The Geographic Cure

The "Four Corners" of the American West exemplifies the idea that we are tied to our native lands by much more than a superficial connection, because any tourist who's been there can tell you that the biggest distinguishing feature to the monument is the same dusty red dirt on all four sides. Where does one state begin and the other end? Without a marker, you might not ever know.

That's not to say that it doesn't mean something to the people who live there. I hiked Harriman Park one summer several times with my dad, and for me, it became a lesson in identifying the landscape: first were the sticker bushes at the beginning of the trail, a small hillside with a dead deer slowly decaying, then a stand of pines above a waterfall, next to a rock quarry. By memorizing it, I was able to find my way in and out of the mountain, day or night. Those woods became home to me.

Most borderlines are like that, too: clearly defined by mountain chains, big lakes, or an entire ocean, just as I know that my eczema is worse in the warmer weather of New York because I'm missing the cold water seafood of Nova Scotia. And no, I can't pop a couple of pills or pile on expensive (and probably toxic) prescription-only lotions, gels, and salves. My body IS the land that I come from, so closely is our health reliant on this connection.

Armed with knowledge and experience, I avoided most of the pitfalls that accompany people who move around frequently. I didn't (and don't) pretend that a different view or country will cure or improve the human condition, as much as I can accurately recognize what a real home is, what "home" means to me, and when it isn't that, unlike many of my friends and peers who feel that changing locales is like going to a fun, new, costume party every single night of the week.

At its worst? An old college classmate of mine who was a typical Middle American cheerleader from Minnesota, then a fashion designer all about clothes and arty trends, and then a burnt-out Californian in her 30s and 40s just looking to "mellow out and chase waves", when she'd once been afraid of swimming alone in the Atlantic Ocean without her native Northeastern friends by her side in the water. Of course, besides the outfit changes lies her serious case of manic-depression that's incurable, which is the real "final frontier" for us, as human beings: the inner-space of our minds, filled as they may be with the broken dreams of what might've been. It's time to come home.

Joie de Vivre

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joie_de_Vivre 

Like Wadsworth's "Evangeline" and her happy Acadian family with the beautiful black eyes living in a fertile river valley, my joy at being alive is something I can't always hide, even when it is more convenient to the people around me (or more appropriate to their customs) for me to do so. In Asian cultures, a big toothy smile is often seen as the prelude to a false act, like an overly solicitous shopkeeper trying to sell you damaged goods, or the villain dressed in black from a martial arts movie with one hand behind his back, waiting to press the button down on a bomb detonator. "Oh! Haha! You die! You die, now! Hahaha!"

Let me assure you, laughter and smiling in my culture is a sign of happiness, not deeply repressed anger or hostility. If being psycho makes you happy, you need to see a reputable doctor. Like, now. At the office it was even weirder, attracting notice wherever I went, with whomever the audience, as thinly-veiled digs that were supposed to function like so many pins popping so many balloons of mine, like the child I haven't been for quite some time. I guess when you grow up without a wailing wall at your disposable, problems are much less interesting as a showpiece for attention.

We grew up with sayings like "misery loves company" and "keep a stiff upper lip", followed by my dad's favorite "the sun comes up tomorrow" as a rip-off from the popular Broadway play "Annie". It is culturally entrenched among my people to handle problems by solving them through hard work, not worrying over them like a hangnail by "pouring salt on an open wound". There is a time to grieve, and there is a time to live, and we get to savor the richness of life through our emotions and feelings. No one is excluded from it.

Most evenings, I enjoy watching the updated version of the popular game show "Family Feud", most particularly for its inclusive representation of American families, encouraged and culled as they are by the staff of the show and their host, actor/comedian Steve Harvey. It's a lot more real than so-much genteel hand-kissing and flirting, much as I loved Rich Dawson's campy turns about the stage in the 70s and 80s. For the family that makes it to the speed round at the end of the show comes a quick sucession of answers to really hard questions, like last night's repeat episode.

The question was: on a scale of one-to-ten, how happy are you at being alive? The attractive African-American woman answered "TEN!" right away, at the same time as me. After her turn, another nicely-dressed family member came out to answer the same questions, with the extra burden of answering again if she repeated the first contestant's answers. It's a telling way to hear how families have the same mindset through their similiar answers made under the gun. Same question: how happy? And again, same lightning quick response: "TEN!"

Uh uh. Try again. "NINE!" Next best thing, right? And like that <snap!>, I felt less alone in the world, as a part of an "oppressed" people supposedly so drug down through the mud that we can't get clean. Right? Wrong! Wrong answer. I felt like we was all in the same room togetha, and we could be! That's the magic of inclusiveness, and faith, and family. You can't burn your way through it. Suddenly, I knew there were other people in the world like me, and do you know how I felt? Yup. Happy. That's the "joie de vivre" that marks our particular flavor, and you're welcome to it. That's being Acadian, y'all.

Wanted Child

http://www.plannedparenthood.org/learn/relationships/

For many years, we've been inside of one of the darkest ages known to man, and therein lies the answer, because homocentric societies are not actually the majority for modern homosapiens. In other words, artificial divisions between our two genders (with a very occasional third or fourth thrown into the mix) is not only atypical, it is, in many cases, highly disordered. Of course there are exceptions to this general rule, like some women in military outfits and law enforcement, but most gender-divided labors are jobs that strongly favor males who can undergo the extreme physical requirements needed (again, with a few minor exceptions), because they have the necessary strength and uncommon stamina to lift very heavy weights for long distances, over long time periods. 

Men and women are different. Oh, we'll always have a few people who think life is unfair in this respect, though I'm not sure why. As a woman, I accept those facets of myself that are linked to my sex, because I wouldn't be a biologically genetic woman without them. 
I cannot imagine as an mature adult not having a uterus, or those feminine inclinations towards home and health for loved ones, because these traits so deeply imbedded within me through my DNA, that I know these instincts developed over many, many years of evolution, for us and other closely-related primate species.

And so it has always bothered me that people confuse faith with sex, which is one of the greatest ironies of all, given that a key component to Roman Catholic service is celibacy, a necessary factor for clergy, because sublimation of the sexual self is devoted to the leading of a much bigger flock than having a single family with some children. Our Brothers and Sisters in Christ have some of the most brutally hard work schedules on the planet. They care for all of our families from birth to death, and over several lifetimes, if they are blessed with the gift of longevity. It goes without saying that is it best for clergy to live in sequestered quarters divided by sex. Think not? Imagine me as an acolyte in your faithful religious order, and you're already halfway there.

Over time, many traditional Catholic families funneled intelligent (and homosexual) children into the church, while the secular world grew up about minority sexualities. Would you want your child murdered for something they do not control? Unfortunately, sending a gay man into religious service is a lot like suiting up your really handsome young son for the army, where he will get into the best shape of his life, which is kind of like sending him to an all-hours gay bar without the cover charge, so much so that gay men joke that going to the gym is like going to "Gay Church", so lauded is being "buff" in gay culture. So why would we allow our celibate and sometimes gay men determine our reproductive health? Does it not seem like uncommonly bad logic to advise women about their bodies, when you are a devout (and possibly gay) brother or father of the cloth?

It's seems insane that we asked these young men, many of whom have never had any experience with girls and their bodies, to talk to us about what is holy in our lives, and yet that's exactly what we did. We asked them to give up sex completely to form parishes, build schools, educate our children, ordain us in every rite we have, and then seriously devote their entire intellectual lives to education based on gender. Of course, they did it, but not well. Would you ask a woodworker to weld for you? Naturally, a talented craftsman can learn other disciplines, but this is about ten thousand times harder than that. It's like asking them to attend the hardest school you will never be able to attend, while undergoing the most brutal physical training one's body can do, for people who may never say "thank you" to your face, nor understand the rigors about this act of devotion that you willingly gave up so you could take a vow of poverty with a smile on your face, while you ritualistically "marry" (for the women) a man called "Christ" who died many years ago, a man who also celibate.

And yet, the brilliant abstaining members of our church did the best they could, by advising that we don't do "that", a "that" that we know they may or may not understand. And so we did "it" anyway, then asked them to clean up our messes, which they did through discreetly concealed adoptions, a practice of buying-and-selling the children of girls and women that is still intact today. Even stranger still, it became a "sin" for women to practice responsible reproduction through the use of widely available medications (not that I think birth control pills are healthy for most girls to use long-term, but I'll get into that at some other time), and the occasional use of humane medical procedures like a routine D&C*, often for single young women who would be ostracized and forever impoverished by having children at the wrong time in their tender lives, outside of the holy sacrament of marriage.

Because the hierarchical structure of the Catholic Church has been largely dominated by celibate men for many centuries, it grew odder still: men were not sent to an Eternal Burning Hell for having a medical procedure called a "Vasectomy", while their Catholic females mates often struggled in earnest with basic healthcare and their unasked-for female reproductive organs, bodies that typically produce children whether we want it or not. We asked our many faithful to help us while they remained ignorant about our daily lives, and then blamed them when they cared for us in this regard poorly. 

It became such a weird horror show, that I was personally beset here at the public library by a demented man sitting next to me who thought that women willingly killed their own babies by crushing their skulls and/or slitting their throats as they gave birth, eagerly assisted in these supposedly satanic acts by doctors who took delight and glee in torturing women with strange medical instruments of their own secret devising, like a delusional haunted house diorama staged in an empty insane asylum for thrills and chills during the Halloween season. 

How could the outcome of our church be any different? It wasn't, for Dark Age after Dark Age to Darker Ages, still; stuck in this perpetual cycle of ignorance, fear, and hatred, when in reality, the very gifted, learned, and most assuredly brilliant-minded people of my faith knew that most people's lives are the exact opposite of some twisted fairy tale wrought by feverish minds for sport and amusement, because what we really want(ed) is a loving, holy family of wanted children, so much so, that today I want ask you to consider this: isn't it actually a most sacred and divine hope that each and every human child is born to a loving family? In truth, my most impassioned and fervent desire is that each and every child born to man and woman is a wanted child.

Welcome to the end of oppression, my good and faithful friends. Today is a brand new day! I offer you forgiveness, absolution, and a freedom from shame about your bodies that were given to you through G-d's Unending Wisdom; a beautiful human body for you and your loving partner to enjoy forever and ever, amen. His Grace, Mercy, and Kindness are yours for the taking. Take it! I offer it to you though Him, as an end to your fears, your sometimes intense loneliness, perhaps your long-suffering guilt, and what was once a never-ending shame. Start to live. Start to live today! Join us in this century. We want you on-board with us; seek and find resolution to your woes. We're waiting for you on the other side. I promise you that. 

 Every child a wanted child.

http://bit.ly/1L0S4c8

  

Your homework for today, dumb-ass: http://users.rcn.com/jkimball.ma.ultranet/BiologyPages/S/SexHormones.html

* https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#q=What+is+a+D%26C+%3F

Cocoon

All of my life I've had healing powers, so much so that my mom (who likes to play skeptic) was forced to tell me so directly to my face. It's a huge "win" for me, but a severe loss in her magically passive-aggressive "Wonderland of Rightness", with rules according to "Dr. Diane". She pretty much had to, because I've nursed her through such severe injuries, breaks, falls, and surgeries, that there were times when, even in her delusion fantasies, she didn't think she'd make it back, going so far as to say to me a few times "I'd be dead without you". Fear not, New Yorkers; she'd lapse right back into snarky self-righteousness, right after I picked her up off the floor. Again. 

In this century, we have companies with paid personnel who exist to help old ladies from their apartment floors and cloudy senses of reality, with such great hits from my mom like: "I was very athletic when I was young. You don't know!" Really? What did you do? "I walked bridges! I used to walk all the time." Yeah, I know. It's called "New York", not "Oz", and you were sixteen years old at the time, which means you should be able to walk a few miles, and you did it one time exactly. What else?

"No, no, no. I used to ski. I'm an excellent skier!" When? Once, on your honeymoon in the Poconos, so you could make fun of Dad comin' from broke-ass Bed Stuy because you knew he wouldn't be able to do a rich white man sport the very first time he put on downhill skis. Or, was it the time you tripped playing tennis and broke your back, which we nursed you back from? "OK. Let's change the subject. You're getting on my nerves." That's what I thought. Win all over it.

It's right up there with her superior sense of martial arts skills above me and my very-belted bro, because years ago I introduced her to Tai Chi while I was taking classes. I showed her a video I had on hand, and then I either gave it to her or bought her one of her own for Christmas, but, basically, my deal. She went home, found a "Bubbies-only" Tai Chi class in Westchester that's sit-down in a chair, then bragged to everyone for years about how "good" she was. "See? Look at me punch. Look, Marie! I'm really good at it! My teacher said so." Good at simulating punching...yeah, I know you like to hit.

Anyway, back to reality. Everyone in my family who's had direct contact with me gets healed. My cousin Susan beat Stage 4 lymphatic cancer, and she was the only one in her control group to do so. She chain-smoked cigarettes the whole time, too, much to my dad's embarrassment when he picked her up after her doses of chemo curbside, as a small bald child with a headscarf was wheeled into the facility. Wave "hi!" to them! She also beat the secondary cancers afterward, knowing the aggressive treatment she had was the cause. 

Of course, it isn't magic. She had the right attitude, and she did everything her doctors told her to do (rare for her personality type), plus she was motivated to heal for her son, who would be orphaned if she died. Then, my dad had cancer. He beat it, too. Ditto with my mom and her sisters. Of course, they all used traditional Western medicine, as well as some homeopathic kinds, too.

It's become such an open thing with me that I don't even really try to stop people from making the connection any more, mystical guru powers aside. I made friends with an odd but friendly Korean lady who was taking martial arts at the same dojo. She really sucked at it, but she wanted to make herself feel better from both physical and mental symptoms, so she continued with it, despite an utter lack of focus, continuity, muscle mass, and talent. After she figured out that a few cheap kickboxing classes do not cure you from being a lonely orphan in a new country or painful sciatica, she decided to add into her already ridiculously over-packed life Acupuncture classes, at a professional school in Manhattan.

Over brunch one morning, she played with light conversational sparring techniques that are much more effective in Asia than New York City, where we knew all the flava's here, honey. By now, she knew I was some "big-time" Art Director in publishing, which meant her prior career as a commercial print-making designer for a Chinatown textile firm that fronted her the money to relocate here meant squat to me, though I was delighted to learn that she was artistic at one time. She then worked in massage (got that down, too) and her new studies at the traditional school of medicine that's part voodoo folklore mixed with some basic common sense.

After she cleaned her plate way faster than me, a sophisticated salad of greens perfectly dressed for summer, remarking on the deliciousness of the food in every restaurant I took her to during our brief friendship, she said to me that I should seriously consider becoming an herbalist at her school for Asian folk and their wanna-be's. After a few more outings with her, when I casually body-surfed expertly in an ocean she was afraid of and then schooled her in my 'hood, I noticed that she gradually distanced herself from me, in that way that I've come to know as the typically passive-aggressive Asian lady brush-off. 

I could see that she didn't have much to come back with, and I didn't have the heart to tell her that my mom was one of the first female botanists at the Bronx Botanical Gardens, or that the devoted people of my faith have made real discoveries in medicine that are now worldwide cures, from the traditional abbey herbal gardens that span thousands of years. She wasn't listening to me, anyway.


Yes, my Asian peoples of the world: it's time to get over your "foreigner" fears. School is now in session! Please to enjoy the following links:
http://www.scienceinschool.org/2013/issue27/monastic
http://legacy.fordham.edu/halsall/medny/herbgdn1.html
http://bit.ly/1KpoTz4

All That Jazz!

America, meet the Jennings: http://r29.co/1I8ZU1Q

I've been fascinated with the recent heightened awareness about the transgender community for awhile now, because I see them as cultural "outsiders" like me, but not for something of our particular creation. How can this be true? A gay man does not choose to have a brain shape that more closely resembles the brain of a heterosexual woman, a change that occurs during the earliest phases of fetal gestation, which makes it almost impossible for a mother to have any control over it, although photographic imaging technology improves our ability to see almost daily. 

It's given us the necessary scientific evidence we need to help treat our populations who have long suffered from false accusations of choice. How the heck does a small embryo "choose" his or her brain shape? Through sheer willpower?! It sounds absurd to us now that we know better, and yet during the Salem witch hunt days, Puritans wrongly believed women with moles were witches and burned them to death by tying them to a stake, albeit with the "holiest" of motives. Where was the compassion for a common skin feature then? 

What has always been taboo to the typically European "white man" has, in fact, always been accepted (not perfectly, but much better) by native First Nations of America** as a human part of tribal life. In fact, many societies accept the third gender as a natural part of life, the way a mother accepts her child's Albinism; it's a rare but beautiful thing.

Enter into the scene my favorite kiddie New Yorker, beautiful baby Jazz, a wunderkind dynamo if ever there was. From the age of two or three, Jazz told her parents she was a girl, because she is a girl. Not in all facets, yet (because she's still a teenager), but internally, deep in her brain, where we've yet to go where with our still-limited technical abilities, although I feel more confident than ever that we will get the correct results, because this mama ain't ever wrong about what she knows to be true. And so were Jazz's really "New Yawk" parents sure, too; two very normal Longyland people from totally normal backgrounds, who had no idea what "trans" was, let alone suggest it to their baby in utero. 

But what they did have (and still do) was the love, compassion, intelligence, and faith to understand that they did not raise a liar, or a cheat, or a sneak, certainly not as a cute lil' toddler. They choose to love, accept, support, and take care of their special little girl; not because you like it, but because they have G-d's absolute empathy and understanding, just like do you.

Oh, I know all about the wackos who can easily throw up Bible scripture like they wrote it yesterday and understand it perfectly, but as someone who has seen firsthand many people with learning disorders and mentally disabilities struggle to read one perfect, easy book (think of "Bible Study" as Special Ed for the spiritually inept), you know what I'm up against here. All I ask is that you let me tend to my own kind while I get you the information you need, in a way that you can understand. That's it. You don't have to do a thing. I got this one.

Special "shout-outs" to the wonderfully smart Dr. Marci*** for leading the way by honoring her Hippocratic Oath, and actively using her experienced background as a transgender healer to make a difference by saving lives one person at a time, and my man Chaz Bono for staying strong and true. It ain't easy being real in a world that can seem so fake at times, but that's exactly where all the gloriously good stuff is. Thanks for leading the way.


*      http://www.thestar.com/life/health_wellness/2008/06/17/gayness_linked_to_brain.html

**    https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Two-Spirit

***  http://marcibowers.com/

Skeleteon in the Closet

Pour vous, Isabelle.

Summertime is a big deal for a lot of women, and not just because school is out, and the kids are home ALL DAY LONG. I never really thought adversely about going to the beach or the pool, because I've been a swimmer for as long as I can remember. What's not to like? But, like any other social situation filled with strangers and new people comes the attitude that many women and girls have about their bodies. I don't have any issues about mine, because I do the right things: I eat clean, good food that I enjoy cooking and eating, I walk every day, I do yoga or swim or practice martial arts...something happens in my life to keep me on track, because I am motivated to have the best life ever. 
I want to have fun and enjoy myself.

Don't get me wrong; I smoked and drank my way through the SUNY school system like any other college kid on a strict budget, but I never got it twisted. I actually wanted to show off my bikini body every year, and why wouldn't I? I work hard at it, and I want to stay beautiful for as long as I can for my partner, because I care about how he feels. I know he thinks the same way about himself towards me, too. Not that MMA is the sport for "working out", because it is extremely intense training (like my childhood ballet lessons that could have been a really serious career), but I have had points in my life when I gained unwanted weight from neglect, typically because I was working a job so stressful, most people take some sort of drug (or cocktail) to get through it. 

And so, try as I might, I no longer feel any pressures to conform to any standard other than the one I set for myself, because childhood was my time for insecurities. I survived my time in grade school, with mean bullies and schoolyard taunts. That doesn't mean today's "PSA" is a joke; far from it. Every day in my happy little home here in the Hudson Valley I see my beautiful people out in public, mixing it up in our common community spaces with people far less fortunate than us. They say the Irish are blessed with luck, charm, and good looks, and that's true, though I think it's more than a fair trade off for centuries of brutal oppression, military occupation, and countrywide starvation. 
We earned it proper. 

Yet, many cultures still demonize their women for their looks (or lack thereof), which leaves one to wonder why a woman with a serious brain disorder would dare hope to have a happy, healthy, attractive child. From what?! Thin air? It takes a lot more than running around a track like a lunatic because your mom committed suicide, and 30 years later you still can't talk about it until you are gaunt and winded. The work that I do (physical stuff included) is a lot more demanding than me running away from my problems and the world, just as starvation and hunger will not bring you the peace you seek. You need help, and I'll be here for you, girl, but first ya gotta eat something. I mean it.

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/12/31/world/europe/31caro.html?_r=0

 

Killer

Fake food makers and sellers are the new pharmaceutical companies, and "Big Pharma" was the beast that replaced the tobacco industry. It's disconcerting for lobbyists and other middle men, because if they can't skim off the top, who will feed them?! 

And that's the problem with stealing the flame from your neighbor's hearth: it robs everyone else in the tribe of life-giving warmth and protective light, forcing us back into the cold dark befitting scavengers who prey off the good that a torch-bearer brings, which means this in"Newspeak"*: evil does not change garb often, because it can't. 

http://www.medicaldaily.com/pulse/soft-drink-dangers-8-ways-soda-negatively-affects-your-health-319054#

Bad people are not as good as us because they never have been, and they never will be. Oh sure, one can conjure up a false sympathy for the devil and his agents, but at the end of every day's light lurks a demon of the night seeking to benefit from creeping around the edges of a real society's earnest efforts. 

Let's not allow them to win in this century, eh? Time for the Dawn of a New Age. Let's begin this age of enlightenment today and every day afterward, until we get what we need.

http://www.nyc.gov/html/doh/html/living/cdp_pan_pop.shtml 

http://www.nyc.gov/html/doh/html/living/sugarydrink-media.shtml 

http://www.medicaldaily.com/bye-bye-sugary-drinks-what-happens-your-body-when-you-stop-drinking-soda-326034

 

*Newspeak is the fictional language in the novel Nineteen Eighty-Four, written by George Orwell. It is a controlled language created by the totalitarian state Oceania as a tool to limit freedom of thought, and concepts that pose a threat to the regime such as freedom, self-expression, individuality, and peace.

Killer Bee

Killer Bee, indeed.

Last week, the honeysuckle bloomed sweetly after an evening rainfall. It drew me to it, and I wasn't the only one. I noticed a large bee on the hood of a white car parked nearby, as I picked some still-wet flowers for a home bouquet. It wasn't just any fat and lazy bumblebee either: this was a bad-ass hunter (like my encounter with juvenile dragonfly), with the same "no-moving-me" stance. I got closer to take a few pics, and it clamped down tighter on its' smaller bee meal like any champ would. That's part of the point about this life we lead: we consume other life as is dictated by the demands of our highly evolved physiology. That doesn't mean rampant, unchecked, voracious factory-style consumption, with a violent, vicious, slaughterhouse mentality. We don't need that much meat. 

Humans are omnivores, as adaptable and flexible as life is. We are very successful as a species because of it, after millennium following the animal herds we hunted for sustenance, grazing off locally available plants and nuts, gathering those things around us in the environment that we could carry and use. I'm not advocating some trendy "Neanderthal" diet (see our optimal diet here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_nutrition), because we are no longer those animals. But, I am most certainly arguing for a return to more compassionate farming, based on our ancient recognition that very few animals have the longevity our species Homo sapien* does. In response to these innate gifts, it is your duty as a caretaker of this planet to preserve biodiversity through mindful eating. Really, why would you do anything else? We have advanced based on empathy as one of our core strengths. This is no time to leave it behind. 

http://www.fieldandstream.com/photos/gallery/hunting/2008/10/bull-elk-takes-wolf-pack

Consider this example from the animal kingdom, from the sentient, sophisticated, and highly sensitive species that is Our Brother Wolf (see more about Native beliefs towards animals here: http://www.pantheism.net/paul/history/native-americans.htm). I saw a nature special on public television that followed one pack hunting a herd: suddenly, the fast-running Alpha broke away from the pack with a second-ranking, younger, smaller Omega to hunt an older Elk, also followed by a smaller, younger animal. After the rest of the pack tired of a futile chase, the pack sagely left their pursuits to meet up with the duo that had camped out in the brush to watch the old Elk huff and puff on the ground. Into the night, the pack maintained their vigil, to the amazement of the group filming them in this unprecedented and hereto unobserved animal drama that is the very stuff of life and death.

In the early hours of the morning the old bull died, and after an appropriate amount of time, so feasted a well-rested pack in rank order. It remains one of the greatest iterations of "Thou Shall Not Kill" I've ever seen. We can consume and live within our ecosystem by carefully observing the laws of nature that already exist here on Earth for us to follow. This world was created for your greater glory, as your destiny and birthright. Go for it! You do not have to live in guilt and shame. Learn more about life on earth, and live more. I want better for you, as I do for all life. It's worth it: http://www.uusc.org/ccc-resources-for-organizing-your-congregation-or-community, http://heritagefoodsusa.com/about_us.php, and http://compassionatefarming.org/.

Bigger bee beats smaller bee in the game of life.

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Homo_sapiens_%28disambiguation%29

Wholesomeness

http://grimm.wikia.com/wiki/Hexenbiest

It's been remarked to me more than once than I have an air of fresh, good clean health about me, and that's mostly true. Oh, I do have the occasional smoke or alcohol overindulgence when I'm in the mood for party time excellence, but nowadays it's rarer and rarer, because I'd rather produce work in service to you. I am, however, an actual native New York kid, so there ain't much I don't know about, or have not done in the past, or know someone who does it, whether it's illicit or not. 

How do I stay "phresh"**?! I eat real food, a$$hole!

But my healthy appearance does sometimes trick the rather foolish, naive, and unsophisticated suburbanite or out-of-towner (and they are legion in this area) into believing they somehow have the upper hand, because I'm not some triflin' petty piece of sh#t who sweats over what people may "feel" about me (or anyone and anything else), which always amuses me: it's like a truck-sized hole in their persona that this city-traffic driver navigates like she was born to it, because I am. You read that one of my grandparents was a Medallion-owning cabbie, right? Yeah, so like that, kid.

This is called "healthy". It's a box of USDA organic cereal. Hard to do!!

Anyway, I'm also not "all hagged out"; a phrase my Scottish/British ex whose family emigrated to Colorado back in the day coined out of sheer necessity, so that he could accurately describe the low-minded office bitches who prey on union guys like him for ca$h, like some desperate throwback to "Mad Man" days in the city that required the master/servant, boss/secretary dynamic to earn a high salary. 
That is also not me. 

More "weird" stuff like grass-fed milk that's also organic. So strange...

He also called them "Office Cows", for their near-constant bitching about food in the common kitchen area that they graze on throughout the day, because your homemade cookies make them "fat", like it's everyone else's fucking problem that some Long Island yenta* blows her also near-constant diet (greatly assisted by tanning salons, hair extensions, and Boca Ration vacations) to properly maintain said upper hand. You know exactly what I mean because you've been there, and that's New York, too.

More "weirdo" stuff, like ancient Asian foods with ginger to sooth tummies.

So, there I was as an Art Director thrown into the mix, with no makeup on, no weirdo diet, nor overly expensive clothes (Pay retail? In Manhattan? Are you insane?! What turnip truck did you fall off of? This girl goes to "Sample Sales" with her size 6 ass, yo.), or having a total "raging bitch off her meds" attitude, which makes me seem like the glowing healthy town AND country kid I am. I am healthy, it does show, and I'm asked about it so often, I wrote the book on it for you to read. 

Just do what I friggin' tell you to do: SPF applied almost every day (and yes, you do need some sunlight for vitamins. Some, hexen-hag), no anorexia, or "tanorexia", or "drunkorexic" behavior in an office environment, take your prescribed meds, dress appropriately, groom yourself well, eat a decent, well-balanced diet of fresh food that's readily available, get regular exercise, be a decent human being to other humans (in AND out of human form, hexen), and failing all of that? Get the fuck out of my city, town, and/or state. Better yet, get the fuck out of my country, you insane asshole. There, now. Doesn't that feel better?


*   http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yenta
** http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Phresh

Oh, snap!

Absolutely no bullshit on this label and it's locally made. Nice!

You know by now that I am an open advocate for local foods and sustainable resources, that includes supporting our area's agricultural enterprises, be they big or small. Because of this "trend" in consumer buying, "Marketeers" edge in on this niche by any means possible, in search of The Almighty Dollar. How to describe the vicious amped-up caffeinated energy of an ad/promo/marketing personnel accurately? Crazed "Rah Rah!" phony cheerleader type (a.k.a. the "Positivity Princess" from Lego The Movie: http://i.imgur.com/YzcY3AC.gif) addicted to running marathons lest reality catch up to her? YES! 
Bob the Sales Guy with serious mother issues and deep-seed neuroses in plural? Double down! They're like the douchebag office people who don't run companies or start them or make anything, but they will pillage your work to rip you off if they can, without totally killing you off, like a parasite does. Yeah, like that.

Healthy and tastes great: it IS possible to have both.

Same thing with consumer brands and the a#@holes who manage them. They will, in literal truth, kill people off with their poisonous food stuffs to make a buck off that nice Grandma on her fixed Social Security income, or anyone else who gets in their way. Not good people, is what I'm telling you. Up there (in terms of "bad") with a pharmaceutical rep or tobacco company lobbyist in Washington. 
Like, total scum, but of the rich white kind, which means they look down their noses on the poor people who are addicted to the sh%t they sell. Kinda like, if the folks from Soylent Green (both the movie and the book: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soylent_Green) had much less of a conscience. Yeah. They care that little about your ugly, painful, tragic death and huge medical bills. Try selfish, of a monstrous "Godzilla" type size.

Do the work and read. It's not that hard.

So, what to do? No worries, Mom's here. Well, first, you read things. Like, a lot of things, and don't ever stop reading. The worst thing you can do to a "Shopping Monster" is to carefully read the ingredients printed on packaging and the product label.  My mom taught me early on to do it (and how to pronounce the pesky and obscure Latin-based terminology in make-believe foodstuffs, because "Dr. Diane" was also in  food science), and now I'm telling you all about it.

Bitchin' product with great ingredients "Made in the USA". Yay!

There's been some great changes in the fight for our health and that of our children's children, the brightest being the more frequent availability of US-based goods. I'm not some jingoistic isolationist (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jingoism) looking to inbreed for weirdo reasons. Far from it. I actually believe in commerce and trade as someone who does business at an international level. I also do know that most big producing countries, like China for example, do not have federal bodies like the USDA (http://www.usda.gov/wps/portal/usda/usdahome) for quality-control or the FDA as a consumer watchdog agency (http://www.fda.gov/) because, like aforementioned "Food Gangsters", they do not care whether you and your family live or die. I know! That's so bad.

Real food made here and certified by a trade organization.

I do find some great things that I want to continue to share with you (http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2015/01/like-water-for-chocolate.html), including local products that may also by Non-GMO certified (http://www.nongmoproject.org/), not because I get paid to promote products, because I don't. Want to know my "ad revenue"? You're looking at it. A word-based Google Ads feature that I can control with the type of content I publish by attaching word labels to posted features, and that can go away anytime I want it to. For the record, I think my mom got one payday from them for $11.00 that I asked her to cash and keep, and that was years ago.

Wow! An actual New York State herbal farm product. Cool!

No, I do it because it's the right thing to do and I believe in it. Like, for reals and stuff. Because I would never trust anyone who told me one thing and then did another. Hypocrisy is the worst form of evil in my faith, and now you know about that, too (https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Matthew+23). A wise person once said that you don't have to remember to tell the truth if you don't lie, and I couldn't agree more. It's the season for it, so why not start now? You'll feel better for it, I promise. I've been to Hell and back, my peeps, and it lives in an office building. An "April's Fool", indeed.

Oh, I see. Joke's on me, as a hidden "f#ck y@*" I didn't see coming.

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!