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?

Rabbit Tracks (and Other Acts of Wonder)

Winter Tracks in Snow (February 2015, Pearl River, New York).

Old Houses in Snow

The home that love built (for little Natalie).

We're getting to the point where winter palls on us, especially those drearily dark commuter mornings into the city, rife with delays and power outages; that special time of year when the dirty pile of sidewalk snow on the corner becomes our greatest most hated enemy, the most dreaded, iciest foe to our winter-weary minds: "So ugly!! Grrr!! I almost fell" <shake fist>:o( "I hate you, dirt pile of snow, ice, and slush!!!" 
<shakes fist and slips in patch of black ice that's almost invisible> "Shoveling!!...Again!!...WTF?!", and so forth until it finally ends...again.

Spooky old houses in winter...booo!

Ads on t.v. for Disney vacations and beach trips to the Bahamas become almost every New Yorker's dream of escape. But take heart! You're not alone. February is a short month that's over quickly, and St. Patrick's Day is right around the corner. 

"It was a dark and dreary winter's day, so cold, and alone..."

That means beer (and lots of it), a great little small town parade (BTW, midget pony in the little green coat with the long blond mane needs to come back this year, and this means YOU, lady in acid-washed jeans with the 80s hairdo from New Jersey. I know you are close by, breeding little horses :( , so don't be lazy, and come back to our parade this year!!), corned beef with cabbage, and also leftover breakfasts of crispy pan-fried corned beef hash with lots of ketchup on the side, and yes, that means you, you Pearl River Mick. See you soon!

"Please, no more shoveling. I can't take it anymore! Aggghh!"

Still, it is pretty as a postcard here. Wouldn't change a thing!

MakeupFree and MakeupLess

A "MakeupFree Me" in the morning!

I periodically go through phrases that are with and without makeup. Working at some plush "rich white man" gig in the city? Oh hecks yeah, I wear War-Paint to that meeting and lots of it, if that's what it takes to make the deal go down with you, idiot! 

Me: concealer set with powder and some blush, in the afternoon!

Humbly working from home on my own stuff, on an old (and supposedly) "outdated" system? Nope, just me and my old clothes here, y'all! 

Me: morning time, hairband and ponytail, then make breakfast.

But it's really not a series of hard-and-fast rules that I rush through compulsively. Sometimes I skip the face paint AND I work summer hours at a seasonally slow publishing house. Who cares? It's hot out, and maybe my skin needs a rest in the heat. 

Woke up, tied back the curtains, and looked out the window. Who's that?

Plus, I have a lot of work to do, and quietly so, too, while the rest of humanity leaves town to go on vacation. Go, and good riddance to you! Or, maybe I want to go to the store while I'm working from home AND I also dot cover-up on that stubborn blemish. Who knows? Who cares?!

Yeah, I've got a blemish. So what? Not in the mood. Got work to do.

The point is this: I'm not on some big anti-makeup "Crusade", because if I were on that particular quest, human, you'd sure as hell know it. I'd be sportin' a big red cross (hand-sewn by me) right across my chest in recognition of that fact, yo. Besides, we fought those old battles centuries ago, and moved on from it. Far from it.

Bathed, dressed, and brushed, but no makeup. I like my hair in this one.

No, I don't hate girls with face-paint, be it a little or a lot, because I don't hate myself with it on, nor without it either, and neither do my close family and friends. After all, they have seen me in all lights (as they see me still), and they've found me worthy of beauty, along with their beauty, too. That's real. See it here, for yourself.

Right before bath time. My love asked me to take this shot.

My "Nigella Lawson in the kitchen" look, with some makeup on.

I just woke up and my eyes are still red!

Parents in town taking you to a fancy steak house dinner? "Glamour Girl"!

On a technical aside: Please note that all of the pics you see here were snapped by me and posted by me, on my (again) "old" iPhone3. I don't have a design system set up (because, once again, it's old and outdated, thus rendering it unusable, as it broke down from "Planned Obsolescence"*), so all my magic comes from me, a good camera built into a nifty smartphone, and whatever filters that I sometimes choose to use on a Mac iPhone and/or an Instagram app. You're welcome!

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

Dark Tree, Bright Snow

A Maxfield Parrish kind of day (Pearl River, NY - January 2015).

Cast Iron

Reflection in oil.

As my mom ages, so does her Multiple Sclerosis, which necessitates changes and adaptations in her tool usage. What was once an old stand-by becomes old, as it crosses over into unusable territory, given the advances of time upon her. And so it came to pass that she finally let go of a kitchen stable in our household, her old cast iron pan. Cool! Can I have it?, was the question I asked a few days later, when I realized it was now up for grabs. With severe handicaps, you learn to roll with the punches. It's given me a laisse-faire attitude that's whittled away the more hysteric components of my character, something I forget until an outsider comes into the picture, which often happens, sometimes with explosive effects, as it did one afternoon when a friend of mine who cleans off the cars in my mom's elderly development found out on a snowy day. He found her on the floor, talking to a LifeAlert operator over the phone line, and he, well, readers, lost his shit over it. I got a real shaky emotional VoiceMail, which I had to laugh at. 

Hand-etched Makers Mark that reads: "Ware, Sidney, -0-"

My mom delivered a great shock to his far more delicate nervous system, dragging him backwards into heady emotional waters, like his mother's death, the condition of his own elderly ailing dad, and that of his mortality, late in the game as it is in our 40s. Potent fare for a sunny snowy afternoon, and not the $25 worth or car cleaning he was expecting. I had to text him through the dangerous shoals of his own emotional ineptitude, and at the end of our brief exchange, he understood far better who I am as a person, and just how well I handle extremes. It's why he cleans my mother's car along with his ten other odd jobs, and picked her up off the floor one snowy afternoon, while I sit here typing to you, dear readers. Now he absolutely knows this and that knowledge cannot be undone. It is forever, as is his understanding of the kinds of conditions I operate under. I do all this, and that, and I do it far far better than him.

Cured with oil in the oven, just like my mom and grandpa taught me to.

Which lead me back to another part of our conversation, that of an old cast iron pan. My Uncle Paul had given it to her, but she didn't exactly remember when, though to me, it represents her leaving the family household for that of her marriage, like the type of gift a young newlywed wife gets. I always remember having it around the house, and so I know it came before my arrival in 1969. We took a turn down memory lane, as she reminisced about him. He was the youngest of three boys: my grandfather in the middle, and my great uncle the oldest, a wild kind of raconteur who took a fabulous Colombian bride for his second marriage, and then took of to Bogota for several years with her and his young sons. I remember his passing, but not that of my Uncle Paul, though my family spoke of it infrequently.

A perfect tear-shaped handle.

 
You see, he died under tragic circumstances one rainy night on the George Washington Bridge, the victim of an accidental collision, as he struggled to change a tire on the shoulder-less side of the bridge in the evening, a father trying to help his family. He was in his 40s, and he was a fireman, and his wife and children watched him die as he was hit by oncoming traffic. Even though he died before I was born, I can tell just by these scant details, along with one extraordinary hand-crafted and wise bridal gift, that he was the kind of guy I would like; the kind of hero who picks up helpless handicapped women lying on the floor, any time of day or night, because that's exactly the type of person I am.

An ancient family legacy, in the guise of one humble cast iron pan.

Amen to you of the Corvus Clan on this day in winter,

to those of us who wear the twin symbols of the wolf 

and the raven, that which endures, survives, and thrives.

Welcome to this, that is our legacy.

 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Normans

In blessed memoriam of Paul Corbett. Long may he rest in peace.

Shadows in Winter

Wintertime in the sun and shade (Pearl River, New York, 2015).

Idol Worship

And the winner is...me! "I'd like to take this time to thank my sponsor..."

Working on my own has obvious high points. I wear what I want (or not) when I want (or not). Then there's the extra free time that comes with my high level of productivity because, honestly, I worked in service to others who are far less gifted than me when I was younger and learning my trade. It was fine and I was glad to do so, but there are now gaps where there once was frenetic activity, just in time for my systemic middle age slowdown, the perfect time when most advanced experts strike out on their own.

So, there's a bit more daytime t.v. watching, though (also, to be honest), not as much as the average viewer, because most content is repetitive and boring. Why watch someone else's show when you can make your own? That's what happens naturally, kids. A lot of nighttime viewing is a bunch of artificial, canned, redundant, and equally awful "entertainment" shows that are anything but. Did you know most "celebrities" who are consistently featured on these types of shows are really fucking boring? I mean, like, a total formula for conformity: an early rise to fame, horribly dysfunctional stage parents, a plunge into drugs, alcohol and crime, followed by widely publicized stints in jail and rehab, then a viciously dull cycle of "lather, rinse, repeat", in a boring commoditization of tritely "rebellious" pseudo-types who appear over and over again on t.v., like the eerily identical Fembots produced by the Playboy franchise.

I understand that's what makes them appealing to viewers: it's comfort brought on by the familiarity and similarity of it all, but you have to draw the line somewhere. How many ass photos of a pinup can one look at onscreen?! Who cares? The opposite then is supposedly the "craft" of Acting, which the media serves up in ball gown after ball gown, again, in a supposed contrast to the barely clothed porn star, but only slightly. There's plenty of crossover. And what do we get for watching le grande "Cinema" (with a capital "C") over more commercial fare?

We get (by this count in 2010) 564 different entertainment industry awards. That's right. You read it correctly, 564 of them: http://abcnews.go.com/Entertainment/story?id=101295. Wow! What a triumph of art over commerce right? We must be absolutely glutted with quality fare? Right? No? I hear crickets! My mom, and many other people like her, like to dream and fantasize more than they like living, and being a t.v. addict feeds that jones whenever she (and they) want it, but it is far from healthy. When I gave her my honest good review of the latest pretentious art house piece of crap that I had to suffer 3 hours of, hailed by "critics" as "brand new" and "revolutionary" because some shut-in director filmed a kid over the years (like many a long-running t.v star before him) in some long, boring, emo (https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#q=emo) teen angst story, she immediately chafed against it, because she's been trained to.

"But...it won the (insert name of dull award show here) prize?" Bad? How?! It won an....wait for it...award. So, a pompous director won some award given out by other pompous film directors. Huh. Well, that is new. Oh, I have versions of it in my industry and so do you, but the particular vanity behind people addicted to the hype beast keeps these functions going, fueled on the idea that more is better PR, which is so not true.

Witness this tidbit. Well-known long-running actress Dianne Wiest can no longer afford her plush NYC apartment (http://www.nydailynews.com/entertainment/gossip/dianne-wiest-pay-rent-article-1.2092324), times being what they are. I know! Oh, boo hoo :( But the conceit of these shows hangs upon one central idea, and that is this: if you win a golden statue, it means you're really good, and that means you win yet more gold! Be careful what you lust for. It is not the guarantee in this lifetime that you seek. Amen to you today, my children.

The Golden Calf.  

1 When the people saw that Moses was delayed in coming down from the mountain, they gathered around Aaron and said to him, “Come, make us a god who will go before us; as for that man Moses who brought us out of the land of Egypt, we do not know what has happened to him.”^a  

2 Aaron replied, “Take off the golden earrings that your wives, your sons, and your daughters are wearing, and bring them to me.”  

3 So all the people took off their earrings and brought them to Aaron.

  

4 He received their offering, and fashioning it with a tool, made a molten calf. Then they cried out, “These are your gods, Israel, who brought you^* up from the land of Egypt.”^b  

5 On seeing this, Aaron built an altar in front of the calf and proclaimed, “Tomorrow is a feast of the LORD.”  

6 Early the next day the people sacrificed burnt offerings and brought communion sacrifices. Then they sat down to eat and drink, and rose up to revel.^c

 

7^d Then the LORD said to Moses: Go down at once because your people, whom you brought out of the land of Egypt, have acted corruptly.

8 They have quickly turned aside from the way I commanded them, making for themselves a molten calf and bowing down to it, sacrificing to it and crying out, “These are your gods, Israel, who brought you up from the land of Egypt!”  

9^e I have seen this people, how stiff-necked they are, continued the LORD to Moses.  

10 Let me alone, then, that my anger may burn against them to consume them. Then I will make of you a great nation. 

Homecoming

Two doorways.

As I knew I would, I came home after many years away. They were good hard years of some fun, some heartache, some adventure, and some travel, with much added experience. I loved it, but it was time to go home, and I knew it. So one day, on the cusp of financial ruin, I gave in to what I knew to be true, cashed my last paycheck, packed what few bags I had left in the bare sublet room I slept in because the rest of my stuff was in storage, and moved to a spare room in my moms' apartment to weather the storm. It was rough seas all the way, but that's like any real passage of time: to stick with you it has to hurt a little bit and sometimes a lot, and so it did.

Lamplight at night.

But I'm here now, and very glad of it. I know this place like a seedling knows how to grow in soil ripe for the planting. I took to it and it has, in it's own turn, taken back to me. This is my territory and my kind of land, that of my ancestors, which stretches all the way up to Canada, and I plan to savor every bit of it, like the food here that feeds my soul, because I've been cooking and serving up versions of it with home ingredients all of my life, in preparation for this time period.

Blue light, yellow light.

Stay tuned for next week's feature that I alluded to last year (http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2014/02/stay-tuned.html). I referred to it as obliquely and discreetly as I could, obliged as I was under certain legal circumstances with stringent conditions that had to be followed, lest I suffer the consequences that come from jumping the gun. I do not play a young man's game, my friends, and I am happy to report that particular storm has now passed, though I'm sure others will certainly follow suit, because our very human ups-and-downs are the stuff of life itself.

Curtain and window in mid-morning light.

"Bienvenue" to you, new to this here and now.
Welcome to the light that's always been.