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Category Archives: Self Improvement

My True Love? Me.

A friend posted this photo to my FaceBook feed today; it puzzled me. Why would the first day of Christmas be different from any other? On that day, as I do every day, I’ll give myself — me.

T-Shirt

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Old Bitch, New Tricks

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There is clearly a bone-biting chill whooshing through hell this morning.

I am my own woman; I dress for me. What is fashionable is irrelevant. What coordinates well with whatever else is of no import. Which designer duds will make my girlfriends pickle-up with envy does not make my clit twitch. Whatever speaks to Bertha Butt and whispers “you’re going to feel really good in me today”  is what comes out of my closet. As long as it passes the sniff test and it’s absent spots on the boobage, off we go.

As I dressed for work this morning (on a casual Saturday, no less), I mused “wonder if I’ll run across — as opposed to my usual over — any interesting men today?” Lula, my subconscious (you met her in See I Told You So), whispered “I can make that happen for you, dahling.

So, I — Ms Rabidly-independent-I-don’t-give-a-rat’s-ass-what-you-think — caved.

And I dressed accordingly.

I’m melting! Oh, what a world…what a world…

There’s Nothing Wrong with You That Being You Won’t Fix

This morning I relaxed by curling up in my recliner — steaming mug of coffee (well, actually, it was whipped cream with a little token coffee) in hand — to watch an old episode of one of my favorite TV dramas, The Good Wife. Two of the characters were huddled at a bar, but I lost interest in them when a woman at the end of that bar — obviously mid break-up — began sobbing. A part of my heart broke as she moaned: “What’s wrong with me?” For a moment I wanted to just hold her, comfort her…

…but it was fleeting. Fortunately, one of us came to my senses as I desperately wanted the technology to zap myself through the screen that separated us and slap the shit out of her!

What’s wrong with you?

Like so many others of us, you define yourself by what some man wants you to be — or what you think he wants you to be. Instead of being who you are — who you want to be — and you contort yourself to fit into his jigsaw puzzle. You suppress your thoughts, your opinions and your desires to immerse yourself in his. You abdicate self-ownership to be his property. You cease to exist as your own unique person and become just another of his appendages.

What is wrong with you is that you’ve convinced yourself there is something wrong with you.

Many years ago, one of my friends entered an “unbelievable” relationship. He was quite successful and a real hottie — one of those men who still had hair on his chest and balls in his shorts. I’d have jumped him myself. But she was a bit overweight; she felt dumpy and unattractive. She didn’t understand his interest. They’d dated for awhile and he’d never made any attempt to move the relationship forward. She assumed her weight was the stumbling block; maybe he wanted someone thinner and more ‘beautiful.’ So, she began dieting and exercising. Thirty pounds later she was healthier, more energetic — she was even more dynamic; she came out of her shell. She seemed happier. Then, as the pounds continued to disappear, so did his attentions. She became depressed and started eating her way back into his heart. Unfortunately, it worked. I often wonder what would have happened had she continued on that path that seemingly brought her to life. What if she’d continued being the person who made her happy? Would she have attracted someone who was into her — as her? Could she have been vibrant, happy, alive and celebrating herself and her good health with someone who could appreciate her exactly as she was?

Men, I can’t fault you for this one; you’re off the hook. I have to lay the blame squarely at our feet as women. Ladies, make your first priority — you. Be who you are. Be who you want to be. Don’t try to make yourself someone you’re not so you can make yourself ‘his.’

Trust me, it’s not worth it.

You’re Welcome :-)

Guys, I’m sharing this especially for you.

Ladies, many of these apply to us as well.

Enjoy…and learn.

http://johnnywebber.com/ultimate-list-of-45-man-tips/

You! New and Improved!

“Oh, you didn’t!” She’s overcome with the vapors, tears well up in her eyes — and he knows he’s going to get some tonight. Yes, her two favorite things — sparkle and that dark sweetness — in one cheap, beribboned velvety box.

The chocolate diamond.

Some marketing genius somewhere went beyond gold and struck platinum with that one. Take an inferior quality diamond, give it a new name that encompasses something so many of us crave, market it as a very rare symbol of love. Tell women how much they want it and how owning one says how much he cares. Show him it’s far more affordable than those colorless things that look like nothing more than cut glass. Boo-yow!

Hmmm…what if we applied that to ourselves? What if we took something about us with which we’re unhappy — something we see as substandard — repackaged it in our heads and marketed it to ourselves as something rare, priceless and desirable? What if we then promoted that newly appreciated aspect of us as something unique, something others will find nowhere else? How would our self-appreciation boost our happiness? What would that do to our confidence? How much more desirable a partner — glorified “warts” and all — would that heightened self-esteem make us?

So, you’ve always hated that generous constellation of freckles scattered across your face. What if you stopped trying to cover them — and worrying that once he sees you without make-up, he’ll run the other way? Look at how beautifully they coordinate with the emeralds beneath your eyelids. And marvel at how gorgeous it all looks framed by that fiery red hair! How beautiful you are! Know you are one of a kind — and that any man deserving of your company, will be fortunate to have you choose him. Market yourself as the valuable rarity you are!

And you — yes, you — pretending to be just another machismo-ed moron! Has it ever occurred to you that your intellect is actually something to be prized? Not many of the world’s men are actually — uh, smart. But you’re one of that minority. Yet you cover it with a blanket of stupidity so you fit in with that group of other dumb-asses to whom certain women (fun, but of obviously lesser quality) are drawn. Has it occurred to you that perhaps those women are — not good enough for you? Maybe it’s time to step up your game! You . have . a . brain. Don’t be ashamed of it, flaunt it. And guess what? There are women out there with brains as well! And they’re looking for you! Now go find one and make some smart babies — the world is going to need them!

Finally, you, the true “chocolate diamond” running because it started to sprinkle and you dare not get caught in the rain (or more precisely. you dare not let that hair get caught in the rain)! What if you just let it go? What if you stopped the painful frying of your scalp to achieve some false standard of what someone else defines as ‘beauty’? Yes, you are an incredible work of art — and that wildly frizzled mane of glory on your head is on an entirely different level. Let it be. Let that kink, those glorious curls of yours, dance to their own rhythm. Embrace them and market you — as you! There are many. many men out there who can appreciate your beauty, but you have to appreciate it yourself first. You have to know that ribbon with which you’re crowned is as beautiful as the gift within the package. Don’t sell yourself short!

What if we all just accepted ourselves as we are — and appreciated all that we are? What if we stopped judging and shaming ourselves for what we see as shortcomings? What if we embraced all that we are — and marketed ourselves accordingly?

You can do this! Just pretend you’re a diamond company — and you have something unique you want to sell.

No…Not There!

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Amazing the promises we make to friends as we wash down cheeseburgers with one too many Margaritas, trying desperately not to spray the table as, one-by-one, we shared tales of our youthful misadventures. My girlfriends each surreptitiously crossed their legs and contracted “those” muscles as I ended my story of the romantic interlude that followed the handling of some aggressively spicy cayenne peppers at a local Hungarian restaurant; but it was time to get back to work. As we filed out of the restaurant — likely to the delight of the staff and the other diners — I promised I’d share this chapter from my novel.

Fri 02/01/08

Slowly…ever so slowly…my lowering eyelids blocked out the sunlight streaming through the windows of Barry’s conference room. My forehead rested lightly on the intertwined hands I’d brought up so the others around the table might consider me to be in deep thought – instead of sound asleep.

I sure as hell hoped I didn’t snore.

“Yes, that is my client’s understanding.” Barry’s abrupt response thundered in my right ear, breaking through the garbled din from the opposite end of the table. Clearly my body was present in this, yet another, seemingly endless settlement discussion. I can’t say the same for my head. I took a long drink of the now room temperature water before me so I could pretend to be a conscious participant.

He continued, “Why don’t we break here and take about fifteen minutes to stretch our legs?”

His request didn’t come a moment too soon, for as we all stood, the river that had been building between my legs threatened to break the walls of the dam that held it back.

“And splash some cold water on your face while you’re in there,” he whispered as I moved quickly past him and toward the door. “You don’t have to be here much longer, but it would be nice if you stayed awake.”

Busted!

I squeezed tightly as I raced down the hall through the door marked “Ladies.” Fortunately, I was alone as the clearly audible “Oh…my” escaped my lips. So this is a $500 an hour bathroom! The floors, walls and counter tops were covered in the most incredible rose-marbled stone I’d ever seen. On my left a gilded mirror was affixed to the wall above each of the pair of white shell-shaped bowls. A dove-gray chaise lounge in the opposite corner invited me to come, lie down and relax. I’d almost forgotten why I was there.

I entered one of the two private rooms, locked the dark walnut door behind me, unzipped my jeans and abandoned my customary public restroom squat. After all, a ladies’ room that expensive deserved a title more lofty than public. And my ass deserved to rest its cheeks on that throne.

As quickly as the stream began, I stopped it, held for a count of five, and let it flow again. Then I repeated the exercise. Someday I planned to let Jack collect the return on his investment in those diamond earrings; I’d begun practicing my Kegel exercises again to make sure the profit was all we both expected it to be. I’d slowly worked my way up to over a hundred of them each day.

At that moment a light bulb flashed behind my eyes! What if I could contract Ms Peach’s muscles to the tune of a song – releasing just a tiny bit of urine as I relaxed between each contraction? How fun – and ultimately impressive – would that be? And I knew the perfect song: the Maxwell House percolator song!

So I tried it.

Tink! Tink-tink-tink!

Oh, this is fun!

Tink-a-tink-a-tink-tink! Tink-tink-a-tink-tink!
Tink-a-tink-a-tink-tink! Tink-tink-a…

Oh shit!

Suddenly thunder clapped, bombs exploded and the roar of an 8.0 earthquake filled the room! Every color I’d ever experienced flashed before my eyes! And I was gripped by a very real version of Fred Sanford’s imaginary “Oh Elizabeth, I’m coming to join you, honey” pain.

Ow! Ow! Owwwwwwwww!

Oh, my God! Oh, my God!

As soon as my bladder forced me to let it empty itself, I crossed my legs and rolled onto the beautiful, cold, rose-marbled floor, laid there and cried. In the past, whenever I’d had a charley horse – usually in my chest or a leg – I’d just stretch the muscle out, massage it and apply ice.

But when that wickedly painful muscle is…uh, you know where?

Oops!

We have plenty of time, darlin’.”

He knew she’d always be there.

What he didn’t know was that he wouldn’t.

You never know what tomorrow will bring — perhaps not even itself.

Tell her now.