Friday, September 24, 2010

Why the Cue Ball is So Sexy

Cue Ball.  Chrome Dome.  Mr. Clean.  Whatever you call him, if he's bald then he's sexy.

I am ready to declare publicly my affinity for bald men.

I have found bald men sexy ever since high school.  Today I tried to figure out why.  I analyzed it and found out some surprising things about myself.

I reject the idea that I like bald men because my dad is bald.  Trust me, I have daddy issues but this isn't one of them.  Sorry, Freud, no Oedipal complex here.

I do like older men.  Even in high school I was attracted to older men.  Not a few years older, 15-20 years older.  I liked the idea of someone wise.  Someone above the need to impress.  And, yes, someone who could protect me (the feminist part of me gives way to the injured little girl part in this instance).  So maybe this is part of it.  Bald usually means older.

But there's more to it.  Especially now that shaving their heads is more common among men of every age.  It's a hairstyle choice.  Now I see thirty-year olds with bald heads.  That's younger than me.  Do I find them sexy?  Why, yes I do.

So it's more than age.

It's confidence.  Men who are going bald naturally and embrace it rather than fight it with the dreaded comb-over, hairpiece, or plugs.  Men who know that they are not defined by their hair, something so arbitrary.  Men who roll with what life hands them.  That is sexy.

There's also an element of honesty.  This is who I am.  Honesty is sexy.

And then there's the elusive element.  Why do we like anything?  Just because we do.  Sometimes there's not a logical reason behind it.  A certain smell or taste pleases me just because it does.  I find bald men sexy just because I do.

You can keep your Hugh Jackman and Brad Pitt types.  I'll take Sean Connery, Patrick Stewart, and Anthony Edwards.  Men who are confident in who they are and wear it well.  I love bald men.

Now, Johnny Depp is a rare exception; him I'll take.  Sometimes attraction just doesn't fit the rules.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

Hee-eere's Robin!

Old Tonight Show reference.  You probably don't get it unless you're over 35.  (It might make a little more sense after you read my post -- so go check it out.)

I am guest posting today over at depressions and confessions.  (I can't capitalize it because she doesn't.  It's kind of making me nuts not capitalizing it, but I'll try to let it go.)

depressions and confessions (okay, that one really makes me crazy because it's at the beginning of a sentence) is written by Alexis, a beautiful and very intelligent young woman.  No wonder people are afraid of her.

She is direct and will discuss anything and everything.  She's struggled with depression and believes it's important to discuss mental health issues, to take away some of the stigma.  Remind you of anyone you know?

Maybe that's why I enjoy her blog so much.  If she has an opinion, she shares it.  She doesn't apologize for it.  And she welcomes differing opinions (but please try to be respectful about it).  She's open about her life and her flaws. 

I love her Awkward Thursday posts where she writes about things that may be tough for some.  One of my favorites is self-sabotage and the modern woman.  Another important post was the life that might have been, about her miscarriage.  A topic too many people understand personally.  And her favorite recent post is marriage before midgets, or how she chooses to put her marriage first.

Some of her writings get people all stirred up.  I love her no-apologies, make-you-think style.  I think you will, too.

And if you're new to my blog, welcome.  It's pretty easy to navigate.  My favorite posts are over there on the top right corner.  Make sure you read the Warning and About Me boxes so you know what you're getting yourself into.  My blog is where I empty my head.  These are some of the things my blog will never be/have.  I'm known to get a little snarky.  I also fight depression on a semi-regular basis; sometimes I win, sometimes not so much.  I try to keep the heavier mental health issues on my other blog, The Difficult Things.

If I haven't driven you off yet, stay a while and take a look around.  Welcome to my world.  And don't mind the mess.

Friday, September 17, 2010

I Got a Little Distracted

So I guess I got a little distracted with that annoyance I like to call life.  I say this because I had another post go up at Smartly two days ago and kind of missed it.  It's a repost of Real Simple for the Barely Functioning.  If you haven't read it or it's been a while, pop over and read it.

Also, a heads up.  Check back tomorrow.  I'm doing a guest post for another blogger.  I will have the details here Saturday.  If you haven't read her stuff, and lots of you have, you'll want to check her out.  I mean, check out her blog.

Please excuse this confused interruption. 

Monday, September 13, 2010

It's All Downhill From Here

Remember when you were a kid and the word downhill was magical?  It meant you'd made it to the top of the hill and could almost fly down.  The thrill of danger.  The joy of easy speed.  The pride in your hard work that got you to the top.

Once you hit 40, downhill doesn't mean that anymore.  Downhill is now a bad thing.

Your health is going downhill.  Your looks are going downhill.  Your memory is going downhill.

Now I know that there are plenty of 40-year olds who are doing better than ever.  Plenty who still look great and have it all together.  For now.  But they're just delaying the inevitable.

Because it's not like it used to be.  When you were a kid and something went wrong with your body, it healed.  You felt miserable, for a few days.  You worked hard and were tired and sore, the next day.

Now it might take a week or more to recover from an intense day.  When something goes wrong with your body or you feel miserable it might not get better.

And it requires a mind shift. 

I'm not saying to give up.  I'm not saying to quit trying to improve your health.

I am saying, "Be realistic."

You will never feel like you did when you were twenty.  Never again.

Suck it up and deal with it.  You're more than a grown up.  You're a grown old.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Dressing for my Moods

It seems like my mood determines my life.  Like it is something out of my control that pushes all the buttons.  Like my moods are the man behind the curtain.

I do not believe that my moods are in charge.  I believe I have the power to change them, to subdue them.  Sometimes.

My moods are like an ever changing beast.  A metamorph that can change into any shape at will.  And can do so instantly.

And when there is a beast in your life your options are limited.  Fight it.  Find a middle ground.  Be devoured.  I vacillate among these three.

One of the ways this is evident in my life is in the way I dress.

When I am feeling strong I can fight.  I am willing to spend extra energy to win the battle.  I go the extra mile.  I shower.  I do my hair.  And I pick clothes that make me feel like I can tackle the world.  Usually it helps.  Sometimes the beast and I both know I'm fooling myself and it's not long before I'm craving my pajama pants.

On those days when I'm willing to compromise with the beast, things are a little different.  I don't shower, but I do brush my teeth.  I don't curl my hair, but I do brush it.  I don't dress up, but I do get dressed.

Then there are the devour days.  The days when I'm just out of bed long enough to give someone a ride or go to the bathroom.  No effort at hygiene.  I don't change out of whatever I fell asleep in.  And because I look so horrible, I avoid people as if I were contagious.

But a funny thing can happen on those devour days.  There's power in staying in my pajamas or my worn out flannel shirt.  The power that says the beast may be setting the agenda, but I still choose the wardrobe.  And I choose to wrap myself in comfort.  I choose clothes that serve as a hug for myself.

And that little bit of defiance keeps the beast from swallowing me.  Until I can claw my way out of its gullet and back out into the sunshine.

Monday, September 6, 2010

Writing Smartly

I have recently joined the ranks of conributing writers at smartly, a writers collective showcasing one essay a day.  My first essay, Creatures of the Night appears there today.  It's a new essay so none of you have read it yet. 

You should go check it out.  You know, like, now.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Dinner Training -- an Experience in and of Itself

A while back I wrote about my struggles with food.  Food and I just don't get along.  I understand that it's necessary for life, but it's hard for me.

Now take that and imagine being a mother.  Someone who is theoretically in charge of keeping others alive.  In charge of feeding them.  Ugh.

It was tough enough when they were little.  Three meals a day, plus snacks, actually spoon-fed to them.  All grocery shopping - mine.  All preparation - mine.  All clean up - mine.  And they would eat most of what I offered.  When they were small.

But as we all know, growing up tends to allow us to form our own opinions.  Even about food.  Pretty soon they were refusing what I offered.  I was cooking to make them happy.  I wanted them to eat so I prepared what they liked.

This wasn't usually too hard for my husband.  He'll eat almost anything.  He's just glad when someone else makes the food for him.

For me it was tough.  I wanted them to have balanced meals, but I don't really like meat.  So they would have meat, vegetables, fruit, dairy.  I would have a potato.  Or corn.  It was more important to me to feed them than to feed myself.  And easier because they liked food.

Now they are teens (yes, I just promoted my baby by a year).  They are practically adults (one is).  Shouldn't they be feeding themselves?  I thought so.

So we divided up the week.  Each of us has one day a week that we are in charge of dinner.  Choosing it.  Purchasing the food for it.  Preparing it.  Serving it. 

Doesn't that sound lovely?

When it works, it is.  At least one day a week they know that they will like what is prepared.  If they don't like it, they are in charge of feeding themselves.  I don't care if they eat cold cereal, ramen noodles, or just tater tots.  As long as they take care of it.

This sounds like a great way to teach them tolerance and understanding of what it's like to be in charge of the food.  Or a great way to teach them to cook.  Or shop for groceries.  Whatever.

But we have cheaters.  Rather than learn to cook or actually do any work, they want Little Caesar's.  Or they buy turkey, rolls, and cheese and announce that we're having hoagies.

And I am just too tired to fight it.  Which is why I gave them the responsibility in the first place.  I'm just too tired to care about food anymore.  We're not quite at the if-you-want-to-eat-you'd-better-go-kill-something stage, but we're close.

It's not without flaws, but it's functioning for now.  Barely.  It will get us through for a bit.

And every once in a while we have a magical moment when one of them comes to me and wants to cook an actual meal.  "Mom, can you teach me how to make chicken enchiladas?"

It's a glorious moment.

And then I remember that I really can't cook.  But that's another story.