Safer.

Sometimes people do things to damage their own reality.

And then they ask you to participate in living in *their* reality. The one they have built with their mistakes.
It doesn’t make you unforgiving or hurtful for telling them, “No. I do not want to live there.”
But it is hurtful of them to ASK for you to live there.

Especially when you take special care to try to help them move back into a shared reality.
When you tell them it is forgiven… but they are, stuck in their faux reality, unable to forgive themselves. They are so angry. The anger fills them up to capacity and they begin to serve it up to you. EXPECT you to happily accept that serving and eat it up.

But what they have offered… it is venom. If you accept it you will find yourself catatonicaly lost in *their* reality. You will find yourself apologizing for the wrongs you have done that are a pure fabrication. A history from a reality that you never lived.

Hey. Maybe I’ve been binge watching too much Fringe.

Or maybe… I have been quietly working on removing the venom.

It was both.

A lot of hurtful things are being said. I know I have said some pretty hurtful things in private. I have been my own type of angry these days. So angry that I’ve asked-- What did I do in a past life, that I must deserve this? What did I do to piss God off this much? How can they be this cruel, careless, mean, manipulative… stupid? I am so angry. And hurt. I have been self enclosing most of this anger. There is one person that is catching the brunt of this frustration. It’s not his job. He doesn’t love me. If I keep this up, he may never will.

In truth, I think, even if none of this ever happened… he wouldn’t have loved me anyway. I do not believe he ever will. I don’t know if that is self-inflicted doubt or the truth. I have my own realities to suss out. I’m not inviting anyone into my reality. I wish others would do the same.

The most hurtful thing being said?

I will never make my mother a grandmother.

That lashed out insult, shared in public, keeps swimming in my head.

I am currently waving an “I am never having children” flag. It is a new flag, that does not belong in my hands.

My high school sweetheart and I talked about kids. In a passive, unreal sort of dimension. It was a “someday” hypothesis. Our first daughter would be named Valkyrie. Our first son-- William, for William Gibson. We had our own set of priorities. In the end, our eventual pregnancy was very poorly timed. We were too young. Too far apart. Too unprepared. In an aftermath we spent years trying to make our teenage love Grow Up. It never did. When it was over… we appreciated that there were no casualties.

I had other pregnancies after that. One with a young man that was already struggling to see his first and only daughter with more frequency. I was not one to make things worse for him. One with a man… we had a great chemistry… and he fed that classic line, “It’s not a good time now. We can do this later.” Years later I am told he is married with a family and for a while I resented that quite a bit. Eventually I learned to be happy for him. Because he did have great… lot of things. And I’m glad someone finally figured how to work with that.

I perhaps scared away a Great Love by running my mouth about a commitment timeline that he hadn’t even started to think about. “When we have kids….” is the sort of statement that you should only make when your other is prepared.

And there was the humiliating Jeremiah and his drunken, violent breath in my neck. “I’m going to put a baby in you.”

Oh God. Anything but that.

And that’s when… I started to think. I don’t want children. I can’t trust a person to not screw it up. I can’t trust myself to not screw it up.

I watched as others started to screw it up. It is pretty easy to screw it up.
Screw your kids up.
Place your reality over theirs and make them eat it. Make them live in it.
Sometimes children are forced into living in a reality. And the adults are so drawn up in their world that they forget… it is CHANGEABLE.

Me asking for change is an abomination. It makes me A Total CUNT.

No. I can’t have kids. What if I screw it up? Worse. If I have kids their lives will be in a shared world, shared reality. They will live in a better place. And it will make them a target for the venom that I have been sussing out of my system. My children would be in the vipers path.

That isn’t fair to my Littles. The Littles in my life. The Littles I could have had.

It isn’t fair to me. But I am an adult. Fair is a fragment. The definition is shiftable. It is not fair that I have been made so uncomfortable that I no longer want something I always wanted. But it isn’t a matter of failed justice. It’s my reality to live. I’m not hurting anyone with this reality. And the greatest thing about saying, “I’m never having children.” is that I never have to invite anyone into that reality. Not having children is a single occupancy reality. And eventually, I feel I will settle into it quite well. I have to.

I’m not the kind of girl. No one has an urgency to be with me. Certainly no urgency to have more of something similar around.

For 20 years I have been fed a venom that has me pretty convinced… there is something wrong with me. I don't deserve to be happy. If I am happy it is because I am a heartless cunt that never helped anyone. If I am happy it must be at the cost of someone else. Twenty years of that abuse... and I'm convinced.

Also...In the historic timeline of my lovelife, they have all discovered there is nothing special about me.

I am with someone that finds nothing special about me. On his end our relationship is calm and polite. If it weren’t for my damn bucking about it would be perfectly mundane. Or maybe just perfect. I don’t know.

I can’t stop bucking.

And I should. I’m nothing special.

It is down right Zen.

And it’s safer this way.

Marvel Mic Drop

How is "Taylor Swift's 'Bad Blood' Video Is the Anti-Avengers"?

Listen, I enjoy Taylor swift, just about a bunch of truck tons. Now. She's adorable. But also, she has become strong in her Feminist Flag waving without looking TOO adorable. She has become an educated Feminist. One that has chosen to fight on a side that, ironically, is still struggling through the growing pains of being born after Second Wave Feminism. Honestly, I think we'll be on a fifth wave of feminism before we get all of that... BAD BLOOD (ahem, had to be done) resolved and/or buried.

Current Feminism is the lonely, confused Brand New Baby... meanwhile Second Wave is the petulant middle child still grumbling about arguments that really ought to be long forgotten so the family can move onto more pressing matters. Like the new family member (my generation, and the one coming up) in Feminism that is confusedly content to say, "I WOULDN'T CALL MYSELF A FEMINIST." Or, "No, I love men. I can't be a feminist." Or, "Oh...I think we're all equal now."

Sure, kid, if I were born into the family with a petulant middle child like Second Wave I would do my very best to let EVERYONE know that I'm NOT like the fitting and fussy sister that has actually given our family a intensely undeserved reputation. Good job Taylor. For having fun with your reclamation. Feminist. If we can get a few more baby birds to launch like that... The family Feminist might actually survive.

But that said-- are we still going on about Nat in The Avengers? Are Femi-brats still haranguing Joss about his choices as a writer?

The Black Widow does NOT get the Feminist Friendly/Buffy Summers Whedonverse Edit.
Nat is a Faith. She's all torn up and damaged, has made some decisions that in retrospect... has left blood in her ledger. She's a spy and she's broken her conditioning which means her life is pretty much helter skelter. Joining the Avengers is her balance in her bast. Not a place for any Famibrat to go about, without consent, penetrating what it is that Natasha Romanoff, as a character, "needs." A conditioned spy stays conditioned. Stays oblivious to emotion. Orders are followed. Commands are obeyed. Without conditioning Nat gets to... think about love. And miserably children.

Pro-choice card! Her CHOICE was taken away. It wasn't important at the time (because conditioning) but now that her brain is her own... it's something she can only think about. How can you, as a feminist, argue that her sterilization is anti-feminist? Shouldn't we champion and educate that compulsory sterilization still happens on this planet. To people that aren't spys! THAT SUCKS. Did YOU know that? Let's talk about that.

As a feminist I get to say, "I don't want children." And people are super sad hat for me. "You'll change your mind! Children are the best. Everyone needs to have one!!!" Pro-choice card, again, you're right, I might eventually decide that I do want children and Femibrats will get sad hat about that. You can't win.

Neither can Nat. And neither can Joss. He used Nat's spy instigated sterilization the same way in which Tracy Bond had to die to build a better 007. So yeah, women get the writing shake down of some pretty terrible stuff. Feminist card... men too! The writing manipulation happens, it just happens on a different frequency.

I've had abortions. Bad timing. But if I found out that I could no longer have children. That I no longer had the choice to change my mind? I... would... be... DEVASTATED. Nat's devastation isn't anti-feminist. It's pro-humanist.

Do you even Marvel, bruh?

And yea, Nat has Smurfette Syndrome... but what exactly is Joss supposed to do about that? There isn't an abundance of female, Marvel Heavy Hitters in the Avengers. The roll call for the Avengers is long and full... but not a lot of movie worthy characters to be had.
After the third time is a charm luck with The Hulk, Marvel can't roll our with She-Hulk. Too much Hulk. Smash. Same could be said about Spiderwoman. Sue Storm (v. 1, Jessica Alba I love you, but Sue Storm, you were not!) is getting a reboot (fingers crossed!!!) Can't roll out Wasp because Ant-man.

We did get Scarlet Witch. And she was dark and twisty too. Her brother had to see her on a razor edge of chaos to become the hero and she had to loose her hero brother to get off the razor and become a hero herself.

That's fucking good writing. Joss and his team did in a few scenes what took Marvel comics... as long as it's always taken them... issues... months... alternate universes... arcs... years.

Femibrats... um... "girls" have been excluded from the Boys Comic Book Club for decades. Could you not fit and fuss about it in a way in which it makes it harder for me and other women, our daughters and nieces, our friends to break the glass ceiling in our local comic shops? We have some serious footing right now and we're gonna get there. But we can't climb if you, by pushing, are try to "help." You're not helping.

Buffy Summers had an abortion, y'all.  If we can champion her choice, if Joss can set his balls on the block to give her that choice... then we can champion the softer side of Natasha, her want for children and Joss' recognition that Nat now wants more and can't have it. As of today, that's a #feminist struggle that we're still fighting for.

#avengersasemble

Just paid the deposit on Yoga Certification course at downtown desert yoga.

I've come up with a lot of ideas on what it is that I want to Be When I Grow up as Brain Boggled New Naomi. Some ideas washed out because I'm not the student/degree carrying person that I used to be. I tried at getting my Grant Writing Certification. On line course work was manageable once we were running the basics. But when fine-tuning details started, when I had a question and replies didn't come until a few days later, when personal family tragedy became too distracting... I washed out. I've learned how to forgive myself. I learned enough to set my own course on grant writing.  

Working to be mindful around the onslaught of anger that came with the discovery that I have changed as a student, that I need more attention... took some time... is still taking some time. I'm not going to say that I will, out of the gate, begin teaching yoga. I won't be playing that card. Refining my knowledge in this field is for me. To help me suss out the stuff that's still left undone.   Eventually, of course, I would like to teach yoga, very specifically to those with Traumatic Brain Injuries. Many yoga studios and instructors are doing fantastic work on helping our Veterans deal with their PTSD and TBI. I admire that.

But I also feel voiceless. Because my TBI is not attached to something socially/politically tangible... I feel a little left out. I kinda need yoga guidance too! It isn't often you see a class directed for those who have TBI. Just TBI. TBI and PTSD are often taglined-- TBI and PTSD associated with SERVICE. I'm just some kid, that was walking down the street and got smacked by a car. I'm not special. My TBI isn't special. "You look fine." Oh yeah, because my recovery is totally visible! The Invisible Injury stays Invisible sometimes. I am appreciative that service men and women with TBI are no longer AS Invisible (there is still a lot of work to do!) They served our country, served its citizens, served us and they should never be invisible.  

My injury is still invisible.

And let's be honest there truly is enough Feeling Left Out/Invisibility charged into TBI life. Yoga has become important to me because much of its benefits can dismiss that sensation. It's hard to feel left out when it's only you on that mat. It can be terrifying at first.

It is just you on this mat. You're not sure if you're doing this right. You're looking around, breath irregular, looking to see if your body is positioned like all the other people in the room, like the person on the video, like the book illustration says. Is this even working? Does this even matter? I'm wasting my time? Maybe I should be... anywhere but here. Maybe I should get up, get off this mat, and get back to bed, have another coffee, check my Facebook.   

But, babe, it is just YOU on this mat. And sometimes, breakthrough. In the form of an instructor witnessing your struggle and sitting next to you, assuring you that you are doing this right, that no you don't look like the person next to you, that you're a little new and eventually you're body will shape and bend in only the way your own body can and there isn't a rush to fold yourself in half and it's totally ok because not everyone can do that but in trying you find your platform of what you CAN do and what feels right. In the form of you watching that video and realizing that tension, in fact, is releasing from your calves and while you don't look like the person in the video you actually are starting to feel pretty good, right there in your bound up calves. In the form of looking at that book and reading the caption under the yoga position, Vrksasana, whatever that means, Tree Pose, oh... this is silly... oh, I can just start off with my foot above my ankle... oh, well that's ok, I can do that... and then eventually discovering that you can trust yourself to stand on one leg, with your arms over your head even with your eyes closed and NOT fall down.   

Because it is just YOU on this mat. No one can tell you what to do. No one can make you feel left out. Because it's just you. And for a little while it feels good to be just you.   

If you are brain boggled, or has a replaced hip, or a bruised tail bone, or ringing ears, or a big stupid headache that won't go away... if you is skinny, or old, or wide, or young... if you isn't worried bout that jelly roll at your belly, or if you has a day in which you ARE worried... it's your day, your mat and it's just you for twenty minutes, and hour, fell asleep in Corpse Pose, maybe two hours.   It stops being terrifying to be alone. You learn to step off that mat and feel less alone. Even when people are trying to leave you out... you're kinda just a two minute tree pose away from being Alone on your mat and ok with that because being Alone and Lonliness are two entirely different things.   

I have invisibility days. You know what I do with those? Banana or Crescent Moon Pose. When my sides are splitting with electric stretch it doesn't matter if no one else can see me. I can see myself.   

So, the immediate direction is not to become a teacher but to first teach myself and in that learn to share with others. I can't help anyone until I get Me done first.

Passover is very hard for me.   I can do Yom Kippur on my own. Purim I miss and would rather not live without it, but I can. My family and friends easily transitioned into celebrating Rosh Hashanah (my favorite), Hannukah (fried food for the win), and Tu B'Shevat (who doesn't love trees?). Sukkot is typically around the same time that the Masons celebrate the Feast of Tishri so my father and mother run to me for recipes and item symbolism.  

But Passover... is lonely. And it wasn't always so. 

My first year in New Orleans I was "adopted" to come to a Seder. Completely out of my element, I still managed. Second year... adopted again, by the Marxes. And it started to make more sense. How important family is for Passover.  

And it isn't that I don't have family. Last year my family sat with me for a 30 minute Seder and that was good. They got it. But they didn't Get It. Because I am here tonight, alone.   Last year Avi and I had been dating only a few months. So I was a little unreasonably hurt that I wasn't invited to his house. We've dated a year and I'm sure that is he weren't working a 12 hour shift at the hospital for his preceptorship I am sure I would have been welcome to join him and his family. 

I could have asked the Rabbi here in Las Cruces if there was anyone that would like to take me in. I'm sure that someone would have. Um.... but... the transition into this community... didn't work as well as I would have liked. In Nola I was only asked to Live Jewishly for my "conversion." In Las Cruces I was invited to take a class and write reports. It didn't fit. It didn't fit into my life the way it was supposed to.   

It broke my heart. I am currently still acting out this defiant, "What do I have to PROVE?!"because that is how it translated in my head and in my heart--that I had to prove that I was worthy of any Invitation into this community. Some days I am still so furious. Most days I understand, it was never meant to be translated the way that I perceived it.  

I am so alone.   It is the WORST time of the year to feel alone. I kinda feel like Passover is THE holiday in which... we... WE... are kinda all in. Where the exclusion and suffering and brokenness that can seep into so many aspects of our lives, work and family alike.... This is when we collectively act to honor those struggles.   

This is where we can ALL say, "I went through that too. I'm going through that too. But we're going to get out of this. We're out of that now and we're moving on."   But right now I feel like I'm the only one in this. And I'm in it alone.   But the sun is going down.   I have candles and wine and matzo to bless. I can't walk myself through items of a Seder plate. Also... I don't OWN a Seder plate. I kept meaning to buy one because this one website took a note that I had made and added transliteration to the plate. Maybe I will buy that tonight. 

For next year? I'd like to not be this alone again "next year."  

Next Year in Jerusalem. L'Shana Ha'ba-ah B'yerushalayim. 

Frustration

I will tell the story of why I wanted to be an High School English teacher until the cows come home.   When my family moved to Silver City, as a freshman I lost my class room credits in High School level Algebra (which I took in eighth grade) as well as my advanced placement in English and was given no credit for the two years of Spanish that I had already taken. My standing in the National Honor Society was removed because I was a National Honor Society Student from Texas? I don't know, it still doesn't make sense.   I was placed in Algebra 1 with a teacher who did not recognize I needed more than the basics. I checked out. I stopped going. I smoked pot in the ditch behind the high school. I failed the class I'd already had credit for. Twice. I stopped being good at math. A shame, because I had been good at it. I distinctly remember feeling the thrill of Tetris-ing numbers, arranging them, calculating, making them FIT. Making numbers speak to each other in a way in which they could come to a resolve. A resolution. An absolute.  

Math used to speak to me in its own poetry.   And when faced with me and my poetic math... the instructors tossed me aside, asking only that I learn like everyone else.   

I had one exceptional English teacher. Who blinking quizzically and I think a little surprised nodded in understanding when I had informed her that, "I'd already read that book." At 12 I'd already read Animal Farm, thank you very much. And for perhaps maybe a week I sat in my desk, rolling my eyes at my classmates...they were fumbling towards "getting" it, only parroting a generic answer and always answering with a faint question mark as if they did not trust their judgment, their understanding, their own mind.   My flustered frustration could not be remedied because the instructor had an entire class room full of students who needed her attention. I did not need her attention. I needed her respect and she gave it to me. I was given other books. I was allowed to sit in the hallway and read.  

The next year... ha... another English Teacher docked my first paper a FULL LETTER GRADE... wait for it... because I was, "Using vocabulary outside high school level" and it was assumed that I was some how... stealing the work, not doing my own work, something.   It never occurred to the instructor that a 13 year old student in love with language would like to elevate her speech by, I don't know, USING A THESURAUS.   I had to stop. I struggled. I raged. I fought a good fight. And then... I gave up.   I watch what it happening to my little brother. To students in our nation. And my heart breaks. The struggles I faced with my teachers not tailoring my education to fit my needs has multiplied. Our students now face a significantly larger problem. 

Universal Teach to Test.  

I knew nothing about the PARCC. 

 I thought it was like the TASS. A two day event every few years that judged whether I deserved to be in a different class room setting. Like, for instance, I was already great at reading and writing so I no longer had to take English. I was given the chance to move on to another language. I did well in math so I was allowed to move on and start working on High School level credits. Other students needed more assistance in subjects. As an "advanced" student I was given a class to explore, use a computer and assist teachers in the class room focusing an little ones that needed a nudge in reading and comprehension.   

I was build to learn. And eventually I built myself to teach. I wanted, passionately wanted, to reach students. To nudge them into accepting their problem subjects in a way that would make it fit in their lives. Yes, sometimes, a subject has to be Tetris-ed into the right space. It can fit if someone helps you figure it out. And sometimes if you don't get help the entire system will crash down, nothing will fit, you'll panic and put anything anywhere and sometimes sooner rather than later you will FAIL. GAME OVER. And the discouraged sense of failure can not often be bucked and shrugged away. Sad and frustrated you do not start over. You walk away.   The PARCC... does not allow teachers to help individual students figure out how to make the pieces fit.  There isn't enough time. There isn't enough space. There is already too much on the universal Teach to Test schedule.  

If your student doesn't 

 get it  

the way they are supposed to get it 

in the time they are supposed to get it  

The test will tell you they didn't get it. And then the school asks the teachers why they didn't get it. The money source tells the school that because not enough students got it... funding will dwindle.  

No Child Left Behind? HA. HAHA!   What about EVERY CHILD IS DIFFERENT. And some children need to learn with tailored finesse.  

The PARCC is not a two day test. It goes on for weeks.   If a student does not participate and pass in the PARCC... they will not be issued their diploma. They will be issued something else. Whether that something else will hold the same standing when applying to college is still something I am trying to figure out.  

My little brother wants to be an Engineer. He must participate in this generic, cookie cutter education. He must suffer through this before he can bust out and BUILD.  

But I think... children should be building their own futures. When left to their own devices children have the capacity to build things we never knew could exist. They absolutely surprise and astound. And when they struggle the good teacher, the creative teacher, can help them figure it out when given time and space. Sometimes it takes a few tries. But Let it Go, kid. You'll get it.   The PARCC test compromises our students, our teachers and our future.  

It compromises THEIR futures.  

I know stuff you didn't think I knew.

deep breath

I put on CC cream this morning.

deeper breath

I now know that CC cream is. CC stands for color correct. I mean, um, I thought my color was good. And it is. I have this nice light olive undertone that doesn't lean on red or yellow. It's just not UNIFORM.

And our skin isn't supposed to be uniform. UNLESS you want to play around with highlighting specific features. And in that case you need uniform so there will be no distraction from the feature. If I want to be all about the eyes one day I have to create a uniform canvas so the light and natural rosiness to my mid-cheek doesn't distract from the shadowing I have done with my eye creases. If one day I want to throw some illuminating, highlight on said cheeks then I need to throw the clean canvas on the scars on my right eyelid.

See? I know these things. I just... haven't participated in a long time.

Last night one of my best friends, Ariel, got me home, made me wash my face and quizzed me on what my routine is. Then corrected me in places that I needed to develop.

First, I habitually dry my face the same way I dry my hands. I rub moisture away. Sometimes harshly. Apparently I should be patting at the remaining moisture on my face. I guess it is so I don't lose all the hydrating awesomeness of the water.

Same with removing eye make up. Scrubbing will make no difference. I should be. No. Now I am using a moistened q-tip to peacefully remove the darkness that is hiding under my bottom eye.

I'm using the last of the CC sample I have and now I have to decide if I'm going to try something else or if I will be brand loyal to the first CC cream that I've tried. I'm pretty sure I will be following the path of Brand Loyalty.

I am not going to investigate what it will take to Prime my entire face. Forget that noise. I will use my eye shadow primer y ya. That's all she wrote.

Bronzer is deposited in the shape of a 3 from temple to under chin. Illuminator in the shape of a c around your eyes.

I have been using a neutral color pencil and a feathering tool for my eyebrows. I won't draw them on Que Cholita because that is just not my style. But I'm happy with what I got from It Cosmetics. I like that their Tightline Mascara is awesome enough that I can run out of the house without eyeliner and feel confident that I don't look half done. The sample of CC Cream that I tried is also legit.

I know all about Brand Loyalty. One of my mom's besties, Rodney, was a Redken stylist through and through. When I found out that we have a Redken salon at Ulta I had a total Gleegasm. Redken is essentially the aroma of my childhood. Being the first kid with an immaculate China Doll bob, the first girl to try a perm, the first teen to color my hair plum... the time line of my life.

I know that I have never regretted a bottle of OPI nail polish. I typically buy the seasonal mini packages so I can explore color and not feel like I've let half a bottle of polish go to waste.

I am excited to explore and develop my own Rave Review of Chi. Because honestly... there are days that I seriously not only need to Tame my Mane... but SUBDUE ENTIRELY my curly hair that has decided to FRO THE FUCK OUT. Because honestly ain't nobody got time.

I checked at work in the Redken bay of our store. No Cleanse Bar. I was HEARTBROKEN.

A day later a young man asked me about a gel for his hair. Not knowing much about much anything I said, “Let's go look at what Redken had to offer. Because everything they have smells the best. And that always helps, right?” Then gave a look at the young lady in tow. She nodded enthusasically.

Could not find what he wanted in Redken. Thankfully one of our stylists reminded me that we have a Men's bay where we keep male oriented product. Found a pommade for him and I discovered....

MEN'S ISLE IS WHERE WE KEEP THE REDKEN CLEANSE BAR.

ALL OF THE LOVE EXPLODES FROM EVERY SKIN CELL.

I have it in my purse right now. I keep huffing the package. I cannot wait to get home and have a bath.

And maybe it seems like the silliest thing to be excited about--my reintroduction into the “Beauty Industry.” When I say it like that it's pretty CRINGE inducing.

It has every capability of being perceived and received as an Industry. And some of the Industry can slight the confidence of those who embrace their Natural Beauty entirely. Hello, Girlfriend over here won't shave her pits unless wearing something sleeveless because honestly the pores and follicles on the thin and sensitive skin of my under arms do not need to be daily accosted by three razors. I'm all about Natural Beauty. I would fit and fuss greatly if anyone tried to change my mind about some of that.

Yet, the Industry, has every capability of helping people find the simple little aspects of their own beauty that they have perhaps... overlooked, forgotten or have neglected. Or finding a way to highlight a feature in a new way, creating a new look and building a new confidence or magnifying a confidence that already surely exists.

And that sort of “Industry” is something some of us could use. As a woman with a scarred eye, a wibbly eye orbit and an occasionally hyper-extended knee or turned over ankle... I could use the boost.

I could use the boost, y'all. And if that means back tracking on the type of person I've been for a good long while... sorry not sorry?

I am not going to worry about your disappointment so much. Because honestly, I have more important things to do.

Like, ask my boss what a girl has to do to get more Redken Cleanse bars in the store. It is going to be my GO TO GIFT this season.

Getting "pretty"

 I started a new job at Ulta Beauty.

A bit of a switch for me. People who know me know that I'm don't wear make up very often.

*ahem* or at all.

Yet here I am, really excited about my new job at a beauty store.

First, I want to talk about why I am don't typically wear make up.

I'm awesome as hell without it.

For some... there is some questionable junk in make up, hair product, etc.

It's a lot of work! Ain't nobody got time to “get pretty.” Especially if you're already pretty.

I am awesome as hell without it. I don't get any more awesome with it. BUT I do get to look different. Smokier. Sexier. Sweeter. Sparkly-er.

With a simple black line on my eye lids I can let you know, by a look alone, if I'm in NO mood for your shit (melted/smoky line) on your mark, get set, go- ready for anything (simple line) ready for anything as long as it leads to the bedroom (cat eye-- peek variation relying on your mood, tease-fest to eat you alive)

I can say it all with just a look. But I've gone ahead and played the English Major card for... a good long while. I'd rather just use The Words. If you can't get it into your earhole that I want, I need, I'd like, Let's GO... then darlin'... that's YOUR fucking problem. Not mine. Because I've used The Words to demonstrate as such. And if you need a girl to passive-aggrisive spell shit out for you... then you're not for me.

This dynamic is easier with my female (and a few male) friends. Again, not my problem. Me and my Vs? We already know how to translate our shit. A smoky eye won't tell anyone close to me that I'm in no mood... because they know me well enough to tip toe around my fit and fussing. That is why we're friends.

Feminist card. That's why I roll hard and ugly when random idiots tell/yell me to, “SMILE!”

Or whistle at me. God, help them, if they actually SAY anything. Because I will KNOCK THEM DOWN ALL OF THE PEGS.

So. Awesome as hell without it. To a point of annoyballs. Why do men think they can come up on me and talk their game when I WANT NONE OF IT? Smoky eye or no, son, get UP OFF MY SPACE.


2. For some... there is some questionable junk in make up, hair product, etc

Carmine. That's been my thing over the years. I mean. Do I really want bug butt on my face? In my food? Um... for a long time the answer was NO. And it was a difficult decision because it means giving up my Burts Bees tinted balms.

Recently I've started thumb through reading “The Perfect Red” by Amy Buttler Greenfield. And... yeah, part of me is a little horrified. Bug Butt. Ick. And another part of me is horrified... Spain taking yet another thing from the Aztec. Seriously. The Aztec were BRILLIANT creators. They discovered and supplied the world with the truest red that we'd ever seen. And you know... like... they did it NATRUALLY.

And then we come into my other arena of nervousness with beauty products. What side of the fence am I when it comes to Natural, Organic, Vegan, etc. Is there such a thing as Fair Trade Argan Oil? If local beauty options aren't available to me how much do I want to spend in Commercial Industry?

That's even more work! So it looks like I'm on Team Make it up as I go along.

I can go back to buying Redken, on a semi-strict rule of rationing. I need to figure out if my store has the Redken Cleanse Bar available. Because that bar is LEGIT. I'm not even going to worry about it. It's that good. No questions asked.

And that's how it's going to be.

3. It IS a lot of work.

It's a lot of work to wake up early and set my curls or knock them out. A lot of work to shellac my face, contouring features that I'm pretty sure no one near me even cares about. I mean, do y'all seriously care where my cheek bones are?

Honestly. I want to forget my cheeks. As the ONLY woman in my family to NOT have been issued Aztec Peak High cheek bones... I am so fucking OVER my cheeks.

I'm over my nose too. Which is cute and all... but when I'm standing next to the row of Sanchez noses in my family... it hurts my heart that I was not given a Power Nose.

What was I given? Curls that didn't set until my 30s. Ageless, black-head resisting T-zone. Under eyes that yellow/green at noon. “Break Outs” that consist of maybe two or three zits. But God Bless them... My family did dote upon me DNA that gave me... bangin' ass and tits. Awesome tits if I weigh 100 or expand 200 lbs. My tits always look RIGHT.

Honestly it's already a lot of work to figure out which bra will keep my Blouse Bunnies for hopping up, out and all over. And you want me to do my hair and face too?

Nah. I'm good.

Last July, after the accident, once the rehabilitation started I told my mother, “I can either re-learn to walk OR fuss with the mountain of hair on my head.”

She cut it quick. #PRIORITIES.

That's not saying I'm not up for a little work. I'm just... down on my luck in the self esteem apartment.  My current boyfriend is one of those guys. He actually likes me for my PERSONALITY. Seems like a joke, right? I mean, seriously, he's not all up on the bangin' T and A? NOPE. He's not. He, for some odd reason, likes my personality-- as shit talky as that is. That's what he's into.

So my only option in strategically “keeping him interested” is to... what? Keep talking shit?

I mean, that's, like, totally easy. It's just... it's sad, sometimes, most times, to be only “pretty.” He only ever calls me “pretty” and only ever with that word. I am not beautiful or breathtaking. There is nothing exceptional about me. Nothing divine about what he sees that is different from the divinity of anyone else.

I couldn't draw anything out on my face that would entice him any further. I am “pretty.” And without telling the long story of how men have treated me in the past decade... I'm at that point in which... I'll just take pretty. I'm pretty sure I can't get anything MORE than that. Would you want to work at being “pretty” enough to hold that station? Because that's where I live. It's a delightful bummer.

I don't have to work. But.. I'm not getting paid. So. Yeah.

That's where I... urgh... I guess just have to get beautiful for myself. And that's hard for me, because honestly I've never HAD to. I already felt beautiful without any work and I had the positive reinforcement that I was not wrong about that confidence. So getting all beautified is a complicated process for me. I'm learning as fast as I can.


I've learned how awesome lip crayons are. So my years long battle with lipstick... is over. I concede! Crayons are just better. Truth.