Adequately Lashed

(Pre-Script: This post will open up to you like a secret crypt when read as the song, "Big Yellow Taxi," #28 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

Be wary when you see a commercial that suggests that something about you may be inadequate, but when the term "inadequate" is not actually defined.

Blink
Blink
Let's define the term "Inadequate Eyelashes," which appeared in a recent commercial for a product that supposedly causes your eyelashes to grow longer than they already are.
Blink
Blink
An inadequate eyelash would be one that does not keep dirt and dust particles out of a person's eyes. An eyelash that does what it is meant to do, i.e., keep dirt and dust particles out of a person's eyes, is adequate. There is nothing wrong with it. But when a commercial starts off by saying "If you have inadequate eyelashes," it sends a deliberate message:

"You are inadequate."

and yes, that message was deliberate. Insecure people buy more things.

the word "Inadequate" makes a woman feel that there is no choice in the matter...

But.

(wait for it, this is a very big "BUT.")

In this particular commercial, the term "Inadequate Eyelashes" is never defined. They just say "IF you have inadequate eyelashes," the lack of definition makes a woman wonder if she has this malady, makes her assume that yes, she most likely does, and she just never realized it before. Then she feels she needs the product, there is no choice in the matter, she had better sign up today. She becomes one of the cattle who must silently not ask questions, but must stand in line and take a number and buy the product, just buy it already.

-Someone wants to stop me here to tell me that my logic is becoming circular.

I already know. It's a good point though, and was worth repeating.

"Just moo and don't ask questions. You do not need to ask. Just assume the worst about yourself."-says the beauty industry, which is controlled by...

"But Michelle,"

(interrupts my Gentle Imaginary Reader),
"Who do you mean by 'we?'"
Great question, Dear Imaginary Reader.
"We" is the little person (or people) behind the curtain who pulls (or pull) strings and makes (or make) a lot of noise...

Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

I would have no problem with a commercial for the same product that simply said:

"Use our product if you want longer eyelashes."

This statement does not assume that anything is inherently wrong with the woman, and it gives her a choice. What if a woman does not want longer eyelashes?

But see, if we lose all of our choices, if we all look the same, we cease to be individuals, we start to seem like stereotypical robots. If we start to believe this about ourselves, start to dress for it, talk and act like it, too, we will begin to restrain our natural impulses and question and quench our own original thoughts and ideas, especially if they differ from what we see happening in the world around us. This is very convenient for certain types of governmental systems, systems which no one says they want, yet everyone secretly wants. They want it because they want to sleep walk through life and not have to think or be responsible for personal choices. When personal choices are taken away, people have no one to blame but everyone else.
The buck stops at Big Brother's door, the same Big Brother who vowed to protect and nurture you.
But you see, I am getting way ahead of myself and talking goofy talk now.
Silly me, I'm just a girl...a girl who's eyelashes may or may not be adequate...what do I know? .

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

-XOXO,

What's wrong, honey?

(Pre-Script: The natural beauty of this post is enhanced when the song, " Closer To Love," #54 on the playlist, is playing in the background while it is being read. So please go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

Who has the strength to be a woman anymore?

I am not strong enough.

The short story is that I have decided to stop reading magazines. They are not for the faint of heart. My heart is not strong enough to withstand the grief with which they bombard me. They make me feel bad about myself, and discontent when I realise that I want a whole bunch of stuff I cannot afford...on way more than financial terms. Why would I want to subject myself to that type of torture daily, weekly, monthly, when I was not feeling discontented or bad about myself before I opened the magazine? I dream of a world where make up and products are FUN, where experimenting with hair color and outfits is FUN, an expression of whim or whimsy, of how I am feeling that day, not something that affects my value as a human being from one day to the next.

One problem with the magazines is that the girls pictured therein are either 15 or airbrushed, or most likely, both, with every possible flaw edited out, and this is to what real world women are comparing themselves, even as each year they are growing another year past 15, another life experience past airbrushed.

...but wait, there is Botox, honey.

...but wait, there are things you can inject into your lips, darling.

...but wait, you can be cut open and have anything you don't like removed, anything you wish for added, my little love dove.

My hackles start to stand on end when purely cosmetic procedures for cosmetic sake are becoming more and more clinical and medically stale. When what was once fun and artistic starts to become standard and medical, it is no longer seen as a fun and artistic option, but is now seen as a necessity. The more women who have medical procedures done to them for cosmetic reasons, the more it becomes unacceptable if you are a woman who has not had a procedure. It does not always matter what the procedure is, but you surely have to have SOMETHING done, even a chin implant or SOMEthing, because no one is born with perfect everything, and perfection is becoming more and more not just a lofty ideal, but a necessity, the only acceptable way the world can stand to look at you. Oh, and This Makes Me Angry! (Said she, with a frown line marring her otherwise unruffled brow.)

It makes me angry when I see a commercial for eyelash growth, in case my eye lashes are "inadequate." (I believe this is the word they use) A commercial is telling me that yet another thing might be wrong with me that I had not yet considered.

...BUT, dear, it's okay, because we have this product here, and yes, it is medical, so see your doctor about it, YOUR DOCTOR ABOUT YOUR INADEQUATE EYELASHES, DO YOU HEAR ME, PEOPLE??? And then get this procedure done, oh, even though it may cause blindness. It's a small price to pay on your own personal road to perfection. WHERE DOES IT END??? IT doesn't ever end.

I dare you to find one woman who is content with herself, comfortable in her skin, not striving, striving, striving, not feeling inadequate in at least a lot of ways, when nothing is really wrong with her. All of her parts are working just fine. All of her eyelashes are the length they have always been. Her body type is the type it has always been. Her bone structure is the same one that has supported her frame for her entire life.

Here is what I think: I think that having yourself cut open and having unnatural things placed inside your self is not a good thing. Silicone does not grow naturally in or on a human body. Having your bones shaved down to fit a certain size ideal in a certain society or time period is not a good thing.

Botox injections are actually a form of a toxin that can kill you. My baby daughter was infected with Infant Botulism and hospitalized in the Intensive Care unit at the hospital for 8 days. When we brought her home, she had to be fed through a tube in her nose for a month. She was 2 months old. It's the same stuff that is in Botox injections. It's a muscle relaxant. But guess what, people, your muscles were meant to move. Even the muscles in your face. It is the purpose for which they were created.
It's one thing to brush on make up that you wash off at the end of the day. Elective cosmetic surgeries and injections are self mutilation in one of it's most highly applauded and socially acceptable forms.

With these standards getting higher and tighter the closer you get to perfect, each woman is an island on her own, against each and every other woman in the world. It's lonely. You can never rest, you can never rest because you must stay on this formula, this plan, to spend more and more and more money and time on being less and less and less okay.
So let's all keep trying to look more and more like each other, let's all keep correcting the things that were never wrong with God's design for your face or body, let's keep getting these things done to us, and let's see what it does to the next generations, how it weakens them. What messages do they receive when their noses do not grow to match the perfect noses that their mothers have had surgically fitted, but are instead the noses that their DNA said she was supposed to have? How can you love on your daughter what you determined was not okay on yourself? Better set up the fund now, the Forever For Every Generation Paying Through The Nose For The Nose Jobs Of All Of Your Descendants fund. (or, FFEGPTTNFTNJOAOYD.)That's what life's all about, right? RIGHT?

The perfect ideal of looking exactly completely just like everyone else?*

-XOXO,

*Have you noticed that in the financially wealthiest circles, the women tend to look the most exactly alike? Doesn't it ever get boring?

My First Autumn

(Pre-Script: This post turns a whole new leaf when read while the song, " Everybody's Changing," #56 on the playlist, plays in the background. So go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

When I was ten, I met a girl named Autumn. Before this, I had never known that girls with names as exotic (to me) as "Autumn" existed. When you are a ten year old girl, and you meet a girl named Autumn, instead of hearing it as a beautiful, artistic name with a nicely flowing rhythm, your thoughts tend to veer to the left, and go something like, "How unfortunate for her. What a weird name." Most 10 year old girls do not appreciate variations in the names of their peers. Fitting in is the ultimate. Being status quo and just like everyone else is the epitome of everything, to a ten year old girl, or at least it was to the ten year old girl who was me.
As grown ups, we appreciate variations and rhythm in names. We appreciate the flow and sound and meaning of a name, and if anything, when naming our own children, we probably tend to steer away from the most popular names of the year. You don't want your kid to be one of the 10 with the same name in his or her Kindergarten class. But we forget that to a Kindergartner, it's FUN to be one of the 10 with the same name. It's like you are a part of a special club. At least, it was to the Kindergartner who was me. I used to make mental lists of all the Michelle's or Michele's I had ever met. Spelling didn't matter so much, as long as pronunciation was the same. I was always pleasantly awed to have a new Michelle to add to my list.
So when I met a girl named "Autumn," I felt for her, in a "Sucks to be you" sort of way. understand, the empathy of a ten year old only goes so far, in certain instances...at least, the empathy of the 10 year old who I was. In other areas, my empathy was off the chats. The sight of an old man crossing the street could make me weep, for example. So I guess there was a trip in the wiring of my brain's empathy system...But gosh, I was only 10 years old, I was not half as mature as your 10 year old child, my Dear Imaginary Reader...For I am sure that you are reading this, thinking to yourself, "Not MY 10 year old son or daughter. MY precious little angel is ALways completely empathetic and sympathetic towards others."

Well, good for you.

But I am not your 10 year old.

Ahem.

To be fair to myself, though, let me back the truck up for a moment and explain that even as a 10 year old, it would never have occured to me to tease this girl. Make fun of her in any capacity?

No.

Deny her friendship or kindness?

No.

Feel sorry for her and SO SO glad not to be her?

Yes, yes, sure.

Blink.

Blink.

Here's what I remember about my first "Autumn": She had reddish hair. She lived in a house with a lot of cats. She ate brown sugar out of a little dish as a snack. She ate it by dipping one finger in, then licking the brown sugar off of her finger. She ate brown sugar for a snack because her Grandmother told her that it was good for her. That sounded fine to me. In fact, it sounded down right revolutionary to me. I have always been a big fan of brown sugar, so I was all in favor of this non conventional way of enjoying brown sugar that did not require a bowl of Malt O Meal or Grape Nuts. I was ready to launch a campaign for brown sugar snack time in my own home. My ten year old self was, anyway. My 33 year old self is more suspicious of these things, and will stick to happily eating brown sugar on Malt O Meal. But let's not forget, folks, that a certain percentage my 33 year old self is made up of my 10 year old self, that certain percentage being roughly just under a 3rd.

My 33 year old self wonders what Autumn is doing now, if she likes her name, and if she feels that she has grown to inhabit it. I also wonder if she still eats brown sugar off of her fingers, if she ever got rid of all of the cats.

-XOXO,

Nurse Punch and Pastries

(Pre-Script: While choosing a song to pair with this post, I was struck by songs with titles like, "The Story," "The End of The Innocence," even "Bring Me To Life," but in the end, I decided that the song, " Therapy," #43 on the playlist, sums it up completely in that one word, so please go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

I am a big fan of current cultural craze called "The Modern Hospital." I think it's an ideal place for a woman to give birth, and to be pumped full of numbing drugs while doing so. However, there is a little known Post Partum Nurse policy that says something like, "In order to work in our fine hospital, you are to have very strong opinions on feeding and burping the newborn baby, and you are to give this advice whenever you enter the patient's room, and above all else, it must be advice that completely conflicts with the nurse that was speaking to this patient before you, and with whichever nurse will come after you. It must also conflict with whatever the new mother is currently doing." I swear this policy must be in the fine print before you can work as a nurse in The Modern Hospital, and that there is some sort of "disagree with each other" drug they put in the Nurse Punch.
"Michelle, there's no such thing as Nurse Punch"
How would you know that, dear Imaginary Reader? Hmm??
"Well, Michelle, I don't, but..."
Then stop interrupting, Gentle Reader. How else do you explain it?
"Good point, Michelle. Carry on."
Ahem.
Yeah, and with the drugged up nurse punch they are fed "tell the patient your opinion in very strong terms" pastries. Since nurses work long hours and are very hungry, they happily enjoy this free and tasty snack, and they never suspect what they are being fed.
I would even venture to guess that there is a reason for this exercise of new mother badgering until she feels thoroughly confused, hopelessly guilty, and utterly incompetent. The secret reason behind this policy is that they are instilling into the mom the idea that no matter what she does, there is always going to be someone who disagrees with her. This is a lesson she had better get used to from the very beginning, because it does not end once new born mom and new born baby leave the hospital.
But gosh, it's a hard initiation.
Maybe it's time that the punch got revoked.
Maybe, instead of obliterating the new mother's sense of common sense, the nurse on duty should please oh pretty please tell her own home birth story. She should remember to include the part about the *certain something* that ended up being stored in her home refrigerator for weeks and weeks until it could be buried beneath the cherry tree her husband kept forgetting to plant in their backyard.
"But Michelle,"
Oh, back again Gentle Reader?
"Yes, Michelle, I just wanted to tell you that that last part doesn't happen to everyone, it's just what happened to you."
Gentle Imaginary Reader, I guess you are right...
...And I purposely remained vague about what the *certain something*was that was stored in the refrigerator after the home birth, to spare you from sudden fits of horror and nausea. Let's just leave it at, I know too much about what is buried beneath the tree of a certain post partum nurse to ever eat any cherries she offers me from here on out.
It's all I'm saying.

Blink

Blink
Happy Birthing.

-XOXO,

The Lightest Things

(Pre-Script: This post reads best when read as the song,"Winter," by Joshua Radin, #29 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

Sometimes a sure thing slips right off the surface-
you might think "earthquake" or "global warming"-
a shake up or a melt down, caused it-
but some things were glued down well,
some had substantial roots, before the slip slide into-
well, not oblivion, necessarily,
but certainly
into
a slip slide that rendered the thing
that used to be on the surface
no longer right on the surface
(table tops and ground cover or somesuch)
maybe it has gone underground somewhere to burrow
or "Integrate," you might say,
and is therefore more really there,
or sometimes it's gone forever,
dissolved, or floated on a wind,

too light a thing to hold onto;
(the lightest things fly away unless they choose to stay.)

-XOXO,

Gold Toe Tube Socks

(Pre-Script: To take from this post what you will, please read it as the song, " Superman," #19 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

"DUDE! Gold Toe Socks are SO 2002. I mean, Right??"

-This is what the smiling guy posing on the blow up picture in the men's sections of large department stores, and in catalogues all across America, is saying to the other smiling guy model as they toss the football or Frisbee to each other in their underwear. Sometimes, they just stand in a casual pose, like "Hey, yeah, I stand casually cool like this all the time in my underwear, it is so natural for me. Sometimes to mix things up, I lean against a surfboard. That is why I am smiling like this...Hey, dude, hold up, why don't you toss the Frisbee to me, while I lean against the surfboard. Maybe I'll hold a tennis racket over my shoulder, or something, too. That'll really make for a super picture, I mean, Right??"

-XOXO,

"Sometimes there just aren't enough rocks"*

(Pre-Script: This post rocks when read as the song, "Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It)," #41 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

If I ever decide to become a Teacher Of Geology, (an urge I have somehow squelched this far in in my life) I would teach thusly: I would take the children to a river of some sort and let them collect whatever rocks appealed to them. Then we would bring the rocks back to the classroom and research them...however you research rocks. I mean, I don't really know what you need to know about rocks, besides what kind they are, so that you can call them by name, ("Come here, Obsidian! I was not quite through talking with you, Slate Gray!") especially if it has potential of becoming a Pet Rock. Or maybe you'd want to know how common your particular favorite rock is, if the rock you found is indigenous to the area where you found it, or if it just fell out of some guy's pocket when he was here visiting from New Zealand one day. It will also be useful to know how precious this rock is, and if it is worth any money. Imagine getting rich off of a rock you found on a riverbed that you picked up because you thought it was pretty. Cue the next Gold Rush type of phenomenon, such as has never been seen in California or elsewhere since 1849. I'm not sure if California is still set up for the arrival and temporary housing of that many horses and ghost towns.

But I digress.
So there I was this afternoon, picking awesome fantastic rocks out of the riverbed, imagining the ranger coming by to rain on my parade thusly:" Excuse me, Miss, there is a law against removing rocks from the rivers in this state. Tell those children that the fun they have been having collecting pretty rocks for the past 30-45 minutes was in vain. Go on, dash their little hopes on their very own rocks."
Since the ranger did not appear, I just kept right on collecting rocks, and I told the children, "you can take home any you want, but you have to carry your own back to the car yourself." Good deal, right? I thought so, as I continued to pick up the smooth round ones that fit perfectly into my hand, and the gorgeous green ones that looked like jade, especially when they were still wet from the river. I thought "I wonder if jade is from this area? What a pleasant surprise to have discovered my own jade supply..."
Blink Blink
"...and I will hire a fine worker of precious stones to carve and create gorgeous jade jewelry, which I will wear, and eventually pass down to my children, and children's children, for generations to come."
-such was the nature of my delusions of rock grandeur, you see.
Oh, what a fun Geologist I would be, if I ever decided to become one, and take the time to study all those rocks, just so many different varieties, who knows, really, not just to know, but to understand rocks, rocks, rocks, like the back of my hand, so much comprehension that it would overflow, and I would have no choice but to teach it to the children, to impart my great wisdom onto their waiting minds, soft as clay, as they blink up at me in expectation.
A child can quite possibly become interested in any subject, even one as seemingly boring as ROCKS, for crying out loud(!!), if it is taught to them well**... Not like when I was in school, and Geology was taught as a rote thing, like "blah blah blah, there is this kind of rock and this kind of rock." Then one morning we took a quiz I had forgotten to study for, so I crammed for 5 minutes before the quiz and got a 97%. after which the teacher pulled me aside to let me know that she could tell that I had studied hard for this quiz.

I have retained none of the information of which I was an expert for 30 minutes.
Blink.
Blink.
Yet in my mind, I'd be an rockin' Geologist.
Ahem.
In the end, none of my own children took home any rocks. I alone brought home my precious handful. Did I look them up online? Nah. Who does that kind of thing, anyway, I mean really!? Gosh. I prefer to imagine that the green ones are jade, and to just feel the perfectly round brown and white ones as I hold them in my hand.

-XOXO,

*Forrest Gump

**And this, my friends, is tricky, and may vary from case to case.