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!
Showing posts with label self-love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label self-love. Show all posts
Monday, December 14, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
A Morning of "Me Too!"s
As part of my job as Author, Speaker, and Bringer of the Mojo, I write a monthly newsletter called The Rose Report. In it, I include a message of inspiration typically about self-acceptance, gratitude, consciousness, and other warm, fuzzy things that make life so juicy. However, I have not felt like a Bringer of the Mojo over the last few months due to my recent, hellacious cross-country move.
When I had to write this month's newsletter, I was faced with a choice. Do I pretend that everything is hunky-dory, or do I share my inner ick? As with writing my book, Opening the Kimono: A Woman's Intimate Journey Through Life's Biggest Challenges, I decided to have some cajones and go for the latter. I know from personal experience that it is where the healing takes place. Here is what I wrote:
"FINDING MY WAY BACK...
Just as I wrote in last month's Rose Report, I continue to struggle to find my footing in my new home of Minnesota. While I have been blessed to spend more time with family and meet new, wonderful friends, I am still filled with a fair amount of fear. And panic. And anger. And annoyance. And depression. And every other negative emotion one can feel.
As a self-proclaimed "Bringer of the Mojo", it pains me to show you this small, disconnected part of me. I am feverishly trying to grow my professional speaking business, but I am feeling like a phony right at the moment. (How does one promote a speaking program called "Maximizing Your Mojo" when the speaker's Mojo is missing in action?) I dreaded having to write this month's newsletter, knowing that if I wrote a bunch of "life's-wonderful-be-grateful-you're-beautiful-everything's-a-gift" stuff, it would merely come across as empty platitudes from a woman who resembles a sad, powerless mutation of her true self. If you haven't noticed, I need someone to bring some Mojo my way.
The thing that's even more obnoxious about my descent into the dark side is that I know the cause of it! In a nutshell, I have not yet been successful in re-establishing my spiritual practice in my new house. I can count on one hand the number of times I meditated over the last thirty days, and I have done precious little movement. While I have somehow been able to sever the vice-grip sugar addiction I acquired during the move itself, I am still pounding my head against the wall, both personally and professionally. The price I have paid for ignoring Spirit has been a big one. I have been short with Emma more often than I care to admit, felt sluggish and icky physically, and obsessed over the fact that my book sales are lagging despite the overwhelming enthusiasm from readers and critics. Long story short, I am still teensy, tiny Theresa.
My mother used to have a saying that she would use during a particularly difficult situation. She used to say, "There is a four-letter word that will fix any problem: W-O-R-K." While I appreciated her teaching me about the value of a strong work ethic, a part of me believes that it was damaging in the long run. For the last sixty days, I have been consumed with that four-letter word. I have started working as soon as Emma goes to school, go non-stop for several hours without a break, and plug away until well into the evening. My neurotic behavior hasn't netted me any great successes; rather, it has fueled my sour attitude that has, unfortunately, permeated our home. In hindsight, I should have focused on the other four-letter words that would have helped me so much more: L-O-V-E and P-R-A-Y. Ironically, in order to kick myself out of this nasty funk I've put myself in, I need to do a lot less working and a lot more loving and praying.
Why on earth would I want to publicly share this bit of ugliness in a newsletter designed to pump people up? If I learned anything from writing Opening the Kimono, its that the act of sharing one's gunk allows it to be released, opening one up to new possibilities of power and joy. Hopefully, you will recognize some of your own self-inflicted smallness in my telling, and realize that we ALL have these moments once in a while. I know from first-hand experience that getting out of the spiral of depression is a challenging exercise. However, no amount of chocolate, movies, or complaining will make it any better. You have to carve out time to sit in silence every day, even if it is for only a few minutes. You have to move your body in more ways that just from bed to the table to the chair and back to bed. You have to honor the fact that if you want to heal yourself, you need to ask for help, not only from friends and family, but also from your Spiritual Posse. I guess Mom was right after all; you gotta WORK at it.
I no longer want to feel this badly. I no longer want to feel the fear of failure. I no longer want to go to bed angry. It is up to me to step back into my power, and I start working it. My first task is to ask for your help. Take one moment after reading this email to visualize both you and me as powerful "Bringers of the Mojo". See the two of us letting go of the vices and addictions that keep us tiny. Imagine that everything we desire is flowing to us easily and effortlessly. As I am writing this, I am imagining this for us both. Now, we need only to make those choices that will fulfill this vision.
This month, I will try to find my way back to the meditation room, back to the hoop, back to the yoga mat, and back to me. I hope you, too, have a wonderful, colorful, blissful, healthful October...just like I envisioned it to be!
Take care, and let's BOTH make it a great day!
Brightest blessings,
Theresa"
The response has been nothing short of phenomenal. I have received dozens of positive email responses from people over the last few hours. Their words were tender, vulnerable, honest, and courageous. Some wrote several paragraphs, and some merely a few sentences. While every person has a different story, every email contained the same theme: Thank you for sharing your heartfelt words, and I FEEL EXACTLY THE SAME WAY. It's good to know that I am not the only one out there.
I needed to hear this today. I needed to remember that my work is important and helps people. I can get lost in the depression of publisher rejections, stalled proposals, and meager book sales. The gifts I have received this morning are like precious jewels for my psyche. As such, they are going to be filed in my "Smiles" email folder. When things are especially difficult on the financial front, I am going to look back at these notes to remember why I've chosen to be an Author, Speaker, and Bringer of the Mojo in the first place.
I am so grateful for being reminded that we all go through the same struggles. It makes me feel like I'm not alone in this journey, and sharing our stories with each other will help us find our way back to joy. Together.
(If you want to receive the Rose Report for yourself, please visit my web site!)
When I had to write this month's newsletter, I was faced with a choice. Do I pretend that everything is hunky-dory, or do I share my inner ick? As with writing my book, Opening the Kimono: A Woman's Intimate Journey Through Life's Biggest Challenges, I decided to have some cajones and go for the latter. I know from personal experience that it is where the healing takes place. Here is what I wrote:
"FINDING MY WAY BACK...
Just as I wrote in last month's Rose Report, I continue to struggle to find my footing in my new home of Minnesota. While I have been blessed to spend more time with family and meet new, wonderful friends, I am still filled with a fair amount of fear. And panic. And anger. And annoyance. And depression. And every other negative emotion one can feel.
As a self-proclaimed "Bringer of the Mojo", it pains me to show you this small, disconnected part of me. I am feverishly trying to grow my professional speaking business, but I am feeling like a phony right at the moment. (How does one promote a speaking program called "Maximizing Your Mojo" when the speaker's Mojo is missing in action?) I dreaded having to write this month's newsletter, knowing that if I wrote a bunch of "life's-wonderful-be-grateful-you're-beautiful-everything's-a-gift" stuff, it would merely come across as empty platitudes from a woman who resembles a sad, powerless mutation of her true self. If you haven't noticed, I need someone to bring some Mojo my way.
The thing that's even more obnoxious about my descent into the dark side is that I know the cause of it! In a nutshell, I have not yet been successful in re-establishing my spiritual practice in my new house. I can count on one hand the number of times I meditated over the last thirty days, and I have done precious little movement. While I have somehow been able to sever the vice-grip sugar addiction I acquired during the move itself, I am still pounding my head against the wall, both personally and professionally. The price I have paid for ignoring Spirit has been a big one. I have been short with Emma more often than I care to admit, felt sluggish and icky physically, and obsessed over the fact that my book sales are lagging despite the overwhelming enthusiasm from readers and critics. Long story short, I am still teensy, tiny Theresa.
My mother used to have a saying that she would use during a particularly difficult situation. She used to say, "There is a four-letter word that will fix any problem: W-O-R-K." While I appreciated her teaching me about the value of a strong work ethic, a part of me believes that it was damaging in the long run. For the last sixty days, I have been consumed with that four-letter word. I have started working as soon as Emma goes to school, go non-stop for several hours without a break, and plug away until well into the evening. My neurotic behavior hasn't netted me any great successes; rather, it has fueled my sour attitude that has, unfortunately, permeated our home. In hindsight, I should have focused on the other four-letter words that would have helped me so much more: L-O-V-E and P-R-A-Y. Ironically, in order to kick myself out of this nasty funk I've put myself in, I need to do a lot less working and a lot more loving and praying.
Why on earth would I want to publicly share this bit of ugliness in a newsletter designed to pump people up? If I learned anything from writing Opening the Kimono, its that the act of sharing one's gunk allows it to be released, opening one up to new possibilities of power and joy. Hopefully, you will recognize some of your own self-inflicted smallness in my telling, and realize that we ALL have these moments once in a while. I know from first-hand experience that getting out of the spiral of depression is a challenging exercise. However, no amount of chocolate, movies, or complaining will make it any better. You have to carve out time to sit in silence every day, even if it is for only a few minutes. You have to move your body in more ways that just from bed to the table to the chair and back to bed. You have to honor the fact that if you want to heal yourself, you need to ask for help, not only from friends and family, but also from your Spiritual Posse. I guess Mom was right after all; you gotta WORK at it.
I no longer want to feel this badly. I no longer want to feel the fear of failure. I no longer want to go to bed angry. It is up to me to step back into my power, and I start working it. My first task is to ask for your help. Take one moment after reading this email to visualize both you and me as powerful "Bringers of the Mojo". See the two of us letting go of the vices and addictions that keep us tiny. Imagine that everything we desire is flowing to us easily and effortlessly. As I am writing this, I am imagining this for us both. Now, we need only to make those choices that will fulfill this vision.
This month, I will try to find my way back to the meditation room, back to the hoop, back to the yoga mat, and back to me. I hope you, too, have a wonderful, colorful, blissful, healthful October...just like I envisioned it to be!
Take care, and let's BOTH make it a great day!
Brightest blessings,
Theresa"
The response has been nothing short of phenomenal. I have received dozens of positive email responses from people over the last few hours. Their words were tender, vulnerable, honest, and courageous. Some wrote several paragraphs, and some merely a few sentences. While every person has a different story, every email contained the same theme: Thank you for sharing your heartfelt words, and I FEEL EXACTLY THE SAME WAY. It's good to know that I am not the only one out there.
I needed to hear this today. I needed to remember that my work is important and helps people. I can get lost in the depression of publisher rejections, stalled proposals, and meager book sales. The gifts I have received this morning are like precious jewels for my psyche. As such, they are going to be filed in my "Smiles" email folder. When things are especially difficult on the financial front, I am going to look back at these notes to remember why I've chosen to be an Author, Speaker, and Bringer of the Mojo in the first place.
I am so grateful for being reminded that we all go through the same struggles. It makes me feel like I'm not alone in this journey, and sharing our stories with each other will help us find our way back to joy. Together.
(If you want to receive the Rose Report for yourself, please visit my web site!)
Monday, June 1, 2009
An Upload of Shame
Fucking Facebook Mobile Uploads!
Yesterday I logged into Facebook and noticed a picture of myself on someone else's photo album. Normally, I wouldn't have a problem with this, depending on the current condition of my hair and complexion. However, this particular picture captured me on the beach. Hooping. In a swimsuit. Surrounded by gorgeous, nubile hoopgirls half my age and more than half my size.
Fucking Facebook Mobile Uploads.
As the picture reveals, I was the antithesis of the sexy hoopgirl. Instead, I looked like a defensive lineman from my local high school football team. I was a huge, uncoordinated linebacker in a sea of beautiful tight ends. And thanks to one of the party's attendees, her 7000 kazillion friends -- and all of their friends and their friends' friends -- get to see me that way too.
Knowing that this picture exists in our social public domain was upsetting to me at first. Somehow it felt like a violation. It's one thing to upload pics of someone gussied up, warmly smiling, blowing smooches, or holding up a wine glass for the camera; it's quite another to be surreptitiously captured whilst sweating and shimmying nearly naked. Having my candid beach pic taken was only slightly better than getting photographed immediately after having an early-morning throw-up session from a night of spirited frivolity.
Why does my hoop photo bother me so much? Because it irks me that my body isn't moving or looking like it used to. I admit it; I fell off the wagon. With all of the book activities that are going on in my world, I allowed my Mind and Spirit to move into center stage with my Body lagging far behind. I hadn't picked up the hoop in over a month, and my expanding waistline can attest to it. Once one falls off the exercise wagon, it is very difficult to get back on it. We keep telling ourselves that tomorrow we'll start up again, but tomorrow never comes. Days turn into weeks, and pretty soon we are wearing our fat pants again.
I have known that I wanted to start hooping again, but the prospect of it was so daunting. The negative self-talk was incessant. "It will hurt! I will look ridiculous! I'm too fat! I wish I were better at it! I will be so sore afterward! I don't have the time!" Excuse after excuse was readily available to keep me from my beautiful circle of freedom and joy.
Until this weekend.
My good friend and sister hooper was having a going away party. This young woman is literally one with her hoop, and she chose to have her Bon Voyage party on the sands of Lido Beach just so hooping could be a part of the festivities. I told her how afraid I was to bring my own hoop for fear of unleashing all of my fears. She wisely reiterated advice I had given to her dozens of times before -- If it scares the shit out of you, then you should absolutely do it. If hooping on the beach with women smaller and better than me scared the shit out of me, then I had better jump into the fire and see what juicy gifts are meant to be discovered.
At the party itself, I found the allure of playing with the hoop on wind-swept sands far more powerful than my nagging, self-doubt. Hooping is simply too much fun to do, and I wouldn't be able to sit and watch others do it without having some of it myself. I forgot I wasn't as good, as pretty, or as tight as everyone else was. The hoop and I had rediscovered each other! I tapped into the flow of energy encircling me, practiced tricks I hadn't ever managed, and otherwise basked in the bliss of the hoop. All was well once again!
Until I saw those fucking Facebook mobile uploads.
Those pictures were completely devoid of the joyful energy I felt on the sands of Lido. Instead, it only reminded me of the reasons why I didn't want to do it in the first place -- backfat rolls, ginormous arms, and tree-trunk thighs, to name a few. It showed my insecurities in awful, wretched technicolor for everyone to see. Instead of looking at the pictures and gleefully shouting, "Hell yeah! I'm an almost forty-year old hooping on the beach with chicks in their 20s! Fuckin' A!", I morosely muttered, "Oh my God! Look at how horrible and huge I look! How could I have done that?! Dear Lord, I hope no one recognizes me! At least that @#$%^ who took the picture didn't tag me!"
How utterly, utterly sad.
As predicted, I wallowed in self-judgment for hours afterward. I looked at my body with hatred, grabbing a handful of extra poundage and wishing it could magically disappear with the iron grasp of my own shame. I cursed myself for spending all of that time in front of MacDaddy instead of on the elliptical. Buttugly was the word that danced around my head over and over.
Blessedly, through meditation and reflection, I stepped out of my self-flagellating funk and eventually let my juju reemerge. I realized that my experience on the beach was the first step toward getting back in the groove! The hard part was over; I had picked up the hoop again. It was time to ignore my whiny, "I'm-not-good-enough" voice of smallness and realize that I am powerful and amazing and courageous and beautiful and ballsy and a helluva good hooper. In celebration, my daughter Emma and I spent the next several hours hooping in the backyard while I practiced those arm lifts I started on Lido Beach.
Today, I'm gonna do it again.
Thanks, Facebook, for your fucking mobile uploads. It's just the kick I needed to get me back into my body.
************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
Has a picture ever prompted you to make a change in your life?
************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside the award-winning Opening the Kimono!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Yesterday I logged into Facebook and noticed a picture of myself on someone else's photo album. Normally, I wouldn't have a problem with this, depending on the current condition of my hair and complexion. However, this particular picture captured me on the beach. Hooping. In a swimsuit. Surrounded by gorgeous, nubile hoopgirls half my age and more than half my size.
Fucking Facebook Mobile Uploads.
As the picture reveals, I was the antithesis of the sexy hoopgirl. Instead, I looked like a defensive lineman from my local high school football team. I was a huge, uncoordinated linebacker in a sea of beautiful tight ends. And thanks to one of the party's attendees, her 7000 kazillion friends -- and all of their friends and their friends' friends -- get to see me that way too.
Knowing that this picture exists in our social public domain was upsetting to me at first. Somehow it felt like a violation. It's one thing to upload pics of someone gussied up, warmly smiling, blowing smooches, or holding up a wine glass for the camera; it's quite another to be surreptitiously captured whilst sweating and shimmying nearly naked. Having my candid beach pic taken was only slightly better than getting photographed immediately after having an early-morning throw-up session from a night of spirited frivolity.
Why does my hoop photo bother me so much? Because it irks me that my body isn't moving or looking like it used to. I admit it; I fell off the wagon. With all of the book activities that are going on in my world, I allowed my Mind and Spirit to move into center stage with my Body lagging far behind. I hadn't picked up the hoop in over a month, and my expanding waistline can attest to it. Once one falls off the exercise wagon, it is very difficult to get back on it. We keep telling ourselves that tomorrow we'll start up again, but tomorrow never comes. Days turn into weeks, and pretty soon we are wearing our fat pants again.
I have known that I wanted to start hooping again, but the prospect of it was so daunting. The negative self-talk was incessant. "It will hurt! I will look ridiculous! I'm too fat! I wish I were better at it! I will be so sore afterward! I don't have the time!" Excuse after excuse was readily available to keep me from my beautiful circle of freedom and joy.
Until this weekend.
My good friend and sister hooper was having a going away party. This young woman is literally one with her hoop, and she chose to have her Bon Voyage party on the sands of Lido Beach just so hooping could be a part of the festivities. I told her how afraid I was to bring my own hoop for fear of unleashing all of my fears. She wisely reiterated advice I had given to her dozens of times before -- If it scares the shit out of you, then you should absolutely do it. If hooping on the beach with women smaller and better than me scared the shit out of me, then I had better jump into the fire and see what juicy gifts are meant to be discovered.
At the party itself, I found the allure of playing with the hoop on wind-swept sands far more powerful than my nagging, self-doubt. Hooping is simply too much fun to do, and I wouldn't be able to sit and watch others do it without having some of it myself. I forgot I wasn't as good, as pretty, or as tight as everyone else was. The hoop and I had rediscovered each other! I tapped into the flow of energy encircling me, practiced tricks I hadn't ever managed, and otherwise basked in the bliss of the hoop. All was well once again!
Until I saw those fucking Facebook mobile uploads.
Those pictures were completely devoid of the joyful energy I felt on the sands of Lido. Instead, it only reminded me of the reasons why I didn't want to do it in the first place -- backfat rolls, ginormous arms, and tree-trunk thighs, to name a few. It showed my insecurities in awful, wretched technicolor for everyone to see. Instead of looking at the pictures and gleefully shouting, "Hell yeah! I'm an almost forty-year old hooping on the beach with chicks in their 20s! Fuckin' A!", I morosely muttered, "Oh my God! Look at how horrible and huge I look! How could I have done that?! Dear Lord, I hope no one recognizes me! At least that @#$%^ who took the picture didn't tag me!"
How utterly, utterly sad.
As predicted, I wallowed in self-judgment for hours afterward. I looked at my body with hatred, grabbing a handful of extra poundage and wishing it could magically disappear with the iron grasp of my own shame. I cursed myself for spending all of that time in front of MacDaddy instead of on the elliptical. Buttugly was the word that danced around my head over and over.
Blessedly, through meditation and reflection, I stepped out of my self-flagellating funk and eventually let my juju reemerge. I realized that my experience on the beach was the first step toward getting back in the groove! The hard part was over; I had picked up the hoop again. It was time to ignore my whiny, "I'm-not-good-enough" voice of smallness and realize that I am powerful and amazing and courageous and beautiful and ballsy and a helluva good hooper. In celebration, my daughter Emma and I spent the next several hours hooping in the backyard while I practiced those arm lifts I started on Lido Beach.
Today, I'm gonna do it again.
Thanks, Facebook, for your fucking mobile uploads. It's just the kick I needed to get me back into my body.
************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
Has a picture ever prompted you to make a change in your life?
************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside the award-winning Opening the Kimono!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, April 6, 2009
The Tit Parade
Last Saturday night, I dragged my hubby to a fancy-schmancy formal fundraiser. Needless to say, he got more than he bargained for.
It was a celebration of cleavage. Nearly every woman, young or old, was popping out of her dress (his wife included). I don't know when this fashion trend started, but somehow prominently displayed titties became the newest way to accessorize. Honestly, some of these chicks looked like they were gonna need ankle weights to keep them from floating to the ceiling. My darling husband looked like he was going to pass out, pop a chub, and die of embarrassment all at the same time. At one point he muttered, "Must. Maintain. Eye. Contact. Don't. Look. Down." Poor guy. It must have been hard. I can only imagine how challenging it would be to attend a party where every man was totally hot and had perfectly round, eminently touchable tushies. I would be distracted too.
Hubby barely survived the endless parade of gazongas while my self-esteem barely survived the self-induced comparisons (hers are bigger! hers are perkier! hers look so much better than mine!). Upon returning home, I proceeded to dismantle myself, taking off my royal blue party dress, flicking off the uncomfortable heels, unpeeling my Spankz, unsticking my stick-on bra, removing the layers of warpaint, and brushing the red wine off my pearlies. Fresh and clean, I climbed into bed wearing my favorite powder blue nightie and cuddled with my man.
That was when he showed me which ta-tas he loves the most. ;)
*******************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What is your Cleavage Quotient: melons, grapefruits, or grapes?
*******************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was a celebration of cleavage. Nearly every woman, young or old, was popping out of her dress (his wife included). I don't know when this fashion trend started, but somehow prominently displayed titties became the newest way to accessorize. Honestly, some of these chicks looked like they were gonna need ankle weights to keep them from floating to the ceiling. My darling husband looked like he was going to pass out, pop a chub, and die of embarrassment all at the same time. At one point he muttered, "Must. Maintain. Eye. Contact. Don't. Look. Down." Poor guy. It must have been hard. I can only imagine how challenging it would be to attend a party where every man was totally hot and had perfectly round, eminently touchable tushies. I would be distracted too.
Hubby barely survived the endless parade of gazongas while my self-esteem barely survived the self-induced comparisons (hers are bigger! hers are perkier! hers look so much better than mine!). Upon returning home, I proceeded to dismantle myself, taking off my royal blue party dress, flicking off the uncomfortable heels, unpeeling my Spankz, unsticking my stick-on bra, removing the layers of warpaint, and brushing the red wine off my pearlies. Fresh and clean, I climbed into bed wearing my favorite powder blue nightie and cuddled with my man.
That was when he showed me which ta-tas he loves the most. ;)
*******************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What is your Cleavage Quotient: melons, grapefruits, or grapes?
*******************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
The Little Big Things
I was interviewed by a major Tampa news anchor yesterday to discuss my book, Opening the Kimono. Guess what I was most freaked out about: answering her questions intelligently, coming across as engaging, or how my hair would look. Yep, you guessed it.
Contrary to what movies would have us believe, all TV studios are not the same. There were no artsy hair and makeup people scurrying around to make me look beautiful. Any beautification would have to take place in the confines of my own bathroom two hours before the interview. Upon waking at 5:30 in the morning, I said a quiet prayer to myself...
"Dear God, please let today's interview go well. Please help me to say the right words in the right way. Please help me to deliver my message of power and healing to as many people as possible. And for goodness sake, God, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE help me look pretty."
I then got out of bed, stumbled toward the bathroom, and proceeded to check on the first potential landmine: my complexion. Mercifully, the zit I acquired on Thursday evening after eating two minuscule bites of chocolate cake at the fancy shindig hubby and I attended had nearly disappeared. The concealer usage would be a minimum. YAY! Victory Number One.
After having a healthy breakfast, I hopped in the shower. After the suds, shampoo, and shave, I emerged feeling fresh and perky. It was now time for the next challenge: the makeup application process. With a surgeon's precision, I applied my foundation, eye shadows (all three of them), liquid eyeliner, mascara, blush, lip liner, and sassy new mocha lipstick I purchased for just this occasion. (My typical hot pink lipstick was not recommended by the media coaching books I recently devoured.) Happily, I had no cosmetic catastrophes to deal with; no mascara on the lids, no errant eyeliner. Everything looked as if I actually meant to do it. YAY! Victory Number Two.
Next, it was time for the Big Kahuna: taming my lion mane. Some days my hair looks wonderful, and other days it looks like I stuck a finger in a wall socket. I have lots of hair, and it's as curly as all get-out. Depending on the moon cycle and the generosity of the Follicle Fairies, my hair can go from sexy to scary in record time. Yesterday, I towel-dried my hair, noticing that it had the delightful texture of cooperation. After squirting liberal amounts of goop #1 (Redken Ringlet 07) into my hand, I added a ribbon of goop #2 (Redken Glass 01) and mixed them together. Attempting to mimic my hairdresser's amazing techniques, I grabbed, scrunched, and twirled my highlighted locks for several minutes until they looked ready for the final primping. After dispensing a quarter-sized dollop of goop #3 (L'oreal Fluid Intense) into my hands, I finished up the scrunching exercise and was ready for the climax: Hair spray (L'oreal infinium 4). Lots of it. This sh#t needed to keep my hair in place through an hour's drive to Tampa and my inevitable pre-show anxiety attack. After all product was applied, I was ecstatic to see the results: A Good Hair Day. YAY! Victory Number Three.
Finally, I put on The Blouse. This wasn't an ordinary blouse; it's one specifically designed to be TV-friendly. (Thanks, Stein Mart!) It is a jewel-toned, solid, button-down number made of stiff material which can hold a lavaliere mic. (It is nothing I'd actually wear in real life; I'm more of a flowy, patterny, hippy blouse kind of chick.) After donning The Blouse accompanied by my tailored black pants and cute black Liz Claiborne shoes, I eyed myself in the mirror. Lo and behold, I didn't look (or feel) as big as a house! In fact, I went so far as to say I felt...dare I say it?...PRETTY. YAY! Victory Number Four.
I was officially ready for the trek to Tampa.
As far as the interview itself went, I think I did pretty well. Honestly, I can't remember most of what I said, except I do remember mentioning my sex life with my husband. (Won't he be thrilled to see that on the news?) My publicist assures me that I rocked it, calling me inspiring and having great energy. Who knows? We'll see when the thing actually airs. It's one of those opportunities for me to trust that I did well instead of automatically assuming that I sucked ass. Unfortunately, self-judgment is a hard habit to break.
One thing is for sure: God answered my prayers yesterday morning and gave me the Little Big Things I so desperately needed.
********************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What Little Big Things (hair, skin, clothes, makeup) help you feel the most attractive?
********************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Contrary to what movies would have us believe, all TV studios are not the same. There were no artsy hair and makeup people scurrying around to make me look beautiful. Any beautification would have to take place in the confines of my own bathroom two hours before the interview. Upon waking at 5:30 in the morning, I said a quiet prayer to myself...
"Dear God, please let today's interview go well. Please help me to say the right words in the right way. Please help me to deliver my message of power and healing to as many people as possible. And for goodness sake, God, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE help me look pretty."
I then got out of bed, stumbled toward the bathroom, and proceeded to check on the first potential landmine: my complexion. Mercifully, the zit I acquired on Thursday evening after eating two minuscule bites of chocolate cake at the fancy shindig hubby and I attended had nearly disappeared. The concealer usage would be a minimum. YAY! Victory Number One.
After having a healthy breakfast, I hopped in the shower. After the suds, shampoo, and shave, I emerged feeling fresh and perky. It was now time for the next challenge: the makeup application process. With a surgeon's precision, I applied my foundation, eye shadows (all three of them), liquid eyeliner, mascara, blush, lip liner, and sassy new mocha lipstick I purchased for just this occasion. (My typical hot pink lipstick was not recommended by the media coaching books I recently devoured.) Happily, I had no cosmetic catastrophes to deal with; no mascara on the lids, no errant eyeliner. Everything looked as if I actually meant to do it. YAY! Victory Number Two.
Next, it was time for the Big Kahuna: taming my lion mane. Some days my hair looks wonderful, and other days it looks like I stuck a finger in a wall socket. I have lots of hair, and it's as curly as all get-out. Depending on the moon cycle and the generosity of the Follicle Fairies, my hair can go from sexy to scary in record time. Yesterday, I towel-dried my hair, noticing that it had the delightful texture of cooperation. After squirting liberal amounts of goop #1 (Redken Ringlet 07) into my hand, I added a ribbon of goop #2 (Redken Glass 01) and mixed them together. Attempting to mimic my hairdresser's amazing techniques, I grabbed, scrunched, and twirled my highlighted locks for several minutes until they looked ready for the final primping. After dispensing a quarter-sized dollop of goop #3 (L'oreal Fluid Intense) into my hands, I finished up the scrunching exercise and was ready for the climax: Hair spray (L'oreal infinium 4). Lots of it. This sh#t needed to keep my hair in place through an hour's drive to Tampa and my inevitable pre-show anxiety attack. After all product was applied, I was ecstatic to see the results: A Good Hair Day. YAY! Victory Number Three.
Finally, I put on The Blouse. This wasn't an ordinary blouse; it's one specifically designed to be TV-friendly. (Thanks, Stein Mart!) It is a jewel-toned, solid, button-down number made of stiff material which can hold a lavaliere mic. (It is nothing I'd actually wear in real life; I'm more of a flowy, patterny, hippy blouse kind of chick.) After donning The Blouse accompanied by my tailored black pants and cute black Liz Claiborne shoes, I eyed myself in the mirror. Lo and behold, I didn't look (or feel) as big as a house! In fact, I went so far as to say I felt...dare I say it?...PRETTY. YAY! Victory Number Four.
I was officially ready for the trek to Tampa.
As far as the interview itself went, I think I did pretty well. Honestly, I can't remember most of what I said, except I do remember mentioning my sex life with my husband. (Won't he be thrilled to see that on the news?) My publicist assures me that I rocked it, calling me inspiring and having great energy. Who knows? We'll see when the thing actually airs. It's one of those opportunities for me to trust that I did well instead of automatically assuming that I sucked ass. Unfortunately, self-judgment is a hard habit to break.
One thing is for sure: God answered my prayers yesterday morning and gave me the Little Big Things I so desperately needed.
********************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What Little Big Things (hair, skin, clothes, makeup) help you feel the most attractive?
********************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
*************************************************************************************************************************
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!
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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