Jayne Says

How Does it Feel to be One of the Beautiful People?

I shudder and cringe, eyes mostly covered by my hands in shame, as I relate these embarrassing facts.

I am not physically "perfect." It's true!

In fact, nobody I know is perfect.

Some are too tall, some too short. Some bony, some fleshy. Some shaped like an apple, some a pear, some a bean pole, some a jelly fish, some like a summer squash.

I have seen cellulite.

Stomach rolls.

Double chins. No chins.

Goofy noses, squinty eyes, wrinkles, gray hairs.

Cankles.

Spider veins.

Mis-matched breasts. Breasts that are too small, too big, too sagging, nipples not quite right in size or color (all according to their hosts, that is).

Small penises, hairy ones, mis-matched balls.

Chicken legs. Tree-trunk legs. Flat asses, huge asses.

Hair where there shouldn't be hair. No hair where hair ought to be. Stubble.

Spots, blemishes, bruises and freckles.

Pasty skin, burned skin, funny tan lines.

When you are smiling, when your smile lights up your eyes, my GOD do you know how GORGEOUS you are?

Do you know how many BILLIONS of dollars advertising corporations spend to manipulate you into thinking and feeling and experiencing yourself as not gorgeous?

Fuck them all, I say. You wouldn't let someone come into your living room and dump a garbage can onto your floor; why let them do that to your mind?

Seriously. Please give yourself - your fat/thin/short/tall/spotty/imperfectly perfect self - a break and feel yourself as free, as beautiful. Strip on down and love yourself. Um, you know what I mean.

(This is a follow up to my recent post about nudity and some of the comments.)
(EDIT: Even most of the so called "beautiful" people have serious body issues, perhaps more so given the constant scrutiny their bodies are given. I have read so many interviews with people like Gweneth Paltrow or Angelina Jolie and they hate their asses, Michelle Pfieffer thinks her mouth looks like a duck beak, etc. So before anyone tells me, "easy for you to say, Jayne, you are thin and attractive," I will state I have HATED my body in the past. My weight, my height (5'9"), my frame (large), my small mouth, my sensitive skin, the dent on the end of my nose where I had a smallpox blister, my cellulite, my hairline, the color of my hair, the length of it, my stubby toes, my big calves, all of my freckles, my fingernails, the lines I am getting on my face, my small chin, etc. etc. BUT I no longer hate any part of myself. I no longer compare myself to others (and I generally avoid TV and fashion magazines) I know I am not "perfect" but really, really, beauty does come from within, from the spirit, and we are all so much more than the sum of our parts.)

Happy Anniversary

Five years ago today, there was an event. The details are a bit fuzzy but we celebrate the date. I do love that man still. Which I suppose is a good thing considering we live together. Happy Anniversary, Babe!

Pops Is Blogsitting Today

While I am out of the country until tomorrow, Jayne Says will have host posters, so you can have a sampling of some of my favorite bloggers, as a welcome respite from me, I am sure. I will be gathering images, pictures, stories and adventures to share for my return.

Today, I introduce you to Pops of Pops' Bucket, one of my favorite bloggers and my personal blogging sensei. This stay at home dad cranks out a post six days a week, and his imagination and INSANE sense of humor compel me to return every single day. Thanks, Pops, I will never get those hours of my life back. The original post chosen by Pops can be found here (and while you're there, check out his Hall of Minimal Suckitude or whatever he calls it on his sidebar, all comedic gems. And maybe he will post the link to my favorite of his entries, The Boy Who Limped). In the meanwhile, enjoy and note the Narcissus Scale ranking following each entry:

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Help Bucket

Somebody actually found this blog by entering the Google search string Paul Begala karate.

I have absolutely no idea how to respond to that other than to say yes, I would very much like to punch Paul Begala in the face, except now I'm slightly afraid to.

...

I think my regular readers will agree that the primary reason they come here is to learn about the world in positive ways that will help them improve their lives. My post yesterday about a cartoon I--a grown man with children--find diverting I think was especially socially constructive, even for me. It may have even been more enlightening than the post about my bridesmaid fetish. It's hard to be sure.

In the spirit of this blog's mission, I would like to tackle another specific subject very close to me. As my oldest son started school this year, I have been worried about his socialization into a group of his peers, none of whom are blood relations. Since he is my son and the inheritor of many frankly unfair genetic advantages in comparison to the simps he finds himself surrounded by every day it is no surprise to me that he has flourished. When the teacher calls my house, she weeps. I assume it's out of gratitude.

But I can't teach genetic superiority. Besides, what if seamless integration isn't what you want? What if you're worried about drugs or petty vandalism or STDs or all of the other really fun things that come with social interaction among growing children? Well reader, you're in luck because now I offer the following how-to:

How To Raise A Socially Retarded Child

by Pops

The following should not be considered "steps" so much as options. Taken in combination, however, they can increase the likelihood of a positive outcome. Sadly of course, I cannot guarantee success. I think it's fair to warn you that all failures will be chalked up to reader error and ignored.

1) Have an only child

This method, I admit, is not foolproof as the child comes in contact with other children. There is a strong possibility that the groups your child finds him/herself amongst in school or in sports or whatever will be nice and friendly and receptive, thereby fucking up all the effort you put into making a socially retarded child.

But having the child to yourself from birth until kindergarten gives you the opportunity to lay down the groundwork for a life full of isolation, ostracization and disappointment. Without any other snot-faced little brats (or "siblings") to distract, you as a parent can spend all your time and energy convincing your child that s/he is the One And Only Reason The Universe Was Created. If you're going to make this social-retardation thing stick, your child is going to have to be unleashed upon the world with a well-honed air of smug superiority. Not only will it guarantee a lifetime of difficulty making friends with people who are so obviously beneath them and failure after failure in romantic relationships, but s/he is sure to have his/her food spit in by the waitstaff of several restaurants. I didn't say the process would be without risk.

2) Home-schooling

Of the two options presented, this one is the most likely to succeed. It limits all the random variable from the equation--other people's children. Not only is the process of socialization retarded by the lack of contact with peers, but without exposure to even the example of how normal people are supposed to act, this child is fleshy clay for you to mold.

Probably a good idea to keep the TV to a minimum as well. Stick to children's TV if you have to have any at all, not so much for the educational benefits but as role-models. If they learn to talk to other people the way humans speak to each other in children's TV, they are likely to be not only ignored, but probably chased and beaten quite often in the off chance they should happen upon Other People.

While you can rest easily in the knowledge that your child only knows what you tell them (God loves America the most, the Indians had it coming, you can't trust the Jews, etc.), you may be somewhat sad that your child will miss out on some of the Coming of Age events other children enjoy, like sports or the prom.

You want sports? Let's race dad up the stairs! Or how about a vigorous game of backgammon? Letterman jackets can be purchased at any local sporting goods store.

You want a prom? A few streamers in the garage, Neil Diamond on the hi-fi, disco ball rentals are pretty reasonable, a can of Hi-C in the fancy serving bowl... who needs all the fast dancing in a crowd? Someone could get hurt, especially with all the piercings kids have nowadays. Besides, your kid shouldn't be doing things like that what with the crippling asthma they might spontaneously contract. What about a date, though? Well, if you've done your job, your son/daughter would be happiest attending their "prom" with the parent of the appropriately opposite gender. After all, you're their best friend. You're their only friend. It's a lot of responsibility, but it's that or put them in school where you can expect to raise your illegitimate grandchild(ren) while your oh-so-popular well-socialized kid is away in rehab (again).

So that's my two cents. Each approach is likely to show the positive results you're looking for. Put the two together and I can almost guarantee you will have one fucked-up twitchy goofball of a weird child. Hell, even you might get tired of them after a while. That's when you know you've done your job.

This post on the Narcissus Scale: 1.3

Pops

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Thanks, Pops! Please go visit him, or leave comments here for him to field : )

If I were to watch a movie after hanging out with Kristen [oops, I meant Pops!] all day it would be A Fish Called Wanda, or maybe The Jerk, because this is the kind of goofy, endearing, original (and sometimes slightly cruel or dark) humor I think we both enjoy.

Kristen Is Blogsitting Today

While I am out of the country until April 11, Jayne Says will have host posters, so you can have a sampling of some of my favorite bloggers, as a welcome respite from me, I am sure. I will be gathering images, pictures, stories and adventures to share for my return.

Today, I introduce you to Kristen, from Motherhood Uncensored. I love Kristen's unique, strong, funny, smart voice. Her audience is growing daily, and the reasons are obvious. The woman tells it like it is, and reminds parents that no one ever said it was going to be easy. The following original post selected by Kristen, about wondering at what point she began turning into one of those moms, can be found here. 

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I'm Pining For Cookware, and It Scares Me...

I'm quite sure when the transition from sassy fashionista to belligerent mother occurred. I remember quite distinctly the days in which I longed for (and purchased w/o thought) a sexy pair o' stillettos and matching ensemble (always match outfit to shoes... not vice versa). Pots and pans were items rarely seen or used, and the brand, style, or fit of SHOES I was wearing to zap my meals was the only thing that mattered in the kitchen.

I'm certainly no domestic goddess (and I never will be). Cleaning is one of my least favorite tasks, but I'm not an idiot and I don't love FILTH, so I clean, wash clothes, and vacuum out of necessity. Pre-motherhood, I had done things in my own time, and domestic assignments (as I like to call them), were not my top priority. I had the basic materials and supplies needed to complete such tasks, nothing fancy or top of the line - just exactly what I needed to get the job done. (PS Thank god for swiffers).

So, now here I am. This semester (as a non-working college prof, I still think that way) I have no classes and I'm working very little OUTSIDE of the home. I feel somewhat obligated to step up my domestic game (if you will). I cook and clean on a regular basis - and while I still don't love it, I can't say that I mind it that much (thank god for the foodnetwork). I make *gulp* homemade cookies, well-rounded lunches for my husband, and dinners that I might actually feed to guests.

And then it came. I realized that I was pining after some good kitchen stuff. Like a nice big PAN or another set of tongs or some kick-ass cookie sheets. Or, the new vacuuming swiffer thing so I don't have to get the vacuum out all the time. AND, then I nearly fell over and slapped myself across the face. I mean, it is true - the stuff that I'm cooking with is the equivalent of those damn Dr. Scholls wooden sandal clog things.  They were cool in like 1981 - but now if you tried to wear them with an outfit, sure they cover your feet, but they don't do you any justice. Hell, I JUST bought a set of tupperware... (yup, the AS SEEN ON TV SPINNER THING with the same size tops - it's genius).

BUT, what is this fear of turning into one of THOSE moms??? You know exactly what I'm talking about. The ones that discuss the new brand of LYSOL that really cleans shit stains of a toilet really well. OR the ones that discuss the new chopper that makes your cooking experience all the more enjoyable. OR, the ones that don't know that pleats and tapered jeans are JUST WRONG... I didn't want to be those moms! I wanted to be the cool hip mom that still had a life and a style and well, just did that stuff cuz she had to, not because it was her sole existence.

Don't get me wrong. This doesn't mean that I don't wish for some great shoes or a sexy top. Granted now I have to worry about whether my hips will hurt if I walk in the heels for more than 10 minutes OR if the shirt will look okay over my newly protruding midsection. But, it seems as though I'm now bridging the gap between sassylady and oldmotherhubbard.

I'm not exactly sure what that place is called,  but I'm pretty surprised that it's really not all that bad. AND, I kind of like it.

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Thanks, Kristen! Please go visit her, or leave comments here for her to field : )

If I were to watch a movie after hanging out with Kristen all day it would be Parenthood, of course.

Wren Is Blogsitting Today

I interrupt this program to make an important announcement. Happy Birthday, to me. I am probably hanging out with chimpanzees today, which is only fitting. 

Anyway, while I am out of the country until April 11, Jayne Says will have host posters, so you can have a sampling of some of my favorite bloggers, as a welcome respite from me, I am sure. I will be gathering images, pictures, stories and adventures to share for my return.

I am SO EXCITED to share today's birthday post with you, from my actual real life friend and new blogger Wren, who is a Psychic Explorer (no joke). The original post, about a poor confused little puppy can be found here. 

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Molly the Dog

Molly lives in Texas.

I have never met Molly she comes into my knowing when I do readings for her steward. She greets me at the psychic door tail wagging.

I do not know why but Molly is the animal I read the clearest.

Molly busted into a reading I was doing for her person and asked a question very important to her. "Where do I go?" She was serious and a bit frantic.

"What do you mean where do you go? Show me." I thought back to her.

"I am in the car and then I am not. Where do I go?"

She showed me a picture of her riding behind the drivers seat where she could enjoy air from the open window. Sitting being happy, getting air. She shows me her person using an emergency tone of voice, "Molly where are you?" And Molly tells me, "What does she mean where am I? I am right there. I am in the car."

"Yes, Molly. You are in the car. She just wants you to be where she can see you."

"I am always there?" asks Molly, not sure about what could happen.

"Yes you are always there. She wants to see you."

I tell the person, "When you are driving and Molly sits behind you ask her to come to the front seat. Don't ask her where she is. It makes her think she is not there because she does not understand how you could not know she was right behind you."

Molly's person laughs. "Yes I guess the stress from work is still in my voice and I worry when I can not see her. She comes into the front seat with her ears down and I always check to see if she was chewing back there."

"Her ears are down because she thinks she went invisible or something. Just ask her calmly to come to the front so you can see her with your eyes."

Molly, in Texas, at her feet while she is on the phone, looks up at her.

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Thanks, Wren! Please go visit her, or leave comments here for her to field : )

If I were to watch a movie after hanging out with Wren all day it would be What The Bleep Do We Know? Because that's the last movie we saw together the last time we hung out all day. And poor scared (75 lb Lab) Kody tried to curl up on Wren's petite lap.

Melissa Is Blogsitting Today

While I am out of the country until April 11, Jayne Says will have host posters, so you can have a sampling of some of my favorite bloggers, as a welcome respite from me, I am sure. I will be gathering images, pictures, stories and adventures to share for my return.

Today's post comes from Melissa, living it up in New York City, who asks, This is it? Seriously? The more I read this woman, the more I adore her. She is fierce, honest, funny, vulnerable and brave. And I keep reading how she has a special talent of making straight girls make out with her. The original post, written on her 28th birthday can be found here.

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I'm Every Woman

Today is my 28th birthday. And we all know that when it's our birthdays, we get to do whatever we want, as long as it does not involve child pornography, beastiality, or country music. So, in honor of my very special day, I would like to discuss a topic that is very close to my heart: bodily functions.

I love bodily functions. Most I love to experience. Nearly all I love to discuss. They are a never-ending treasure trove of gore and pus, blood and poo. They're fantastic.

I will start off easy today - a story not involving so much gore and pus as blood and extreme embarrassment. As Sophia from the Golden Girls would say: Picture it. Melbourne. 1991. It's the Fourth of July and my parents, brother, and I are in south Florida visiting my dad's family. I am 13 years old and I am about to become A Woman.

We had spent the day at the beach. It was a beautiful Florida afternoon: bright, radiant sun; turquoise, cloudless sky; the ocean teeming with life (both of the aquatic and terrestrial kind). It was perfect. I was in the water, skimming along the sandy floor, feeling for shells and hoping to catch one of those tiny fish that swim in their schools at the top of the waves. Suddenly, I was stung by a jellyfish on my right calf! If this has never happened to you, just believe me when I tell you that setting your self on fire for a couple of minutes should give you an approximate idea of how it feels. I still bear a scar to this day. (Really, all of this jellyfish stuff has nothing to do with my actual story, but I do like a little pity party every now and then, and since it IS my birthday....)

Fast forward to the fireworks display over the bay in Melbourne that night. I'm sunburned. My curly blonde hair is styled half Rastafarian and half Dolemite. I am wearing a brightly colored (orange, lime green, yellow) floral shirt from the Gap with pink and purple plaid shorts. I am STUNNING. I spend most of the night trying to catch the attention of the cute boy sitting next to us with his family. For some reason, he doesn't seem interested. I feel weepy and irritated. He's a fool.

After the fireworks show ends with its traditional chest-thumping, razzle-dazzle, boom-boom finale, we drive back to my great-grandmother's house. I go straight to the bathroom to pee and cry and Lo! Oh what vile and torturous substance hast my loins cast from me?!

I could not believe it. I was NOT thrilled. I had been sure I would be the one girl in all of history to not have to suffer the monthly visitor. And yet, life had let me down again. At my great-grandmother's house. With all of my aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents sitting just ten feet away. I was mortified.

I finally mustered up enough courage to leave the bathroom (only after my younger cousin threatened to pee in my suitcase if I didn't hurry up) and grabbed my mother and told her The Big News. And, of course, she teared up. GOOD GRIEF! Why didn't I just go shout it from the rooftop, Mother?? Now, everyone is staring because my mom is crying, and I'm obviously the reason, so I've either done something so heinous that I will need to immediately be disowned or something wonderful and unexpected has occurred. Well, everyone old enough to know about the miracle of life figured it out and we might as well have held a parade complete with tickertape and bugles so that everyone further than 3 houses away could also join in on the celebration. In the end, I managed to convince the female half of our clan to let just my mother and me go to the store for the necessary provisions. I was exhausted. But the best was yet to come.

July 5, 1991. I awake, feeling somehow different; older, more mature; after all, I am now A Woman. And I am super excited because we are going to Wet 'N' Wild! Twisting, dropping tubes, speeding you along on their currents of water like a leaf in a river. What could be better? Lots, as it turned out.

At the water park, my mother pulled me into the ladies' restroom and informed me that a maxipad was not going to be appropriate for my swimwear. I was going to have to use THIS! And she whipped out this long cardboard-encased cotton hotdog thing and introduced me to the tampon. I refused. I cried and balked and stamped my feet. I might have even held my breath. And I won. I got to keep my maxipad securely sticky-sided-down in my swimsuit and the tampon went back to my mother's purse. And I decided to go on my first water slide of the day. A long, steep, you-must-be-insane-to-go-on-that-death-trap slide. Complete with a viewing area at the bottom so parents can watch their children's final moments while sitting comfortably on a bleacher.

Yes, this was the slide I had to pick. The one with the spectator area. I climbed up that monstrosity, waited my turn, and when the lifeguard said, "Go!" I went with all of my might. And about a third of the way down, so did my ginormous, diaper-sized maxipad. It broke free from its swimsuit prison and hurtled along the waterslide just inches ahead of my outstretched hand. It looked so happy and free, sailing along like only a gigantic maxipad can. And together we tumbled into the wading pool at the end of the slide while disgusted parents tried to get their kids out of the water and away from my bloody, cottony symbol of womanhood.

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Thanks, Melissa! Please go visit her, or leave comments here for her to field : )

If I were to watch a movie after hanging out with Melissa all day it would be Laura Croft: Tombraider. Because I would be feeling sexy and daring and would want to kick ass and blow shit up (for the good of humanity, of course).

Smart Black Woman is Blogsitting Today

While I am out of the country until April 11, Jayne Says will have host posters, so you can have a sampling of some of my favorite bloggers, as a welcome respite from me, I am sure. I will be gathering images, pictures, stories and adventures to share for my return.

Today's post comes from one Smart Black Woman. Sometimes, when people say don't eat their food, they have a really good reason, as SBW learned the hard (but so funny!) way. Original post found here. 

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Don't Eat the Cookies!

My Step-mom has a drawer in the bottom of the refrigerator that she keeps all her personal goodies in. She has a variety of fruit cups in all different flavors, chocolate chip cookie dough in those pre-shaped block sizes, and a bunch of other snacks.

My Mom has told me numerous times to stop eating out of that drawer but I sneak stuff out of it when she isn't around or is at work. My Step-mom is really cool and she never gets too mad about me eating stuff out of there. Last week I ate her chocolate chip cookies. When she found out I told her that I would replace the cookies this week when I went grocery shopping.

Two days ago my Mom went out and bought more cookies. They looked soooooo good sitting in her drawer I was going to eat these cookies too. (Yeah, yeah, I'm hardheaded, so what?) I figured it would be ok because I was going grocery shopping the next day and she probably wouldn't even notice that these ever went missing.

I told my Dad that I was going to eat her cookies--I told him this after she had went to work of course--and asked him if he wanted me to make him any. The following is the conversation that occurred between me and my Dad in the kitchen.

Me: Dad I'm gonna make those cookies. You want any?

Dad: Uhhh, SBW, don't make those cookies. Didn't your step-mom tell you not to eat her stuff out of the drawer a million times already? We're going to the store tomorrow so just wait.

Me: Dad I don't want to wait! I want those cookies now! They look so good. Step-mom will never know because tomorrow I will get her some more before she knows they are even gone.

Dad ( starting to sound nervous and opening the refrigerator door): SBW don't eat those cookies. Just wait. Those are step-moms diet cookies.

Me: Dad, those are not diet cookies. Those are chocolate chip and walnut cookies. She gets the same cookies all the time. I know what kind of cookies those are.

Dad (sounding very nervous): SBW those are special cookies. Don't eat them, just wait till tomorrow and buy your own cookies.

He now waves the cookies in front of my face really fast when he says the following statement so that I can't read the package.

Dad: See, SBW, these are special cookies.

Me: Dad, I'm gonna eat those cookies and if you don't want any just say so.

Dad: Fine, SBW, I didn't want to have to say this but this is me and your step-moms sex drawer and these are our special cookies. These are our sex cookies so leave the stuff in here alone from now on!

Me ( falling out laughing): Well why didn't you just say that was your really really special stuff? Ewwwwwwww, that was way too much info!

Dad ( also laughing): I told you to leave well enough alone but nooooooooo, you had to keep on asking questions. This is the sex drawer fool!

Me (still laughing): Dad I promise not to eat anything else out of this drawer ever again!

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Thanks, SBW! Please go visit her, or leave comments here for her to field : )

If I were to watch a movie after hanging out with SBW all day it would be Citizen Ruth. I say this because she and I are on opposite sides of the abortion debate. But we are respectful of each other's views and have agreed to disagree (to put it mildly ; ) In the movie, the pregnant Ruth is played by Laura Dern and it is a wickedly funny and yet pointed look at how issues such as these can get polarized to such an extent that we lose our humanity.

Edge Is Blogsitting Today

While I am out of the country until April 11, Jayne Says will have host posters, so you can have a sampling of some of my favorite bloggers, as a welcome respite from me, I am sure. I will be gathering images, pictures, stories and adventures to share for my return.

Today's post comes from The Edge. I don't have the links to these posts (and it is 3am and I'm not about to go looking now) but below is a sampling of Edge's gorgeous, evocative writing, much more of which can be found down on his Winding, Crooked Trails. 

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Holding on - Letting go

He knew she had no idea it was Valentine's Day, or Tuesday, or February, or Indiana.  Did she know it was winter?  He wondered what his words sounded like to her.  He was sure she understood his tone.  She would sigh, just sigh, tired sighs and would sometimes wail him to heartbreak in her sleep, a keening hurtful  piercing of his soul.  It was getting more and more difficult to sleep with her, calming her into a round softness that fit to him was all but impossible now.  Holding her was like putting your arms around a bag of sticks and she would recoil at his touch and startle into a wide eyed fear so he'd lay on his back and his eyes would stare at the shadows of the room where she once knew him like no one has since or will again.  When she knew his name and his favorite color and what he wanted for dinner and how to starch his shirts and brush her hair. 

It turned into a joke, his heart shaped box of candy hastily purchased on this day every year even when his other gifts became  shiny or silky and were planned with love and care.   Always the gaudy box, red with gold cursive and piping.  Always left about for two weeks after, always eaten, left about like she wanted the tree left up til after New Years and the flag out long after the fourth, never wanting to let go, her roses tended and pruned the night before the first frost, always savoring the last bloom.

The irony wasn't lost on him, thank God it was on her, her life now having let go of everything it once was.  She was forgetting to breathe, had already forgotten how to eat, the chewing futile when you don't know how to swallow.  It wasn't just her last Valentine's Day, it was her last month, he wanted one more spring for her but it wasn't going to happen.  He was loving her to death lifting the heartshaped lid and like always picking one he knew she wouldn't like and biting into it making the face that made her laugh, raspberry. 

Her eyes followed him, he popped the rest in his mouth, patted her hand, felt more than heard her sigh and picked up the phone to call the kids, telling them to come soon and then plan on coming back again soon after.

Her eyes moved to the box making him hope just maybe her life hadn't outlived her love.

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I keep fear in a velvet lined jewelry case in my sock drawer covered with silk boxers, old photos, and receipts from last Christmas.
I  used to keep it in a banker's box in my walk in closet but it fits into a much smaller container now and I like it better out of sight.  Every so often I would go through it like a kitchen junk drawer and toss those things that no longer instilled fear.

Like failure, that was one of the first to go.  Fuckabuncha failure, I aint scared of that anymore.  I've succeeded in everything I ever failed at so it made no sense to keep that one, especially since it took up so much space.  The banker's box, shit, had those round tabs with the string you wrapped and wrapped to keep it closed but it would get kicked while I was stumbling around looking for my other black shoe and scary crap would spill out and get on my clothes so it just made sense to divest myself of the low end fear factors so I could put the rest away, out of sight, out of mind, in the sock drawer, under the silk boxers and old photos and receipts from last Christmas.

I know it's there but I almost never see it, sometimes I forget about it for days at a time.  All the bad stuff is there, the stuff that will sit me up in bed  in the middle of the night, the shit I can't shake and that I can't set out at the curb for pick up on trash day.

Only a couple are for me, the rest are for those I love.   You don't get anywhere near selfless until your greatest fears aren't about you.

I keep anger in a cigar box in my nightstand under some paperback books and an old Esquire magazine with a really hot picture of Sharon Stone.

I used to keep it out in the garage in the box the lawn mower came in until I went  through it like a kitchen junk drawer and tossed those things that no longer made me angry. It just made sense to divest myself of the low end anger factors so I could put the rest away, out of sight, out of mind,  in a cigar box in my nightstand under some paperback books and an old Esquire magazine with a really hot picture of Sharon Stone.

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Thanks, Edge! Please go visit him, or leave comments here for him to field : )

If I were to watch a movie after hanging out with Edge all day it would be The Witches of Eastwick, with Jack Nicholson. Edge reminds me of Jack a bit. Refined, smooth and clever and yet Wicked, with a harem never far away.

Caroline Is Blogsitting Today

While I am out of the country until April 11, Jayne Says will have host posters, so you can have a sampling of some of my favorite bloggers, as a welcome respite from me, I am sure. I will be gathering images, pictures, stories and adventures to share for my return.

Today's post comes from a blogger I seem to have more and more in common with the more I get to know her (except I refuse to be drawn in by these knitting temptresses! I don't have any time in my life for such a hobby. I got into beading a few years ago and it nearly consumed me . . )

Meet Caroline and her Fiber Tribe. Caroline's selected posts describe her trip to Bhutan. Please go look at her gorgeous pictures and the full narrative of this adventure! (original index of posts, with pictures, found here)

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Progress (Yawn)

I downloaded the first 160+ pictures of Bhutan, Hong Kong and Kathmandu this morning but there was no time to upload any images to the blog. Hoping for time this weekend. Still yawning with jet lag. Had to get up early to take the kitty to the vet to have her teeth worked on. Poor kitty, the vet just called to say most of her teeth have to go, so she will be left with only two or three teeth and no canines. No more crunchy kibble for her.

As to knitting during my travels, I used the Rowan 4-ply that had been a subscription gift (intended to be the bright colorway tumbling blocks pillow) to make a scarf. Well, I started a scarf. But then as we were landing in Hong Kong, I retracted the seat footrest and snapped the size 8 bamboo circular needle I had begun the scarf on. It was making a lovely lacy effect but I had no time in Hong Kong to replace the needle. You see, American Airlines lost my luggage and I had 4 hours on Monday to run through Hong Kong trying to find a ski jacket, down sleeping bag, wool socks and turtleneck sweaters for Bhutan. And toiletries etc. You try doing that in the midst of 90+ degrees Farenheit heat and at Hong Kong prices. Heh. I ended up doing only a little knitting in country since the bus rides on the mountain roads required bracing yourself to avoid being flung out of your seat. Not the best knitting circumstance. And anyway, the scenery was too spectacular to look down at knitting. So those of you who predicted little knitting would be done, you were right! When I was onboard planes between one or another country, I was either sleeping or trying to catch up my travel journal.

Bhutan was so beautiful in so many ways but for those of you that are weavers as well, that is one of the most amazing aspects of Bhutanese culture. The beauty, sophistication and intricacy of the woven textiles is breathtaking. Nothing is cheap, however since there is no industry directed at tourists, no tchachkes etc. I will need some good weather and daylight to take pictures of several of the textiles I brought back. Nothing else will show them properly. They were splurges in terms of expense and I will be hunkered down budget-wise through January at least paying off the excess. But oh, wait till you see them. Heirlooms each one. Even the smallest of them takes about two to three months to complete.

While we were in the capital of Thimpu, we were fortunate enough to go to the home of Kharma, a weaver who dyes her yarn with vegetable sourced dyes (she gave us a demonstration of this, pics to follow) and who weaves for sale and also for the royal family. We watched her aunt weaving as we all browsed through the shawls and kiras (the national dress for women, more on this later) she had available for purchase. The western region on the country where Thimpu is located is known for a certain kind of addtional warp insert weaving technique. I am not a weaver so excuse me if I get this wrong, but when I post the front and back pictures of the pieces I think you'll see what I mean. The silk on silk weaving is the finest and most subtle.

Oh, and Kharma sat us all down and served us buttered and salted tea (that's the local way tea is served in Bhutan and Tibet) and English style tea as well as roasted corn and maize and other Bhutanese snacks. She really showed us typical Bhutanese hospitality as it is offered in any home there. Something a tourist would not normally get to experience. I neglected to get her contact info but will do so and will pass it along here on the blog should any of you want to purchase Bhutanese textiles of your own.

Well, peeps, I need to get back to my neglected work desk and try to prop my eyelids open for another three hours or so. Please bear with me, the photos will be so worth the wait.

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Thanks, Caroline! Please go visit her, or leave comments here for her to field : )

If I were to watch a movie after hanging out with Caroline all day it would be Seven Years In Tibet. 

Krista Is Blogsitting Today

While I am out of the country until April 11, Jayne Says will have host posters, so you can have a sampling of some of my favorite bloggers, as a welcome respite from me, I am sure. I will be gathering images, pictures, stories and adventures to share for my return.

Today's post comes from a blogger who is relatively new to me, but I do love her graceful way of writing, the way she seems to think things through before acting, her quiet intelligence and mindfulness. I could probably learn a thing or two from Ms. Krista at The Silent K. Her selected post is a poignant declaration of needs (original found here) that will resonate for many.

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As a human being, I need

As a mother I need reassurance and faith. Without these I lose myself in worry and self-doubt.

As an artist I need time to create. Without this, my world becomes grey and weightless.

As a writer I need freedom to analyze and express. Without it I become petty.

As a friend, I need listeners without knee jerk judgment, and speakers who are honest. Without this I feel disconnected.

As a daughter I need both autonomy and support. Without this I feel undermined.

As a wife I need shared dreams. Without these, I feel less anchored.

As a lover, I need touch, without it I don't melt into you in the way that makes me forget all things earthly.

As a musician, I need music. Without it, my cells don't vibrate, and my heart doesn't feel light.

As a knitter, I need yarn. Yarn is to the catholic rosary what meditation is to prayer. Without this, my world moves too quickly.

As a reader I need stimulation. Without this, I cease to be amazed and inspired by the magnitude of ways we interpret our world.

As a yogi, I need pain. Without it, I cannot stretch and grow to be more strong and flexible.

As a person, I need to give compassion. Without it, I am selfish.

What do you need?

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Thanks, Krista! Please go visit her very lovely blog, or leave comments here for her to field : )

If I were to watch a movie after hanging out with Krista all day it would be . . . perhaps, Like Water for Chocolate.