Rachael Ray the Queen of Greasy, Cheesy and Queasy had some rather disparaging remarks to say about J. Crews new tiny sizes collections. From my understanding J. Crew is mainly marketing these clothes to Asians who tend to be much smaller than Americans. Also there are women who are that small!! I have adult female family members who would fit into these size apparel and it is not because they are dieting, which Rachael Ray assumes small women must be doing to be that size, but because of genetics which has made them very petite. This is not a crime. It is a fact of life. Retailers make clothes for every other size so why not very petite women?! Thanks to DNA women come in all sizes, shapes and figures.
Now having said that, there is bonehead Bethenny Frankel! This woman is not only a complete idiot in posting a picture on Instagram of herself wearing her 4 year old daughters jammies, well the woman is scary skinny!! Since she markets products called Skinny-girl I can only conclude that her skeleton frame is due to extreme dieting not the result of genes. Racheal Ray and Bethenny Frankel are two extremes of the body image discussion spectrum.
Somebody Give Bethenny Frankel a Cheeseburger!!
Trophy Wife Barbie
Trophy Barbie
Walking through the museum galleries one experiences many moments of sartorial splendor and clearly fashion faux pas. Yes there are the usual way too low plunging mammary exposing necklines and with the advent of summer Anal “butt crack season” but many days we are graced with the presence of Ms. Stepford Wifey/Girlfriend Barbie. Join me in my Poetic Verse to the Enhanced Princess.
Trophy Barbie
Rail Thin with B52 Double DD cantaloupe boobs. Lips like Big Ang. Botox frozen face marionette led by her Ventriloquist Mate. Life-like Wax doll escapee from Madame Tussauds. Modern Day Tributes to Pygmalion and Galatea.
She’s a reconstructed FrankenWoMannequin Self-Starvationist with Stilt Walker legs ending in permanently arched feet affixed to 5 inch Manolos Louboutins.
Listen to my voice. Listen to the sound of my voice intoned the old Victrola.
Ecstasy, Passion — A Holy Orgasmic Release.
Leda began her hair color ritual in the usual way. She carefully laid out the tools of her trade on the bathroom sink and the top of the commode. Being a small bathroom there was not much space but Leda made do within her sanctuary. Hair color, towels, mirror, comb, gloves, check. Now Leda was ready. Using a wide tooth comb she divided her thick unruly curls into sections applying even amounts of color first to her roots then all the way through to the ends.
Pulling the comb through her mane Leda envisioned LeRoi’s rough hewn yet well groomed hands entangling themselves within the kinks and knaps of mother Africa all the while gently massaging her scalp and kissing the nape of her neck. Leda massaged the remaining color through her tangled tresses then set the timer for 20 minutes walking the short distance to her bedroom to meditate while the process worked its magic.
During the 20 minutes of meditation Leda visualized her lover LeRoi sitting next to her on the bed speaking softly and gently in his deep Country Kitchen flavored with hints of Brooklyn accent all the while kissing her brows, the bridge of her nose and finally her lips. He sometimes stopped to look deeply into her eyes mentally willing the both of them to become one flesh.
She could feel the bristle of fresh grown five o’clock shadow against her face all the while falling into a deep blend of mahogany skin intermingled with African, Native American and French blood lines. From his lips issued the voices of ancient Kings worshipping the Queens of Africa, Sheba and Candace. Raspy rivulets of Pleasure streamed down her thick thighs. His hands, His lips, His body emoted sucker cup tendrils adhering to every sensitive site on her body. Sighs and moans escaped softly parted lips.
Suddenly the buzz of the timer interrupted her reverie and off she went to turn on the shower preparing to rinse out the excess color treatment. As Leda stepped under the powerful flow of the water LeRoi’s spirit stepped in with her and they were transported to the thunder of Caribbean waterfalls, enveloped in thunder of the cascading streams. LeRoi’s hands were like the streams of water entering into every sensitive place of her temple. She could feel his lips and hands as they worked their way down from her neck, breasts to that soft mound of flesh above her pubic area where he loved to rest his head after a night of lovemaking.
He cupped her full derriere with his hands enjoying the firmness of a well developed ass pulling her in and closer to him.
Water and Burgundy ran down over the nooks and crannies of her curves. Fountains of scented oils sprayed anointing from the Seven Continents co-mingling with her own pheromone essence.
Water and Burgundy ran down over the nooks and crannies of her curves. Volcanic orgasmic waves shoot forth.
Ring, ring, ring, the sound of the phone brought Leda out of her fantasy and quickly toweled off and managed to answer before the machine kicked in.
“Greetings Empress of the Seven Lands. I just arrived at JFK. Taking a taxi to your place. See you in a few minutes.”
Leda rejoiced. Her fantasy was about to become real. Her Lover was almost home. Her thoughts wandered to a romantic tryst in the hot tub at their friends chalet.
Physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually.
Bra
Separated not just by physically distance but two souls dancing around the issue called Love divided by a silk screen of doubt, fear, and past broken heart discouragements called failure. Shattered confidences strewn across the floor of our souls forever keeping us apart though the Universe deems us Life Partners.
Who really holds the satin cord? Who weaves the strains together and pulls them apart? Wherein lays the underside of the tapestry a tangle of warp and weft?
Trust torn asunder. Impossible to mend. Eventually the day will be at end and what could have been will never be. The Days Remains are now ashes and dust scattered by Sirocco winds.
Lord I Believe Help me overcome my unbelief. Father please remove all fears, self-doubts and my nagging sense of failure from my troubled heart and soul. I am the broken winged sparrow lying shivering cold, bereft of hope, hungry for acceptance, on yon forest glen. A Woodland Tragedy. Will Jesus the Gentle Woodsman gather up my shattered heart and bind up my bloody infected wounds? Lord Hear my plaintive cries.
Which voices do I believe? The Judging critical voices of men with ravenous sharp toothed dogs or the brutal voices of women holding sharp knives ready to strike and drive men into grave ground. Or Dear Lord your Tender Still Small voice as you Cradle me in your arms, safety bound. Oh God comfort the descendant Daughters’ of Jephthah and Tamar that we may find solace, peace and sanctuary in a weary heartless land.
Long ago and far away when I was in my 20’s and 30’s my Aunts on both my mother’s and father’s side were on my back about being married despite the fact that nearly all of them were either divorced or separated. I can still hear their voices, “Deborah you need to learn how to cook so you can get a husband.” All my Aunts on both sides were good cooks yet none were with their husbands! It got to the point that when my maternal grandmother Hattie Banks passed away in 1990 the aunt my grandmother had lived with introduced me to my grandmother’s Pastor as my 31 year old single niece from New York. This caused my grandmother’s Pastor great concern and he asked to speak to me privately. He began to question me concerning my singleness. After a while I figured out he was trying to ascertain as to whether or not I was a lesbian! I assured him that No I was not gay just had not met the right person. Now over twenty years later I realize his fears and opinions reflect a lot about people born and raised in the 1900’s within the confines of rigid Baptist teachings.
Fast forward to 2007 when my abuser finally left me and I finally felt free to confide in certain females whom I thought were my friends. I found that to be a big mistake. Women often don’t support other women who have been through the wringer. Too much Blame the Victim mentality out there. Then there is the other side of the coin with women pushing newly single women back into the shark infested waters of the dating game. Amazing how many insensitive and snarky comments I received about either not wanting to date or taking a break from dating.
I’ve had close friends yell and scream at me for my decision not to date. As a result I’ve had to ask these girlfriends not to bring up that topic. All the while I listen to them whine, moan, bitch and complain about what the latest boyfriend is doing to them. These women imagine there is a Mr. Right for everyone or that I’d want that person. They’ve bought into the mentality that a Woman is not complete without a man. They are brainwashed with that fantasy of John and Martha running to each other’s open arms on white sand beaches or in a meadow filled with fragrant flowers and four leaf clovers.
I do not lack male attention. As one of my supervisors at work likes to say, Ms. Palmer you have many admirers. Trust me when I say I wish many of them would find some other woman to admire. Whether on the job or in my neighborhood I’m always polite and mannerly but I always keep things platonic and on the friends side of the relationship spectrum.
I do admit that since the break-up with my ex- and during the few times I’ve dated since then I’ve engaged in battles of self-hatred self-destruction. I was participating in an online group for Domestic Violence Survivors. I was really saddened to see how emotionally bankrupt many of the women were.
Because so many years have passed since I was delivered from my Ex- I was able to be a source of encouragement to women still suffering. A few Friended me or Subscribe to my page and my goal is to offer strategies towards wholeness yet still revealing my struggles and vulnerabilities. Being an Overcomer or Victorious does not mean you’re not going to have bad times but you’d do not dwell within those bad episodes.
No matter how many compliments I receive about how much I have to offer a man and how beautiful and wonderful I am that does nothing for my inner healing. Sounds like I have nothing to offer outside of being with a guy.
Those remarks may or may not be true but that type thinking is missing the point and counter-productive. No matter how well-meaning or well intentioned those remarks may be THE POINT IS, I’m Not Ready and it may be months or years before I am ready. Right now for me the relationship waltz is an emotionally crippling dance. Also I want to concentrate on Me, Myself and I. I’m not to the point where I’m ready to make an investment in a relationship. I Love being an Autonomous, Free and Independent Woman.
Oh yes for those wondering if I still have a sex drive the answer is Yes but menopause has put a damper on it and I no longer feel compelled to satisfy that urge. Truthfully most days I’m just not interested in sex and for the times I am I learned to control myself. Also I made the decision to remain celibate and there are few if any men who can make me change my mind.
My life is not the Black remake of Eat, Pray, Love but more like Having our Say by the Delaney Sisters. The Joys of Singlehood. Can’t even tell you how many miserable married women I know. Constant refrain of, DeBorah I wish I was single like you! Proof that marriage is not all it’s cracked up to be.
And yes I’ve read all the relationship books written by men on what women are doing wrong and how they can better please the men they want in their lives or who are currently in their lives. While other women frantically put desperate profiles on various on-line dating services, engage in speed-dating at the local recreation center, join the singles ministry at church or buy tickets and expensive clothes for silly singles cruises, I’ll be at home comfortable chilling with a good book and drinking a Smirnoff Ice.
Espiritu en Fuego/A Fiery Spirit 