I received an email from a friend recently who passed this story along. I thought it was brilliant, and believe it was blog-worthy. Kudos to the anonymous author!
*****************************************************************
Recently, in a large city in France, a poster featuring a young, thin and tan woman appeared in the window of a gym. It said, "This summer, do you want to be a mermaid or a whale?"
A middle-aged woman, whose physical characteristics did not match those of the woman on the poster, responded publicly to the question posed by the gym:
To Whom It May Concern,
Whales are always surrounded by friends (dolphins, sea lions, curious humans.) They have an active sex life, get pregnant and have adorable baby whales. They have a wonderful time with dolphins stuffing themselves with shrimp. They play and swim in the seas, seeing wonderful places like Patagonia ,the Bering Sea and the coral reefs of Polynesia. Whales are wonderful singers and have even recorded CDs. They are incredible creatures and virtually have no predators other than humans. They are loved, protected and admired by almost everyone in the world.
Mermaids don't exist. If they did exist, they would be lining up outside the offices of Argentinean psychoanalysts due to identity crisis. Fish or human? They don't have a sex life because they kill men who get close to them, not to mention how could they have sex? Just look at them ... where is IT? Therefore, they don't have kids either. Not to mention, who wants to get close to a girl who smells like a fish store?
The choice is perfectly clear to me:
I want to be a whale.
P..S. We are in an age when media puts into our heads the idea that only skinny people are beautiful, but I prefer to enjoy an ice cream with my kids, a good dinner with a man who makes me shiver, and a piece of chocolate with my friends...
With time, we gain weight because we accumulate so much information and wisdom in our heads that when there is no more room, it distributes out to the rest of our bodies. So we aren't heavy, we are enormously cultured, educated and happy.
Beginning today, when I look at my butt in the mirror I will think, 'Good grief, look how smart I am!'
Showing posts with label beauty. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beauty. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Monday, December 14, 2009
F'ed Up Fairy Tales
Call me an arrogant douchebag, but I have a Google Alert set up on myself. As a self-pubbed writer who has pimped herself out for articles, interviews, quotes, reviews and anything else that will get my name out into the world, I like to keep track of where I am floating in cyberspace. This morning, I got an alert about an interview I did on fairy tales over a year ago for Online Dating Magazine. I must have been wearing my sassy-pants when I did it! Here is the interview. Enjoy...
Dating with Disabilities
by Melissa Blake
Fairytales
An Interview with Theresa Rose
I know I’ve been doing a lot of interviews lately for this column, but I’ve been talking to so many great people with such great insight, and I can’t resist sharing their knowledge and expertise with you. Besides, you must get sick of hearing me prattle on week after week, right?
Did you grow up loving nothing more than a good fairytale? I did. I used to read about Cinderella, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty, and before I knew it, I started waiting for my own Prince Charming to come riding up on his white horse and sweep me away to our own, personal Happily Ever After. Don’t get me wrong: it’s a great story for a young girl to have in her mind, but that’s just what it is – a story. Somewhere along the way, I began thinking that this is how real life – and of course, real love – was: all romantic and pretty and filled with heroes who save the day. But as I got older, I realized that some of those classics can lead young women astray, especially in leading them to think that they need to rely on a man for happiness, or that they are doomed to be damsels in distress forever.
What happened to Girl Power? I wondered if I was alone in my thinking (which, as you know, happens to be the case sometimes), so I got the inside story (no pun intended) from Theresa Rose, the award-winning author of the book “Opening the Kimono: A Woman’s Intimate Journey Through Life’s Biggest Challenges” (Serious Mojo, 2009). Read on for her thoughts on the lessons we internalize from fairytales.
What do fairytales really teach us about love and life?
As a mother of a seven-year old girl who adores "All Things Princess," I can say from first-hand experience what these fairytales teach about life: they show us to value looks and superficiality above all else, that girls are totally clueless to their surroundings and how victim hood ultimately serves us. What a bunch of malarkey! Each female in these stories is a passive victim who is waiting for some man to rescue her from the terrible situation she herself got into. Of course, it goes without saying that the love found in the stories is totally based on physical attraction alone. How on earth could those perfect dudes fall in love with their princesses after only a few minutes? And they lived happily ever after? Please.
Why have these fairytales transcended time and remained relevant even in 2009?
Despite how totally unrealistic and even harmful these stories are, little girls (and big girls) everywhere are drawn to them like moths to a flame. There is something so appealing about imagining oneself as the prettiest, most sought-after girl in the room. We get to wear fancy clothes, have men fight dragons for us and essentially have no responsibility whatsoever for our own happiness. When shown through that prism, becoming Snow White sounds pretty good to me too. It's the same base desire that had women flocking to the theaters to see "Sex and the City."
How can women use these stories to benefit their own lives?
I believe the biggest benefit from these stories is to show women where they learned patterns of victim hood and unreasonable fixations on appearance. Women should look at challenges in their lives and ask, "What Wouldn't Snow White Do?" We can be our own heroes instead of waiting for a man to save us. Although, I must admit that Cinderella reminds us of the power of wearing a killer pair of heels.
Is there anything else you think I should know?
The best fairytale heroines are Belle from Beauty and the Beast and Fiona from the Shrek series. Belle taught us that reading is cool, and what is on the inside of someone is more important than what's on the outside. Fiona taught us that you can get the love of your dreams and still have terrible skin, a barrel for a belly, a bulbous nose, and freaky ears. She is responsible for her happiness, sticks up to her man when called for and chooses her own destiny over what other people think. Fiona ROCKS!
Dating with Disabilities
by Melissa Blake
Fairytales
An Interview with Theresa Rose
I know I’ve been doing a lot of interviews lately for this column, but I’ve been talking to so many great people with such great insight, and I can’t resist sharing their knowledge and expertise with you. Besides, you must get sick of hearing me prattle on week after week, right?
Did you grow up loving nothing more than a good fairytale? I did. I used to read about Cinderella, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty, and before I knew it, I started waiting for my own Prince Charming to come riding up on his white horse and sweep me away to our own, personal Happily Ever After. Don’t get me wrong: it’s a great story for a young girl to have in her mind, but that’s just what it is – a story. Somewhere along the way, I began thinking that this is how real life – and of course, real love – was: all romantic and pretty and filled with heroes who save the day. But as I got older, I realized that some of those classics can lead young women astray, especially in leading them to think that they need to rely on a man for happiness, or that they are doomed to be damsels in distress forever.
What happened to Girl Power? I wondered if I was alone in my thinking (which, as you know, happens to be the case sometimes), so I got the inside story (no pun intended) from Theresa Rose, the award-winning author of the book “Opening the Kimono: A Woman’s Intimate Journey Through Life’s Biggest Challenges” (Serious Mojo, 2009). Read on for her thoughts on the lessons we internalize from fairytales.
What do fairytales really teach us about love and life?
As a mother of a seven-year old girl who adores "All Things Princess," I can say from first-hand experience what these fairytales teach about life: they show us to value looks and superficiality above all else, that girls are totally clueless to their surroundings and how victim hood ultimately serves us. What a bunch of malarkey! Each female in these stories is a passive victim who is waiting for some man to rescue her from the terrible situation she herself got into. Of course, it goes without saying that the love found in the stories is totally based on physical attraction alone. How on earth could those perfect dudes fall in love with their princesses after only a few minutes? And they lived happily ever after? Please.
Why have these fairytales transcended time and remained relevant even in 2009?
Despite how totally unrealistic and even harmful these stories are, little girls (and big girls) everywhere are drawn to them like moths to a flame. There is something so appealing about imagining oneself as the prettiest, most sought-after girl in the room. We get to wear fancy clothes, have men fight dragons for us and essentially have no responsibility whatsoever for our own happiness. When shown through that prism, becoming Snow White sounds pretty good to me too. It's the same base desire that had women flocking to the theaters to see "Sex and the City."
How can women use these stories to benefit their own lives?
I believe the biggest benefit from these stories is to show women where they learned patterns of victim hood and unreasonable fixations on appearance. Women should look at challenges in their lives and ask, "What Wouldn't Snow White Do?" We can be our own heroes instead of waiting for a man to save us. Although, I must admit that Cinderella reminds us of the power of wearing a killer pair of heels.
Is there anything else you think I should know?
The best fairytale heroines are Belle from Beauty and the Beast and Fiona from the Shrek series. Belle taught us that reading is cool, and what is on the inside of someone is more important than what's on the outside. Fiona taught us that you can get the love of your dreams and still have terrible skin, a barrel for a belly, a bulbous nose, and freaky ears. She is responsible for her happiness, sticks up to her man when called for and chooses her own destiny over what other people think. Fiona ROCKS!
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
I Curse You, Star Magazine
OK, so maybe I'm a bit overly sensitive right now -- Blame it on Flo's impending arrival -- but what the hell is the world coming to when Uma Friggin' Thurman is awarded the WORST BEACH BODY?!
Uma, for God's sake! What normal, non-famous woman wouldn't give her left nut to look like Uma Thurman? Yet, there was Uma in all her gorgeous glory on the cover of Star Magazine with "WORST SAGGY!" plastered next to her picture. What message is that sending to the rest of us mere mortals? Do we really need to be perfectly primped, pumped, and perky in order to be considered beautiful? That's craziness! Life happens, folks. Gravity is a law of nature. Big boobs will eventually droop. Especially natural ones. Uma is nothing short of Goddess level in my mind, yet she is relegated to the frumpy background while young, nubile hotties like Rihanna and Pink move into center stage. Rihanna and Pink, your time is comin'; enjoy the "BEST!" category when you still can.
Of course, while firmly planted in my self-righteous superiority, I would never dream of purchasing one of those nasty, hateful rags at the grocery store checkout counter. However, I must admit my own secret culpability in the vicious cycle of celebrity worship/vilification. Every month I go to Lemon Blossom Salon and Spa to get my grays covered and my hair tamed. Every time, I vow that I will use those two hours to do something useful, like write something on MacDaddy, or at the very least jot down my to-do list in my daughter's trusty Girls Rock! notebook. I'll even bring a book just in case Lady Muse decides not to visit me. But, guess what? I NEVER end up working at the salon. Instead, I do what all of the other women in the place do: I read those wretched magazines, cover to cover. When I am sitting there with brown goop dripping down my forehead and foil twisted on my tendrils, I'll guiltily devour every page of every available tabloid. I can't say I actually read them, because I don't. I view them, as one would view porn. I'll eye the latest US, People, and Star for every instance of posed red carpet photos, candid beach naughties, and even the benign celeb walk to the local coffee shop (OMG, Robert Pattinson bought a Venti Caramel Macchiato from the Vancouver Starbucks! He's SOOOOO hot!!!) I don't know what it is, but there is something comforting about seeing Jennifer Aniston pick out a wedgie while vacationing in Fiji. Call me crazy.
You can imagine what two hours of celebrity scrutinizing does to my already-fragile self-esteem. After bathing in the imagery of the Rich, Famous and Freakishly Beautiful, I'll steal a quick glance in the mirror and see Frankenstein's wife staring back at me. Today's tortuous session at Lemon Blossom will be particularly heinous, as I am sporting a dazzling case of pre-period, pizza-face breakouts and a poochy mid-section (I'm still endeavoring to release the excess poundage acquired during our recent vacation). Oh joy.
Maybe this time will be different. Maybe this time I'll fight the unquenchable desire to participate in the Celebrity JudgeFest. As I head to the salon for my monthly emotional drubbing, I am armed with Stephanie Meyers' Eclipse and my Girls Rock! notebook.
A girl can dream, can't she?
****************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
Do you ever look at tabloid magazines? How do they make you feel?
****************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside the award-winning Opening the Kimono!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Uma, for God's sake! What normal, non-famous woman wouldn't give her left nut to look like Uma Thurman? Yet, there was Uma in all her gorgeous glory on the cover of Star Magazine with "WORST SAGGY!" plastered next to her picture. What message is that sending to the rest of us mere mortals? Do we really need to be perfectly primped, pumped, and perky in order to be considered beautiful? That's craziness! Life happens, folks. Gravity is a law of nature. Big boobs will eventually droop. Especially natural ones. Uma is nothing short of Goddess level in my mind, yet she is relegated to the frumpy background while young, nubile hotties like Rihanna and Pink move into center stage. Rihanna and Pink, your time is comin'; enjoy the "BEST!" category when you still can.
Of course, while firmly planted in my self-righteous superiority, I would never dream of purchasing one of those nasty, hateful rags at the grocery store checkout counter. However, I must admit my own secret culpability in the vicious cycle of celebrity worship/vilification. Every month I go to Lemon Blossom Salon and Spa to get my grays covered and my hair tamed. Every time, I vow that I will use those two hours to do something useful, like write something on MacDaddy, or at the very least jot down my to-do list in my daughter's trusty Girls Rock! notebook. I'll even bring a book just in case Lady Muse decides not to visit me. But, guess what? I NEVER end up working at the salon. Instead, I do what all of the other women in the place do: I read those wretched magazines, cover to cover. When I am sitting there with brown goop dripping down my forehead and foil twisted on my tendrils, I'll guiltily devour every page of every available tabloid. I can't say I actually read them, because I don't. I view them, as one would view porn. I'll eye the latest US, People, and Star for every instance of posed red carpet photos, candid beach naughties, and even the benign celeb walk to the local coffee shop (OMG, Robert Pattinson bought a Venti Caramel Macchiato from the Vancouver Starbucks! He's SOOOOO hot!!!) I don't know what it is, but there is something comforting about seeing Jennifer Aniston pick out a wedgie while vacationing in Fiji. Call me crazy.
You can imagine what two hours of celebrity scrutinizing does to my already-fragile self-esteem. After bathing in the imagery of the Rich, Famous and Freakishly Beautiful, I'll steal a quick glance in the mirror and see Frankenstein's wife staring back at me. Today's tortuous session at Lemon Blossom will be particularly heinous, as I am sporting a dazzling case of pre-period, pizza-face breakouts and a poochy mid-section (I'm still endeavoring to release the excess poundage acquired during our recent vacation). Oh joy.
Maybe this time will be different. Maybe this time I'll fight the unquenchable desire to participate in the Celebrity JudgeFest. As I head to the salon for my monthly emotional drubbing, I am armed with Stephanie Meyers' Eclipse and my Girls Rock! notebook.
A girl can dream, can't she?
****************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
Do you ever look at tabloid magazines? How do they make you feel?
****************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside the award-winning Opening the Kimono!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
I Wouldn't Miss Miss USA
Is it just me, or does it seem that most of the country have taken a stupid pill? How is it that one of the top "News" items on Google News is the so-called controversy about the latest, almost-famous bimbo known as Miss USA?
I know that my views may brand me as a feminist pig, but honestly, I'm comfortable with that. At least pigs exist in nature, for goodness sake. Miss USA's don't exist in nature; they are freaks of it!!! These plasticized chicks parade around with their perfect, expensive, surgically-enhanced bodies in skin-tight sequined gowns and string bikinis in order to be judged by a panel of C-list celebs and the American viewing public. In order to justify the meatfest, the contest organizers plop in a brief - but often hilarious - Q&A portion of the program to convince us that we aren't just looking at a 3-D version of Playboy magazine. This segment is where we are led to believe that these women not only have unnaturally gorgeous bodies, but also have cerebral superiority and problem-solving skills that would rival anything found on the floor of the United Nations.
What I have gleaned from the multitude of news stories on the web is that the most recently crowned Miss USA from California has gotten a lot of flak for three things (well, really four things): 1) she opposes gay marriage and publicly said so in response to a question posed by the very powerful, openly-gay superblogger Perez Hilton, 2) she modeled for some naughty pics a few years ago, and 3 & 4) she received a new set of knockers purchased by the pageant muckety-mucks. Suddenly, everyone is in a uproar about these serious transgressions committed by the beauty queen. Uhmmm...she's a beauty queen! Who the f@ck is surprised by any of this?
What's even more ridiculous is the number of people calling for her resignation. (Not that I agree with her numbskull comments, including her support of the sanctity of "opposite marriage", whatever the hell that is.) Reality check, folks! Miss USA is nothing more than a marketing device for Donald Trump to make a shitload of money. In case you doubt my premise, I defy to you give me the name of one other previous Miss USA and a corresponding important accomplishment she has done. Yeah, I couldn't think of one either. Yet, everyone is acting as if this role means something! A recent op-ed piece, from FOX News no less, called for The Brainiac from California to resign or be fired because she doesn't represent the "two core brand features" of the pageant (no, it's not the two you are thinking of). Fox's John Tantillo writes, "A Miss USA represents an organization and an ideal and as such any candidate for the job needs to be both a diplomat and a leader." A DIPLOMAT AND A LEADER??? WTF?? I can't think of anything further from the truth. Miss USA is neither a diplomat nor a leader. She's a hot chick with long legs, big titties, a beautiful face, and sparkly teeth. Having a brain is not a requirement, and it is disingenuous in the extreme to give these women the title and responsibility of a diplomat and a leader. Maybe it's time for people to look up those words in a dictionary to understand the huge gulf between their definition and what a Miss USA actually does. (What DOES she do anyway?) Even better, let's revisit one of the most popular YouTube videos to demonstrate the intellectual titans that make up the pool of beauty pageant contestants. Here is the famous clip of Miss South Carolina at the Miss Teen USA 2007 contest. I'm gonna shoot myself in the head if this is what I can expect from our future diplomats and leaders.
Let's be honest about what these neanderthal events really are: they are unseemly, socially-sanctioned opportunities for men to ogle pretty young women and for women to quietly judge them (and themselves even more). Why in God's name, in the year 2009, are we still celebrating these parades of superficiality? Even more distressing, why in God's name is this lame excuse for a news story dominating the airwaves? There are so many more relevant stories that people should be informed of, discuss, and act upon. Things like headless bodies found in Pakistan. Let's get our priorities straight, shall we?
Instead, we get to see the Pimp King, Donald Trump, talk about how the Carrie Prejean controversy is "a good thing". In regards to Miss Prejean's adolescent photo faux-pas, Mister Mushroom Head even said, "I'm going to be looking at these photos" to make sure that they didn't cross his line of good taste. Ewwwww...do you have the same image in your head as I have in mine? Needless to say, it involves crumpled Kleenex.
You may think Donald Trump is a nothing more than a skeezy, rich slimeball. But guess what, folks? That slimeball is laughing at us while he laughs all the way to the bank.
***************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What do you think of beauty pageants like the Miss USA contest?
***************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek in the award-winning Opening the Kimono!
I know that my views may brand me as a feminist pig, but honestly, I'm comfortable with that. At least pigs exist in nature, for goodness sake. Miss USA's don't exist in nature; they are freaks of it!!! These plasticized chicks parade around with their perfect, expensive, surgically-enhanced bodies in skin-tight sequined gowns and string bikinis in order to be judged by a panel of C-list celebs and the American viewing public. In order to justify the meatfest, the contest organizers plop in a brief - but often hilarious - Q&A portion of the program to convince us that we aren't just looking at a 3-D version of Playboy magazine. This segment is where we are led to believe that these women not only have unnaturally gorgeous bodies, but also have cerebral superiority and problem-solving skills that would rival anything found on the floor of the United Nations.
What I have gleaned from the multitude of news stories on the web is that the most recently crowned Miss USA from California has gotten a lot of flak for three things (well, really four things): 1) she opposes gay marriage and publicly said so in response to a question posed by the very powerful, openly-gay superblogger Perez Hilton, 2) she modeled for some naughty pics a few years ago, and 3 & 4) she received a new set of knockers purchased by the pageant muckety-mucks. Suddenly, everyone is in a uproar about these serious transgressions committed by the beauty queen. Uhmmm...she's a beauty queen! Who the f@ck is surprised by any of this?
What's even more ridiculous is the number of people calling for her resignation. (Not that I agree with her numbskull comments, including her support of the sanctity of "opposite marriage", whatever the hell that is.) Reality check, folks! Miss USA is nothing more than a marketing device for Donald Trump to make a shitload of money. In case you doubt my premise, I defy to you give me the name of one other previous Miss USA and a corresponding important accomplishment she has done. Yeah, I couldn't think of one either. Yet, everyone is acting as if this role means something! A recent op-ed piece, from FOX News no less, called for The Brainiac from California to resign or be fired because she doesn't represent the "two core brand features" of the pageant (no, it's not the two you are thinking of). Fox's John Tantillo writes, "A Miss USA represents an organization and an ideal and as such any candidate for the job needs to be both a diplomat and a leader." A DIPLOMAT AND A LEADER??? WTF?? I can't think of anything further from the truth. Miss USA is neither a diplomat nor a leader. She's a hot chick with long legs, big titties, a beautiful face, and sparkly teeth. Having a brain is not a requirement, and it is disingenuous in the extreme to give these women the title and responsibility of a diplomat and a leader. Maybe it's time for people to look up those words in a dictionary to understand the huge gulf between their definition and what a Miss USA actually does. (What DOES she do anyway?) Even better, let's revisit one of the most popular YouTube videos to demonstrate the intellectual titans that make up the pool of beauty pageant contestants. Here is the famous clip of Miss South Carolina at the Miss Teen USA 2007 contest. I'm gonna shoot myself in the head if this is what I can expect from our future diplomats and leaders.
Let's be honest about what these neanderthal events really are: they are unseemly, socially-sanctioned opportunities for men to ogle pretty young women and for women to quietly judge them (and themselves even more). Why in God's name, in the year 2009, are we still celebrating these parades of superficiality? Even more distressing, why in God's name is this lame excuse for a news story dominating the airwaves? There are so many more relevant stories that people should be informed of, discuss, and act upon. Things like headless bodies found in Pakistan. Let's get our priorities straight, shall we?
Instead, we get to see the Pimp King, Donald Trump, talk about how the Carrie Prejean controversy is "a good thing". In regards to Miss Prejean's adolescent photo faux-pas, Mister Mushroom Head even said, "I'm going to be looking at these photos" to make sure that they didn't cross his line of good taste. Ewwwww...do you have the same image in your head as I have in mine? Needless to say, it involves crumpled Kleenex.
You may think Donald Trump is a nothing more than a skeezy, rich slimeball. But guess what, folks? That slimeball is laughing at us while he laughs all the way to the bank.
***************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What do you think of beauty pageants like the Miss USA contest?
***************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek in the award-winning Opening the Kimono!
Friday, January 23, 2009
Acquiring Writing Material the Hard Way
Yesterday I came up with material for my next book. Drats!
I will most likely break ground on mi libro numero dos in the next few months. I have already received downloads on the title, high-level content, and structure. I have also been given assurances from Spirit that I will be living some of the featured stories in the coming months. Oh joy. More pain.
In the last forty-eight hours, a confluence of circumstances have prompted me to begin noodling one of the first chapters, tentatively titled, "The World's Ugliest Person". Who is this hideous creature that I'll be exposing in Opening the Kimono-like raw detail? Me, of course.
I woke up yesterday morning with one overriding thought: I am officially the World's Ugliest Person, at least at that moment. Bleary-eyed from a disastrous night's sleep in which I had nightmares about running into the most foul of creatures from middle school, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. In the cold, harshness of the early morning light, I did NOT like what blankly stared back at me.
While looking at my reflection, I discovered:
* A three-inch, beet-red blotchy burn the size of a small hot dog emblazoned on my left cheek, courtesy of an altercation with my curling iron
* A massive pimple explosion thanks to my upcoming period and consuming far too many mochas from Starbucks. My facial eruptions included several painful, unpinchable lip-zits which spontaneously appeared on the ultra-tender spot where my lower lip meets my chin
* A patch of unsightly grey roots nestled in my previously-blogged-about lion mane that my hairdresser inadvertently missed during last week's touch-up
* Deep pillow creases all over my face, including over the 3-inch hot dog on my cheek
* Pesky extra padding around my mid-section that quietly mocks me
* Scant remnants of the previous day's eyeliner which gave me a Marilyn Manson-as-linebacker look
I admit that I couldn't summon the balls to take a picture of myself at my most heinous, but I somehow found the nerve this morning. While not as super-scary as yesterday morning, I could still vie for Miss Ugly USA.
WARNING! View the following picture at your own risk!
So there it is. The World's Ugliest Person. A Glamour 'Don't'. The love child of Quasimodo and the Joker. I wondered how the hell I was going to have enough confidence to solicit speaking events to organizations in this ghastly frame of mind. I could just imagine it..."Mr. Event Planner, would you like to hire me to speak in front of 500 professionals so I can be stared at in horror and mocked en masse?"
Thankfully, with the help of my friend Shellie I was able to talk through my bilious self-judgment and realize that we ALL have the World's Ugliest Person days. There are some days where we convince ourselves that we too fat, too skinny, too pasty, too sunburned, too unkempt, too boring, or too damaged to be attractive to anyone, much less ourselves. It is the universal truth born out of our modern Western culture: I think therefore I think I am ugly.
Then I realize the glorious gift contained in my gruesomeness: I'm gonna write about this! It's funny! It's perfect for the book! People will relate to it! Hallelujah!
Even though I still resemble a troll-woman who got into a back-alley fight with a cat brandishing a branding iron, I am reveling in the fact that I received some juicy new material to write. I got a tasty shot of literary adrenaline that will propel me to tackle that most daunting of tasks: staring at a blank screen, waiting for my pain to turn into words which will eventually turn into inspiration.
How interesting it is that I chose a career where insecurity and vulnerability are its building blocks.
*************************************************************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
Do you have World's Ugliest Person days, and what makes them so?
*************************************************************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I will most likely break ground on mi libro numero dos in the next few months. I have already received downloads on the title, high-level content, and structure. I have also been given assurances from Spirit that I will be living some of the featured stories in the coming months. Oh joy. More pain.
In the last forty-eight hours, a confluence of circumstances have prompted me to begin noodling one of the first chapters, tentatively titled, "The World's Ugliest Person". Who is this hideous creature that I'll be exposing in Opening the Kimono-like raw detail? Me, of course.
I woke up yesterday morning with one overriding thought: I am officially the World's Ugliest Person, at least at that moment. Bleary-eyed from a disastrous night's sleep in which I had nightmares about running into the most foul of creatures from middle school, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. In the cold, harshness of the early morning light, I did NOT like what blankly stared back at me.
While looking at my reflection, I discovered:
* A three-inch, beet-red blotchy burn the size of a small hot dog emblazoned on my left cheek, courtesy of an altercation with my curling iron
* A massive pimple explosion thanks to my upcoming period and consuming far too many mochas from Starbucks. My facial eruptions included several painful, unpinchable lip-zits which spontaneously appeared on the ultra-tender spot where my lower lip meets my chin
* A patch of unsightly grey roots nestled in my previously-blogged-about lion mane that my hairdresser inadvertently missed during last week's touch-up
* Deep pillow creases all over my face, including over the 3-inch hot dog on my cheek
* Pesky extra padding around my mid-section that quietly mocks me
* Scant remnants of the previous day's eyeliner which gave me a Marilyn Manson-as-linebacker look
I admit that I couldn't summon the balls to take a picture of myself at my most heinous, but I somehow found the nerve this morning. While not as super-scary as yesterday morning, I could still vie for Miss Ugly USA.
WARNING! View the following picture at your own risk!
So there it is. The World's Ugliest Person. A Glamour 'Don't'. The love child of Quasimodo and the Joker. I wondered how the hell I was going to have enough confidence to solicit speaking events to organizations in this ghastly frame of mind. I could just imagine it..."Mr. Event Planner, would you like to hire me to speak in front of 500 professionals so I can be stared at in horror and mocked en masse?"
Thankfully, with the help of my friend Shellie I was able to talk through my bilious self-judgment and realize that we ALL have the World's Ugliest Person days. There are some days where we convince ourselves that we too fat, too skinny, too pasty, too sunburned, too unkempt, too boring, or too damaged to be attractive to anyone, much less ourselves. It is the universal truth born out of our modern Western culture: I think therefore I think I am ugly.
Then I realize the glorious gift contained in my gruesomeness: I'm gonna write about this! It's funny! It's perfect for the book! People will relate to it! Hallelujah!
Even though I still resemble a troll-woman who got into a back-alley fight with a cat brandishing a branding iron, I am reveling in the fact that I received some juicy new material to write. I got a tasty shot of literary adrenaline that will propel me to tackle that most daunting of tasks: staring at a blank screen, waiting for my pain to turn into words which will eventually turn into inspiration.
How interesting it is that I chose a career where insecurity and vulnerability are its building blocks.
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For your consideration and/or comment:
Do you have World's Ugliest Person days, and what makes them so?
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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
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Monday, January 12, 2009
The Price of Beauty
As I write this, I have a plastic shopping bag from Publix on my head. Why, you ask? To hold in the mayonnaise, silly!
I am in the middle of one of those kooky at-home beauty recipes that you read about in Cosmo or Glamour but never actually have the balls to do. Trust me; I am SO not the mayo-on-the-hair type. I have never put cucumbers on my eyes, spread yogurt on my face, or soaked my feet in olive oil. However, after spending $40 at the salon two weeks ago on an unsuccessful deep conditioning treatment, I decided to take the goop into my own hands.
What prompted this radical use of condiments? If you saw my hair, you'd know. I currently look like a cross between the Cowardly Lion and Rosanne Rosanneadanna. Yesterday morning, my daughter entered our bedroom, looked at my disheveled mane and yelled, "Whoa! That is some fluffy hair!" Yeah, Em. That is some fluffy hair.
It turns out that the "subtle highlights" I had done a few weeks ago completely fried my already parboiled queen-size coiffure. Sure, the highlights turned out pretty, but it exacted some serious collateral damage. To describe my hair as frizzy is like saying the ocean is wet. It is every color, shade, texture, and flavor of frizzy that one can imagine. In a word, it is scaryfrizzy. Since I don't want to be known as the crazy chick with the frightening hair, I thought it time to give my 'do some much-needed TLC.
While my head was immersed in the oh-so-comfy salon washtub a few weeks ago, my dearest hairdresser, Julieta, quietly whispered to me the secret home remedy: put gobs of mayo on my hair, wrap plastic around my head, and wait. After a sufficient period of heat-up time, wash the sandwich spread out and watch my luscious locks return.
Hence, the mayo on my mop. I feel like a flaming dork.
One part of me knows I look like a freakin' goofball, and another part of me thinks I am being a narcissistic ass. Most likely, I am a combination of the two. I can't help it! I admit it; I want to have pretty hair. I don't have to have perfect hair like Angelina's, Kate's, or Jennifer's; I just don't want Roseanne Roseannadanna's. It's not too much to ask.
So, this morning I will be Little Miss Professional, sending important email interviews to national magazines, updating my website with articles and reviews, planning speaking engagements, and otherwise living with some Serious Mojo.
And I'll do all of this with a plastic Publix bag on my head.
Scary.
************************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comments:
What silly thing have you done before, all in the name of beauty?
************************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I am in the middle of one of those kooky at-home beauty recipes that you read about in Cosmo or Glamour but never actually have the balls to do. Trust me; I am SO not the mayo-on-the-hair type. I have never put cucumbers on my eyes, spread yogurt on my face, or soaked my feet in olive oil. However, after spending $40 at the salon two weeks ago on an unsuccessful deep conditioning treatment, I decided to take the goop into my own hands.
What prompted this radical use of condiments? If you saw my hair, you'd know. I currently look like a cross between the Cowardly Lion and Rosanne Rosanneadanna. Yesterday morning, my daughter entered our bedroom, looked at my disheveled mane and yelled, "Whoa! That is some fluffy hair!" Yeah, Em. That is some fluffy hair.
It turns out that the "subtle highlights" I had done a few weeks ago completely fried my already parboiled queen-size coiffure. Sure, the highlights turned out pretty, but it exacted some serious collateral damage. To describe my hair as frizzy is like saying the ocean is wet. It is every color, shade, texture, and flavor of frizzy that one can imagine. In a word, it is scaryfrizzy. Since I don't want to be known as the crazy chick with the frightening hair, I thought it time to give my 'do some much-needed TLC.
While my head was immersed in the oh-so-comfy salon washtub a few weeks ago, my dearest hairdresser, Julieta, quietly whispered to me the secret home remedy: put gobs of mayo on my hair, wrap plastic around my head, and wait. After a sufficient period of heat-up time, wash the sandwich spread out and watch my luscious locks return.
Hence, the mayo on my mop. I feel like a flaming dork.
One part of me knows I look like a freakin' goofball, and another part of me thinks I am being a narcissistic ass. Most likely, I am a combination of the two. I can't help it! I admit it; I want to have pretty hair. I don't have to have perfect hair like Angelina's, Kate's, or Jennifer's; I just don't want Roseanne Roseannadanna's. It's not too much to ask.
So, this morning I will be Little Miss Professional, sending important email interviews to national magazines, updating my website with articles and reviews, planning speaking engagements, and otherwise living with some Serious Mojo.
And I'll do all of this with a plastic Publix bag on my head.
Scary.
************************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comments:
What silly thing have you done before, all in the name of beauty?
************************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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