felt too bad to even hold a book for reading.

Rereading all the books in Robert Jordan’s “Wheel of Time” series, when I finally felt well enough to hold books for reading.

My husband Lionheart – who would remind me how debilitating major surgery is, when I would get upset because I couldn’t just bounce up and instantly resume my normal life. And he should know, since he has survived seven of them.

And now we are preparing to celebrate my grandson’s first birthday. The Wheel weaves at the Wheel wills. Life goes on.

Camellia

My cat is my role model

“The smallest feline is a masterpiece.” Leonardo da Vinci

I am a cat person. Don’t get me wrong; for pure unconditional love, the kind that has saved my sanity in the past, you can’t do better than a dog. They are ready to come at every call and lick your face or play fetch or just curl up on your feet and keep them warm. Dogs are great.

But they are also obsequious.

And sometimes I just find that annoying. They seem to have no self-respect.

Cats, on the other hand, are the epitome of self-respect. Self-respect is defined as “having the proper esteem or regard for the dignity of one’s character”. I think it should also say, “See CAT.”

Cats have such a bone-deep conviction of their worth that they have no trouble whatsoever maintaining eye contact with you. See, with dogs, eye contact has to do with dominance. If one dog wants to challenge another, he looks him in the eye. If the other dog breaks the gaze and drops his head, he loses. If he maintains eye contact a fight will usually ensue to determine which is more dominant. Dogs repeat this behaviour with humans (who are also pack animals). Either you are dominant over your dog, or he is dominant over you. Think I am kidding? Look your dog in the eye for any length of time and see what happens.

Cats don’t do that. They will look you in the eye for as long as they like. They could not care less if you keep looking back at them, or if you look away, or if you look back and forth. They don’t lose anything by looking away first; that’s usually just their way of saying you simply are too boring at that moment to hold their attention. I have a private theory that people who hate cats have low self-esteem and can’t tolerate this dismissal by (what seems to be) an obviously superior being.

With all that being said, in some ways my cats act like dogs.

They actually come when I call them. They learn their names because I use their names. I have a relationship with them. If the only time you see your cat is during the ten seconds a day it takes to dump food into his bowl, you’re not going to establish a relationship. When they come to me they know they are going to get loved and petted on until they stretch and purr, it feels so good. In my house, hands are for loving and toys are for playing. So I never flip a cat over on its back and roughly scrub my hand over its belly until its nature gets the better of it and it tries to disembowel my arm with its hind claws while holding on to my hand with its front claws and teeth. You know exactly the action I’m talking about. The one that people do, then take their cats to the vet and have them declawed because they scratch. Of course they scratch! That’s what they’re designed to do in that situation! If you do that action with a toy instead of with your hand, both you and the cat can enjoy the play and the cat can keep his toes.

So my Sassy Kitty serves as a prime example of a well-adjusted, self-respecting personality. She can show her affection without compromising herself. She can play with a shoelace dragged across the floor with the total abandon of a kitten. She has no problem standing up to the Cute Puppy that joined our lives a year ago when he misbehaves. And it boggles my mind that a creature one twentieth the size of an adult human can sit on the floor and gaze fearlessly into that human’s eyes.

So let me love, play, assert myself, and stand up to the giants in my life with all the self-respect and aplomb of my cat.

Aplomb – defined as “imperturbable self-possession, poise, or assurance”. It should also say “See CAT”.

What unusual role models do you have in your life?

To cry or not to cry, that is the question.

I believe we cry in relationship to our greatest injury. I first saw this watching my daughter as she grew. When she started walking she might cry if she wobbled and sat down with a thump. Later, if she bumped her elbow on the coffee table she would cry, but not if she sat down unexpectedly.

The first time she scraped her knee she cried a lot, but no longer cried for other, smaller bumps and scrapes. Then, after the first time she spectacularly wrecked her two-wheeled bicycle and got those serious scrapes and that one good gouge (from the pedal – remember how much those hurt?!) she didn’t cry for those smaller injuries any more.

I think this holds true for emotional injuries as well. We cry over those first small hurts because that is the worst pain we have ever known. Then as we progress in the world, gain love and loved ones, lose love and loved ones, and suffer the pain and vagaries of life, we weep for the greater hurts we suffer, but perhaps not so much for the smaller ones.

Unfortunately, if we are hurt enough, we may eventually stop crying at all. This may be a survival mechanism, both since tears make us appear weak and vulnerable, and since they are often a ‘reward’ to an abuser, prompting or prolonging the abuse.

Do you know someone who you never see cry? It doesn’t mean they don’t, of course; they may just shed their tears in private. But some of us suffered so greatly that the ordinary ‘slings and arrows’ of life are just minor stings to us. But I don’t think this is a healthy state of being.

I spent a long time healing my mental and emotional injuries and I thought I was doing quite well. I didn’t consider the fact that I still rarely cried, and never in front of other people. Then I met Lionheart, the man who would become my (second) husband. Somehow, and I don’t yet understand it, he made it both okay and possible for me to cry again. One evening, quite early in our relationship, I spontaneously burst into tears. It actually frightened me; this was just not something I did, and to make it worse, I didn’t even know why I was crying.

Then this amazing man took me in his arms and gave me his thoughts on why I was crying. And as I listened I realized he was right. And that it was okay. Everything was okay. And the world didn’t end.

I still don’t cry very often but when I do it feels okay now – that it is safe to do so. And sometimes he still has to help me figure out why I’m crying, but that’s okay too. This is a journey he is willing to share with me.

Camellia

Do you know someone who never cries? Have you ever asked them why?

Out of the mouths of babes

Has your son or daughter ever said something to you that resonated into your very bones? Served as a wake-up slap in the face? Broken your heart so badly you thought it would never beat again? Say something that you never thought you would hear them say?

For my daughter’s ninth birthday I went to the party store to pick up supplies. While I was there I ran into the store next door just to window shop. I saw the perfect Oriental rug for the living room and bought it on impulse. At home she helped me unroll it and get it positioned just right. As we were sitting on the couch, admiring how perfect the colors were, she said, “You make really good decisions when you’re by yourself.”

“Yes”, I thought, “she is right. I do make good decisions when her dad is not with me.”

When she was twelve and I told her we were getting a divorce she said, “It’s about time.”

“Yes”, I thought, “she understands.”

When she was sixteen she said, “I understand why you had to leave Dad, and I respect you for having the strength to do it, but I will never forgive you for breaking up our family and hurting him so badly.”

“No”, I thought, “she will never understand.”

One month before her nineteenth birthday I became engaged. On her birthday she cried all day and wouldn’t tell me why. Three months later when she was with my fiancé, Lionheart, helping him choose tuxedos for the wedding party she told him she understood why I loved him so much but she cried on her birthday because she realized I would never get back together with her dad.

“No”, I thought, “she should be over this by now.”

When she was almost twenty she decided to go ahead and marry her fiancé. She asked me for a guest list, and I gave it to her when we got together for her twentieth birthday. When she saw Lionheart’s mother and sisters on the list she said, “I’m not inviting HIS family! HE will be lucky if I even allow HIM to attend. You will walk down the aisle with my father and sit with him, the way it SHOULD be!”

“No”, I thought, “she will never get over this.”

When she was twenty-four she handed their first child, our first grandchild, to Lionheart and said, “Here, grandpa, do you want to hold him?”

“Maybe”, I thought, “there is hope after all.”


Camellia


What has your child said to you that will stay with you forever?

A rose by any other name...

A friend once asked me why I didn’t call my ex-husband, well, “my ex-husband”. Instead I always say “Bar’s dad”.

It’s simple. The term “my ex-husband” is too possessive for me. To me, he is not “my” anything any more. But he will always be our daughter’s father.

He was a good dad when she was growing up. He loved having her with him, whether he was working in his garden or going to the hardware store.

And while she has my face, my hair, and my personality, she has his ears, his hands and his teaching spirit.


Daddy’s Hands


"I don’t know why, but I like your hands the best."
Strong
Warm

"I know it’s broken. Just have Daddy fix it."
Clever
Square

"Pet my face ‘til I go to sleep."
Warm
Gentle

"Lift me up one more time."
Strong


"Swing me."
Happy

"Plant my garden right here."
Growing
Flowers
Children


Daddy’s hands can do anything
When you’re six years old.

Checkmate

I thought my first husband …

…had self-confidence and a high self-esteem, but it actually was arrogance from low self-esteem.

…was calm, but he was actually passive aggressive.

…knew how to sit back and wait for the right time to act, but he was actually a procrastinator.

When we married I was 19 and he was 25 and we had both just received our Associate degrees, and planned on continuing college for those all-important Bachelor’s degrees. He had served in the army and traveled extensively through Europe. I came from a tiny town and grew up with no family automobile – if you took me 5 miles down the road I was awestruck at seeing a new place. He was a ‘white knight’ who was supportive, nurturing, and a consummate teacher - everything you could want in a parent, er, I mean, husband.

In truth, he did ‘raise me’ as a parent would. He trained me and taught me and loved me – as long as I knew less than he did. As long as I was less competent than he was. As long as I didn’t know enough to stop asking ‘What do we do now?” and start asking “Why did you do that?”

We got our degrees and started our professional lives. My degree in computer programming (as we called it back then) led me to a large traditional business, the kind that can afford to buy the multi-million dollar IBM mainframe computers. And he continued to teach me. I had no clue how to behave in a professional environment and we constantly worked on ‘scenarios’ – if X happens, do Y. If Z happens, do A. And I progressed and learned and gained experience, both at work and in ‘real life’, taking on more and more complex assignments and situations.

And things started to change. The more I grew, the more he withdrew. If he couldn’t be the one who knew everything and could do everything, he couldn’t find a place in our marriage. I had developed into a strong, confident woman. His passive aggressiveness had grown to the point that almost everything in our lives was paralyzed. He would say to me, “I don’t like the person you’ve become.” And I would say, “I know! But I can’t go back to being an inexperienced 19 year old!”

And eventually I had to start saying, “I know! But I can’t go back to being an inexperienced 19 year old! That’s why we shouldn’t be together anymore.

Fast forward through the next ten years. I am a stubborn woman and when I commit to something I commit completely. I just knew that I could fix this if I could find the right thing to say or the right thing to do or the right therapy to try. But eventually I became so numb I couldn’t try any more. So, when our daughter was twelve, I moved out of our house. He didn’t say much about it. I took an apartment only five minutes away so she could stay in the same school and still be close to the house and her dad.

It took a year for my emotions to thaw** to the point where I could realize that divorce was the only option. When I told him, he said he didn’t want a divorce. When I asked him why then he hadn’t been willing to cooperate with therapy or any of the other things I had tried, he said, “I thought you were going through a phase and it was all your problem.” All I could reply was, "Ten years is a pretty damn long phase!” When I asked him why he never even protested when I moved out he said, “Because I thought you would fall flat on your face and have to come crawling back.”

Well. After all these years, he still needed me so desperately to be that incompetent little 19 year old girl, incapable of handling life on her own, that he simply could not see me for who I really was. All I could do was shake my head and go through with the divorce. I gave him the house, took on all the credit card debt, agreed to shared custody, and paid him child support (required in my state since my income was higher). I shook the dust of twenty-four years of marriage off my sandals and my friends told me they had never seen me happier.


Camellia


** About three months into the “year of thawing out” a friend asked me if I missed him. I was taken aback by the question; it had never occurred to me. I realized that, no, I didn’t miss him. There was nothing to miss. For 12 years I had done everything by myself. If there was a movie I wanted to see, I went by myself. If there was a restaurant I wanted to try, I went by myself. When I decided to take up martial arts I visited the dojos around town, by myself, and selected one, and started attending classes – by myself. So there was literally nothing to miss. Except the arguing. But I didn’t miss that. I just basked in the peace of my little apartment.



Have you ever spent years of your life trying to get through to someone?

An inward journey to an outward dance

“Working widdershins” is an expression which means to conduct a ritual starting in the West, then moving to the South, the East, and finally to the North to complete the ritual. However, this term can also be used to describe the process of self-work.

At the beginning of self-work we need to call upon our courage for this inward journey. As we continue this journey we need to burn away our masks so that we begin to see ourselves as we really are. Only as we approach our true selves can we begin to heal the wounds that life has inflicted upon us. As we continue this inward journey we see the death of our false selves, the birth and growth of our true selves, and we find our center, the home of our spirit.

The act of moving inward ultimately brings us back out again, to dance with the world around us in new and wonderful steps, sometimes sure-footed, sometimes faltering, until the circle of the dance leads us inward once more and a new journey begins.

As we journey onward together I will share some of the steps of my dance with you.

Camellia