Nut Job!

What the...?!

Our town undertakers (Bluebell the Bulldog and Highway the Golden Retriever's dad and granddad) own several properties around town, the most dominating one being the large old brown and yellow house that plays host to families in their time of grief, with one spectacular oak tree growing resplendent in the front lawn, a visual symbol of our area's shared genetic history.

Naturally, it also plays host to an enormous variety of wildlife, including one very large bird of prey that is the young Peregrine Falcon, a murder of loud noisy crows, as well as many other types of birds, and the fattest, happiest bunch of squirrels I have ever seen. I think this place is "Heaven" for them, their only foes the birds flying around the treetop, but food scarcity is wholly unknown as a factor in their lives.

Ohh...the squirrel that just ran away unearthed his stash. Nice!

As a result, I spied with my eye one chubby little squirrel take advantage of last week's brief afternoon thaw to dig out his trench of buried nuts that ran in a neat orderly row in the soil between the sidewalk edge and the line of snow that's shoveled. That critter actually knows where the soft dirt demarcation line is in that tiny zone, and plans for it way in advance. Genius! 

$ucking brilliant, dude. Look at all these nuts!

Wintertime fatness in an animal is a sign that it has planned well for scarcity, not a small feat in this fiercely cold clime that we live in, and something amateur housewives of yore learned the long hard way, hence the abundance of glass Mason jars and canning artifacts known to this part of the country. Squirrel is winning at the "Game of Life", and I think it knows. I love you, fat bastard!

"Fat Bastard" is smarter than some people I know. Kudos, squirrel friend!

Ash Wednesday

It's all uphill from here.

Last week, we celebrated Ash Wednesday on a beautifully sunny and bright winters' day. My life has been rather simple lately, and so, in the easiest, simplest way known to man, I actually walked (yes, I walk, for exercise and sometimes through economic necessity. I know, so weird!) my way to church for ashes, which was a journey in of itself, like so many of my daily walks are. See you soon, neighbor.

Blue glass garden ornament.

House with wrought iron ornament.

Hanging icicles, a bare shrub, and one large beige house.

Old wooden fence.

Yellow shed with ladder.

White houses on a snowy hill.

Old rusty garden fountain and spruces.

Me, Ash Wednesday* 2015.

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ash_Wednesday

“Quiching!”

The perfect hot, bubbly, cracking crust of a quiche.

The grocery store had an amazing special on eggs last week: a full 18 pack with no broken eggs for $1.88 that I couldn't pass up. Would you? Could any halfway decent chef with half a brain walk away from a bargain like that, right in the middle of a really harsh winter? No, and  "%uck no!" So, I did what any respectable artist would do, by brainstorming meal ideas, first at my mom's house with her old feminist cookbook about hating cooking, which she urged on me along with her old taped-together-as-a-binding green cookbook with horribly outdated ideas. Of course, I already knew exactly what newspaper clipping I was looking for in her recipe box, because I remembered it as the essence of simplicity in a recipe, and here it is:

A humble, simply perfect quiche recipe.

Since my days currently revolve around simple as a life concept, I knew right away that this recipe was the basic standby I recalled from my childhood, because it seems like something my grandfather would make. Norman people are not typically fussy, overblown drama queens, nor are our shared recipes.

I gilded the lily (just like you would with any basic template) by adding mushrooms, onions, and good cheddar cheese, poured into an also-simple, easy pie crust from a box that just needed water added to it, with as few ingredients as you can make a pre-made, powdered concoction to be.

The perfectly flaky pie crust that crumbles into layers....from a box!

The result was perfection, and it occurred to me as I sat, stood, bent over, and alternately stooped achingly over a stainless steel bowl of egg whites, that I had just made my quiche into a sport, so athletic are cooking exertions without the messy clutter of stupid gadgets that don't ever work as well as one healthy, talented human being. 
Behold, human! I have made "Quiching" into a sport, and it is good.

I ate three pieces of quiche after it came out of the oven.

The Perfect Studio

Ever since I was a child, I wanted to live as any artist would, either in some old Parisian attic atelier, or a big city loft, or a large one room studio. In my mind, it simplifies life down to the necessary essentials (with way less cleaning involved), plus there's plenty of Romantic tall windows pouring in natural light, which define my lifelong scholarship: the study of light and optics within the natural world as it relates to the human condition. 

But, time and money conspired greatly against me: I either had a family member to take care of, or I couldn't afford it on my salary, or some man and/or a college friend wanted to muscle in on my living situation, such is my ability to properly house myself on less.

And so, many, many years after I originally conceived of it, I finally realized my lifelong dream of "aloneness" and oneness in one simply beautiful, humble studio space that I can share with you all. I can finally say with a sigh of relief that I spent my mid-years according to my ideals of comfort, style, and simplicity, and that I willingly left my "Bachelorette" years behind me just as I foresaw and designed them to be; on my terms and on my home turf. I can have the luxury of saying to my loved ones, at the end of all my years here on earth, that I ended my bachelorhood as splendidly as I entered it: perfectly beautifully. See it here, for yourself.

 
 

The Perfect One-Room Studio (Pearl River, N.Y., 2015).

Exercise and Athleticism: The Real Deal

Over the summer.

I've been thinking about age, weight, and the body for a long, long time; much longer than I actually want to or care to. It began with my mother's poor self image, which is related to her "odd" body shape: a large head with a sort of squat, short-limbed body and a protuding belly that she always blamed on her kids, even though the spinsters in her family carry their excessive weight in the exact same ways. 

Sports bra and shorts, summer of '14. Not skinny, chick.

Then there was the neurotic former "star" Rockette ballet instructor and her weirdo adopted kid who used our kiddie classes to alternately berate us with their barbed and thinly-veiled derisive comments to push more lessons on us by dangling out dreams of a Lincoln Center dance career in the city, starting with dropping pasta as a food at age 9 or 10, followed by more pointed comments about "blubber" that "flopped about" during classes (of which I had none), and the roundness of my so-called gymnasts' booty, because I actually have an ass. It was all very pseudo-lesbionic, and so not interesting to me, so I Ieft that whole dysfunctional world far behind me as a pre-teen.

In order to punch hard, you need to have the arms for it.

But it still haunted me and my friends in each and every place out in the world, in one stupid way or another: competitive jealousies that seethed over into hatred, petty pissant aggressions, and other strange mindsets that I avoid like the plague, no matter what social group it infects. Want to act like ten year old "frenemy" rivals who get angry, drunk, and kissy? Look elsewhere, sister, or better yet, go audition for that new reality show, because you and your bipolar ways are exactly the type of star those cats are looking for. Me? I'm interested in keeping my health reasonably well and doing things with my body that include eating and moving about. I also sleep well, too. 

That means I also have pronounced arm muscles when I flex.

So, here it is, in full unretouched color: the actual body of a 45 year old woman with 12 (I think?) belt rankings in various martial art disciplines, who also does yoga, walks each and every day uphill, eats really good food, and takes probiotics. That's it.  No supplements, no drugs, no botox, and no removable body parts. It's just me and my old iPhone, with no Photoshop or fancy software apps, nor special lenses, filters, gadgets, or any other devices. Me, alone, in my apartment, trying to take pictures that capture me as I look when you see me out and about in real life.

Back and shoulder width to deliver through on a punch.

It's jarring, but there it is. The truth. I know a lot of folks in the media game who get their heads twisted by it, like an ex-friend in production design who gets paid to airbrush women's photos for ads and magazines, then seemed shocked when the men she met from the Internet called her out for tweaking her photo online. Huh. You mean, that's unethical?! I sat there mute at some bar drinking a beer while she bitched about being turned down for her "weight" by some guy who probably sucks, too. Bizarre: a bunch of headcases playing mental games on each other. Why?

I also have visible thigh muscles for strength, too.

Of course the answer is that people with mental problems also have problems with just about each and every facet of their lives, with a very long list that includes (but is not limited to): dating humans, human's and their weight, body image, and just about any other fucking thing you can imagine, plus a few you and I can't anticipate, what with a good night's sleep, decent food, and fresh air and all.

I should look like I have no real features because airbrushing is cool!

True, I'm hip to it all: photography, lighting, composition, framing, cropping, color, posing, editing, and choosing flattering images with good proportions through my art and design education combined with years and years of demanding publishing experience, so, yeah, I can understand checking out of reality with a phony, dangerously unhealthy fantasy...or, wait, can I?! Of course not! That's fucking insane, human, and you fucked up.

I've done years of crunches without caving my stomach inward!

I also know that fair skin is harder to light and photograph because it shows more flaws, like our dearth of supposedly gross "cellulite", and that's why t.v. is dominated by the "Oompa Loompa" orange set! Just spray on a weirdo skin tone to mask all those flaws, and slap on a grossly over-inflated pair of plastic boobs to balance out those feminine hips, bust, thighs, and butt. Diet it away and replace it with plastic parts!  I mean, what do fans know about what people really look like outside of Hollywood pictures? It's all make-believe! Right? Amiright?!

No worries, though. This underwear will make me super human!

Once again, human, you are wrong. I'm a proud New Yorker, and when I walk my muthfuckin' streets, my people see me. They see me in the daytime, they see me at night, they see me in good light, and they see me in fluorescent. They see me with makeup or without, they see me with blemishes, and also with sunny freckles. They see me age well, not like a plastic object, but as a real beautiful woman who wears sunblock every day because doctors advise us to do so, and I am humble (and healthy) enough to do so.

There will be no scrawny people in my life, and that includes me.

I've been really thin and I've been somewhat thicker, but for the most part I am (and will probably always be) a size 6, just like my shoe size. I refuse to give a fuck what some random headcase thinks, and that includes you; not because I dislike you particularly, but because your fucked up mindset is part of the problem, and I am part of the solution. That is the battle between good and evil, and I will ultimately win the fight because I always have, and I always will.

These are called "abs". You get them through consistent exercise.

That doesn't mean I'm going to go out of my way to make bad photos, or unflattering ones, or compress my "fat" in a deliberate way to prove that I have some on me, because I am a natural woman and I do have fat, just like my gender always has. We have it for very good reasons, mostly related to healthy childbirth and managing pain well.

More muscle, this time at night and in pink booty shorts!

Nor does it mean that I'll pay a photographer to make me look good, because that's not what this lesson is about. This is about realness, and you may call me a lot of names, but inauthentic will never be one of them. I actually like modeling, and thought about it (like every NYC kid does) as a teenager to make me some money for college, over duller jobs like working retail in some boring strip mall store.

I also have muscle on the inside of my legs, too!

But just because I work media and I understand fashion does not mean I approve of the strictly enforced anorexia and bulimia that currently rules the runways, because I do not. When I see it, I see the same thing you do: a hardcore, deeply ingrained, and institutionalized mental illness that hasn't abated in many, many years. Not one (NOT ONE) of the heterosexual men I have dated over the years like me thinner over fully fleshed out. NOT ONE SINGLE MAN, and I have dated a bevy of very handsome and desirable ones. 

Me letting it all hang out. These are my real breasts!

Tightening my abdominal muscles.

Which lends me to believe that the hip-less boob-less monstrosities we see every day in movies and t.v. are not designed for men and the women who love them, which, once again, does not interest me. I do not sleep with gay men or women, nor do I have anything against anyone who does. But, what do I care what they think? Would you?!

You have to then ask yourself, "Why?" Why do you love an ideal that has more to do with heavily gay fashion, design, and media than it does with you as a woman and your health? Why is that your priority? Your man knows what he likes in you (and they love it, girls, THEY LOVE IT)! What are trying to prove? What exactly are you trying to do? What the hell is your goal, human?

Think about it. Think about what I've written, and then get back to me about weight, bodies, health, eating food, getting sleep, and regular fitness built into your days. Until then, I'll see you out and about while I live my life, because that's ultimately what my winning strategy is about: winning and succeeding at life. See you when you come out the other side of this issue. Good health this weekend, lovers!
 

Food! The Wintertime Edition

I have a bunch of food pics that I started taking right after Thanksgiving, with the arrival of our very first snow of the season, and most of it comprised of hot, salty foodstuffs. Yum! Here we go, bangerz. 
Let's get into it:

Crack an egg in a pan, put it on top of a leftover salad, and call it "done".

Skipping breakfast for that second cup of coffee? Word! I got you, bro: go for it brunch-style with a fried egg on top of that already-dressed leftover salad and you're done, just like me. I have stuff to do anyway, and I want to get out the door quick, yo. Ain't got time for dishes and fussy stuff today!

Steak and eggs for breakfast: it's a dish every guy knows.

Same deal with this bitch right here: take leftover food from last night's doggie bag, add a cracked egg in the middle of them pan drippings, slice up a spicy white onion real quick, and you're done. You're welcome. (On a side note: this steak sucked as a dinner entree, but slammed as a late breakfast that became my lunch. Resting overnight in a fridge done it right, homey.)

Imported Italian grape tomatoes canned in olive oil. That's slick yo.

I found an excellently-priced item made by my local grocery store that was on sale and came in a can: these beautifully-shaped, perfectly ripe, whole grape tomatoes stewing in olive oil and imported from Italy. Priced right, packaged well. Also a done deal, and so friggin' fresh-tasting, it's like you picked them that morning from your Italian grandmother's herb garden with a handful of leaves from the basil plant, right outside her kitchens' sliding glass door that's conveniently placed for your optimal cooking pleasure. I know! I know. That good. 
I cooked them down in a sauce with some leftover eggplant for a spaghetti dinner. Yeah, baby!

A late night diner classic: the perfectly melted "Grilled Cheese" sandwich.

Sometimes, all you want to eat for lunch is a melted American cheese sandwich (that we call a "Grilled Cheese" sandwich), with some deli pickles on the side. I had it as a lunch almost exclusively for an entire year in my grammar school days, (sometimes alongside a bowl of Campbell's tomato soup that's made with milk instead of water, with some crumbled Saltines on top that you fish out as they go soggy, which is a really fun thing for a kid to do), so I can attest to its' long legs as a foodstuff that goes the distance. It stays with you, man.
You know what I mean?

Swiss-made, with stylistic origins of the Pennsylvanian Dutch who live here.

I found these imported Ginger cookies on sale in a cardboard display at the end of the cookie aisle that was priced to move, so I did it. 
They were just OK with a cup of tea (and all you fuckin' Micks know exactly what I mean, so don't front that you and your mam don't do that every single friggin' afternoon, yo), but I found that I loved the Dutch Swiss design reminiscent of our own Pennsylvania Dutch culture here (my family lived briefly in Pennsylvania) that has remained largely untouched and linguistically intact, thanks to the isolationist practices of the Amish who live there still. Quaint, n'est-ce pas?

Have a banquet for $.88! I can (and will) accept this as a foodstuff to eat.

I bought three different flavors of these cheap pot pies that were on sale for .88 cents apiece. 'Nuff said really: it's all salty, melt-y, gooey, hot gravy goodness. That's it, right?

More salt with hot gravy, meat, and potatoes. Please!

Don't forget an old reliable like this can of salt and gravy that's heated up in a small saucepan. My mom always kept it in her pantry for us to eat when we wanted something quick (that, or a small can of Beefaroni, yo), and we did the same thing during our college days on tiny hot plates in a small dorm room while living on a very cold upstate New York mountain top. It was priced right (that's reads as "cheap"), and I wanted it. That's what I can say about that.

A hard-boiled egg on half of a toasted and buttered sesame seed roll.

I had eggs, I had leftover sesame seed rolls that were going stale fast, and I had butter; I was also hungry and running short on food, time, and money, so this is what I did with those ingredients, and I had two of them in a row. Hey man, good eats to you today. 

Enjoy life and eat something today, will ya?