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.
I’m a Victorious Over-comer in the making! For me the keys to unlock the prison was to Challenge myself. I joined Seven Bell Fitness gym located in Brooklyn in April. Did a Strength test. My trainer said I was in good shape for a 55 year old woman. So psyched I signed up to do 10 lessons. One training per week. My trainer encourages me to push myself. I felt so good after knocking myself out. Endorphin and adrenaline rush!! Do the thing you fear the most.
Yes at 55 these exercises are more difficult for me than when I was 18 and doing Basic Training courtesy of Uncle Sam but I want more for myself. I desire Great Health and I’m gonna make it happen. No time for dissenting voices. I Listen to my true friends who encourage and support me. Yes for the next ten weeks I will be close buddies with Epsom Salts and Ben Gay but I will be a Lean, Mean Fighting Machine!!
Getting My Sweat on at Seven Bell Fitness in Brooklyn, NY!
I did my time in the Land of Sick & Tired. I’m done and I don’t live there anymore! Breaking out of that prison!! I’m a Fighter. I’m a Warrior and I’m Free!! Ten weeks of pushing it to the max with my personal trainer. Warrior Woman! Still feeling the Endorphin Adrenaline Rush!!
Check out my glowing face after a vigorous workout at Seven Bell Fitness gym. Amazingly even after my personal trainer puts me through my paces and I discover muscles I never knew I had and the endorphin and adrenaline kick in so strongly that when I get home I’m dancing, vacuuming and cleaning house sometimes simultaneously!! These hardcore workouts give me extra energy. I’m not at all tired even after supercharged exercise routines that work my muscle groups.
Going to the gym on a regular basis and working with a personal trainer is bringing results. One of the girls in the Ladies Locker Room who is in her 20s asked me how I got my upper arms in such good condition. She wanted to know specific exercises. Now that is the Bomb when a girl in her 20s is seeking fitness advice from a woman in her 50s!! The Queen Reigns!!
Radiating strength and power after my workout at Seven Bell Fitness in Brooklyn, NY. Guess I’m not too out of shape for a 55 year old Lady, but my goal is that six-pack. Menopause has been very cruel to me, taking away my formerly flat tummy and replacing it with pudge so after working out on my own since October 2013 I knew I had to go hard and join a gym. Went with Seven Bell Gym in April and the improvement has been amazing. I want to be ripped and sculpted. Middle-age does not have to be an obstacle to fitness and it’s never too late to start. As a young woman I served in the U.S. Army from 1977-1981 so I enjoy the regimen and the discipline. Oh yes that water bottle is filled with Alkaline Antioxidant Water from my buddy Jerome Gaillard.
Michelle Obama Arms!
Alkaline Antioxidant Water
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I have the Power!!
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Youth said “Dreams Never Die.” Twenty years passed then Recession kicked in. New Realities were born. Twelve hour workdays became the norm.
Like a drowning man Dreams surfaced again and again only to plummet down to the watery deep. All the while knocking at 1% door watching them through one-sided window laugh, play, drink and party with no thought for the ‘Morrow’. We the unseen only imagining free time for our dreams.
Dreams that must wait until Social Security beckons if death does not reach us first. Fore bread, water, warm clothes and a place to live cry louder. Goodnight Sweet Dreams. May you one day resurrect to a New Dawn.
Surrounded by a plethora of people who seemed to surface like bloated corpses after spring thaw. Worker bees we are all meaningless specks of dust being recklessly scattered by blustery winds. Modern day Robber Barons throw battle weary soldiers back into the battle while they sit sipping tea in Ivory Towers. Thirty-seven years a professional, now placating rot breath Sabbath suits long in tooth, visions of Mammy dancing in their heads. Limestone Liver spotted wrinkled bone bags befoul the air with endless demands. Dontcha know Miz Daisy learned to drive herself and the Help all went to the French Rivera.
I am Hagar cast out of my prosperous household, denied by the Master and Mistress I once served. Thrown out of my protectors’ house my Dream-child and I await Our Avenging Angel of Salvation.
My Dreams now dead buried under work obligations, mountains of rules and regulations that I seem to constantly violate just by being. No miracles exist for me. Only years of mindless drudgery ahead. Millennial Overseers govern my every move with their remote control mind games. Freedom lies dormant within my imagination. My brain has been put out to pasture because intelligence is not needed or wanted and creativity has become a sin. Automaton Me clad in nondescript dull uniform easily replaceable by the next set of hungry hands yearning for the pence dispensed from the rich mans table. Hey!! Who’s next up on the Auction Block?!! Come lock step into the Plantation Mausoleum filled with objects which are valued more than drones who guard them. We be Aliens in our own Land. Serfs never reaping a hard earned Harvest.
Yet soon a New Day will Dawn, Dreams will bear fruit and Visions be reborn.
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.
As a Black Woman who has been called skinny, bony, stick lady, po’ and various other negative names for years. I can understand wanting to fit in. I’ve actually had women especially Black women come up to me and tell me they hate me or call me some nasty names I won’t repeat. I remember gaining a lot of weight when I was in my 40s due to taking anti-depressants. Believe it or not I received tons of compliments from my African American co-workers.
Prior to my forties, when I was a young woman working in an office, co-workers would leave all types of cookies, cakes, snacks, even cans of Ensure telling me in a not so subtle way that I needed these foods to “fatten up” and become an accepted member of the tribe. If my weight suddenly ballooned to 195 lbs, something that is genetically impossible for me, but if those numbers did rise would my Black Woman Membership card arrive in the mail?
Right before I started work at my present job I stopped taking the anti-depressants. Of course I lost the weight. Sadness. Bullying from some female co-workers. One brother told me I had a body like a white woman. Someone else said I looked Asian. I love my Caucasian and Asian Sisters but like anyone else I want to be accepted by my own community. I want to fit in. Devastated. I cried myself to sleep many nights. I even tried to explain to my female co-workers that my thinness was due to genetics, which is true. My mother Mable Palmer never weighed more than 95 lbs in her life even after having kids.
BTW my mother had diabetes as does most of my family on my mother side. Many of my cousins my around my age, (I’m 54) have died from the disease. I had my own brush with death November 7, 2008 when I was rushed to the hospital from my job for extreme high blood pressure. To show you how brainwashed I was as I lay on the hospital gurney in the emergency hooked to a machine monitoring my pressure, my life passing before my eyes, I looked down at my thighs and felt shame because I was so thin!
Like most women I look like my mother. I carry her DNA. Also since I have high blood pressure I can no longer eat certain foods so that prevents me from gaining additional weight. I weigh about 117 or 120 depending. Am I a fat basher? No because I know from firsthand experience just how sensitive weight issues and the ensuing insults or assumptions can be. I want to know how my weight got to be a determination of how Black I am or how womanly I am.
Does everything depend on the size of a woman’s breasts or butt? Have I been banished to a leper colony of neo-Blackness? Is a woman not more than her body? When do we stop promoting the superficial and concentrate on substance. Sometimes I think my body type has made me an outcast. Does the fact that I’m slim make mean my membership in the African race has been revoked?
I’m not handing in my Black card just because my facial features and body structure are considered all wrong. Oh by the way does my dark skin and nappy hair get me reinstated to the Land of Negritude? Define Blackness! Does it not run deeper than the outside package?
Finally I confided in one of the African American supervisors what I was going through. He reassured me I looked fine and said I looked good. He explained to me that some of the females at our workplace were jealous.
Then after 50 I started gaining a little weight. Thank you Menopause for helping me enter the realm of semi-Rubenesque. I was received back into the fold, somewhat but I still get those funny looks and comments not only at work but even within my own ‘hood.’
Books with titles like “Skinny Women are Evil” do not help the situation. I hate that our patriarchal society has pitted one group of women against others even within our own race. So if I was stacked, voluptuous, a “brick house” would I then hear the Gooble Gobble song.
Okay you know that I was intrigued by this picture. Anything to add curves to my stick frame. I looked up Squat videos on YouTube and found one that “Looked easy.” Not!! As I was doing the squats I could hear my knees Snap, Crackle & Pop more than a bowl of Rice Krispies. Maybe I should forget the Donkey Booty and just stay a “Black Twiggy!”
This is a Squat video by a Colombian Sister. Really now it would just be much easier to be reincarnated into her body!! LOL!! OMG!! Isn’t there an easier way to snag a husband? If I click my heels together 3 times will my stomach fat move downward towards my butt or upward to my boobs?! Dang my knees are creaky and clicking more than Savion Glover tap dancing!
Still trying to return to the Summer of 42. Not 1942 because I wasn’t yet born but age 42 when I had a nice hourglass figure. So I’ve been planking since Dec. 1st and now I will add Squats to my program. Let’s see if all this exercise results in romance when I turn 55 in Feb.
I considered using one of my cats as weights but they would not cooperate and thought the better of that idea. Leave sleeping kitties lying on the bed. My cats already think I’m crazy for Planking. Now every morning Sylvester and Weezer take up a position in the Living Room watching me make a fool of myself and sometimes rubbing their little furry faces against mine.
Espiritu en Fuego/A Fiery Spirit 