What is a high maintenance woman?

•February 2, 2011 • Leave a Comment

What is a high maintenance woman? Iv’e been called high maintenance. I don’t get manicures, pedicures, facials, massages, or tan. I don’t wear expensive jewelry, clothing, or buy an exorbitant number of shoes or handbags. I’ve never demanded expensive vacations, cars or houses. So why am I considered high maintenance?

Perhaps it’s because I have high expectations from men. They won’t be able to cruise through a relationship with me. They need to have opinions and feelings they aren’t afraid to share (not overshare, more on this later!).I do expect a man to be able to carry on a conversation. I want someone who has lofty ideals; who is playful, intelligent, successful, financially secure, and a big sports fan. I don’t demand unreasonable participation in family events, require constant contact, nor do I hunt them down if I can’t find them. I am, in essence, a confident, secure woman who may not be worth much on paper (single mom, no support), but who is worth her weight in gold. I’m intelligent, happy, not too hard on the eyes for a 46 year old, a great mom and a passionate lover. So, why is this considered high maintenance?

Perhaps high maintenance is a term men bestow upon women who expect them to live up to their full potential. Setting in mothion a plan for a financially secure future and still having a good time at it is attractive in a man. Perfection is overrated, but a happy medium between professional and personal satisfaction is a journey worth taking. Some individuals prefer to complain about losses in the stock market or a financial blow to their 401K rather than look for a positive aspect from experiencing these personal challenges.
We should live by the creedo, “If we want to change our world, we need to change the way we see it!”

Scribblology: Art From the Heart!

•January 1, 2011 • 1 Comment

After being fired from my 20th job, I feel I’m justified in saying I was not meant to work. Not in a typical nine to five stint requiring the attention span of a rock and the personality of a dung beetle. I’ve done everything from secretary to sales, customer service, accounting, and administration. I am an aerobic instructor (this job I actually enjoy and still do. If only they paid more than a McDonald’s Happy Meal costs). I attempted personal training (more like adult babysitting), and countless other positions that were unsuccessful due to my stubborn ego and tendency toward irreverent behavior. I believe Corporate America is a square hole and I’m a round peg. I will always find a way to fit in, but I’ll never be able to fill the hole completely.

I’ve taken numerous online quizzes attempting to determine what I want to be when I grow up and the overall theme is writer. I love to express what I think, feel and believe on paper. I have a gift for giving great email and I use it often. My rear end is a direct reflection of this discovery as it begins to spread wider than the seat on which I perch for hours to contemplate life’s quirks. Many people like to write because speaking in person is uncomfortable. I love to speak in person as well. I’m an anomaly; an extroverted writer. I think that places me in the great company of Anthony Robbins, Brian Tracy, Zig Ziglar, and Oral Roberts. So why am I not making their income? No gonads, is my personal opinion and I refer to it on so many different levels!

The question remains; what am I able to contribute to an organization that they would not otherwise possess? I am an outgoing, easy going, always going woman. I’m virtually the energizer bunny; constantly hopping while endlessly beating my drum but never really going anywhere. I’ve overcome the learned challenge of project procrastination and now I can actually see a project through to the end, which comes…eventually. I tried reading the Procrastinator’s Guide to Success by Lyn Lively which is a very informational book, but I couldn’t get around to finishing it. I’ve made a million lists to keep myself on track but can’t find them. They are all written on post-its and they all look alike.

So here I am, trying to beat my way out of the box created by my own limited thinking. We are all a product of our own tortured minds, bringing to life every misguided thought by the law of attraction. All the books refer to positive energy in our minds attracting positive energy from the universe. What I haven’t figured out is how to break my defeating train of thought. In my heart I am powerful, but my mind continues to argue with this declaration. My heart and my head need a relationship counselor to break the barriers of negative communication. It is my goal to get my innards on the same proverbial page.

It is true that we all must earn a living in some way. I’ve often threatened to head down to Fifth and Broad to offer my services in exchange for currency. My mother chuckles and asks where I think I’m going to get the other nine hundred and ninety nine dollars for a one thousand dollar mortgage. Thanks, Mom. I love you, too.

Wayne Dyer

•August 9, 2010 • 1 Comment

 Excuses Begone by Wayne Dyer could be the pivotal moment in anyone’s life when they’ve hit roadblock after roadblock and feel as though life has dealt them an unfair amount of blows.  That’s how I felt after I lost my husband, my jobs (many of them!), my son and my home.  Finding an iota of remaining self-esteem, as if there were any to begin with, was nearly impossible.  Everything that happened to me I saw as a huge slap from God telling me I wasn’t good enough or I didn’t deserve to be happy, successful, peaceful or prosperous.  Excuses Begone redirected my thoughts to see myself as happy, deserving, loving and worthy of love.  It simply stated, in a simple yet deep way, that I am responsible for my life and the thoughts that are in my head.  Living a life of abundance has always been within my power.  The only limitations I have are the ones I put on myself.  I am learning to develop an attitude of “it is happening” instead of “if it happens”.

Putting the “ewwww” in lewd!

•September 1, 2009 • 1 Comment

 

There’s a burning desire deep inside me that consumes my body, mind and heart.  Passion is rising with each breath I take that’s been buried for a very long time.  I’m experiencing increasing awareness of my body and its needs over the past few days.  It’s almost as if I’ve been asleep for a very long time and am just now waking up to the world on a beautiful spring day.  Everything feels so new and fresh.  My senses tingle with anticipation as I think about the past week’s activities and how I can feel so intensely about them.  The yearning for unemotional, physical encounters is growing daily.  Although I don’t think this new gluttonous appetite is completely devoid of feeling.  It’s touching me on such a primal level that my sensors can’t register the psychological depth of the repeated rendezvous.  It seems the more I allow myself to experience it, the more I want.  It’s becoming an addiction, but how can something that feels so good be bad? 

I feel a little shy at first.  Usually a man has to buy me dinner and a movie before I allow him to see me this underdressed.  I tentatively touch my hips and think about the movements they are expected to perform.  In a past life I wouldn’t have given today’s activities a passing thought.  I was so confident; the desirable blonde woman with a rock hard body of every man’s dream.  But today my bare arms and legs feel exposed as I consider the amount of the batwing fat on the back of my upper arms and dimpling cellulite on my outer thighs.  Will it shake when I move?  Does it wiggle like Jell-O when I push harder and faster?  I pray it’s not noticed. 

It’s been so long.  I am painfully aware of time that has passed since I last felt like this.  After fifteen years of marriage and two children I’m mortified to find myself back here.  The old familiar feelings are there but somehow different.  I’m different.  It feels both frightening and exhilarating at once.  My gaze travels up the complete 6’5” frame and I am painfully aware of strong, sleek, dark arms.  They look so solid and competent, yet unforgiving.  I experience a brief moment of fear, wondering if I’m good enough.  It’s been so long and I feel as though I’ve lost my touch.   Will it be obvious?  I nervously avert my eyes so my insecurity goes unchecked.  No!  Wait!  Self-defeating thoughts are not allowed anymore.  I am beautiful just as I am.  I don’t have any reason to feel ashamed or uncomfortable.  I have to do this now, before I talk myself out of it. 

          I slowly lower my towel to the floor as I grasp the substantial arms and climb on top.  I know this is the preferred position.  I begin to move up and down slowly and tentatively at first.  It feels so awkward; as if this was something I’d never done before.   

The burn begins to rise from the pit of my belly again.  My face is getting warm and I can tell the flush is beginning to show.  I touch my arm and it’s at once cool and wet.  As the frigid air passes beneath my nose I feel the dampness beginning to form on my upper lip.  I’m clinging tightly to arms that are not familiar and it feels so right.  Pounding music plays a pulsating cadence as I close my eyes.  The music and movement begin to transport me to another world-a world of sensation, feeling and raw energy.  My breath is rhythmic as well; it’s getting deeper and faster as I am instructed to move with increasing speed and thrust. Discomfort and self-consciousness is dissipating.  I’m allowing the feelings to consume me. 

A bead of sweat is trickling slowly down my spine, drawing a slow, wet trail from the nape of my neck to the soft curve between my buttocks.  It feels very sexy.  My skin is beginning to feel the white heat that started earlier.  It’s as though I’ve caught on fire from the inside out.  I feel dampness between my legs and breasts. Suddenly I need and want more.  I move faster, with fervor, willing myself not to give it up until that perfect moment when I get the signal that it’s ready to happen.  Reckless abandon has replaced timidity; aggressiveness wins over shyness.  I become a beast which cannot be sated.  I move even faster, adjusting my position to get the deepest burn.  My thighs are throbbing and my arms exhausted, yet I won’t stop now.  Not when I’m so close to exploding satisfaction! 

I’m panting now.  Actually panting, like a dog!  My head moves from side to side as my body thrashes up and down, back and forth.  It’s going to be soon; I can feel it.  I can’t hold out much longer.  We’ve been going at it for nearly an hour non-stop.  Every inch of my body is alive and sweating.  I feel my breasts swaying with the rhythm. I’m sure my nipples are standing straight out.  How could they not with the sweat, cool air and constant friction? 

It feels so good!  I can barely take it now.  I know we’re almost finished but how can I hang on?  Hmmm, I’ll think of something else.  Like what color to paint the ceiling?  Do I need a manicure?  I…I…Oh my God!  I’m nearly there.  A slow, guttural growl begins low in my chest.  Was it out loud?  Could I be heard?  My embarrassed is shrouded in sweat soaked ecstasy and at this point I don’t care about anything but my end result.  The feeling of utter satisfaction when I’m completely spent, drenched in my own juices, legs shaking and aching like I’ve just been rode hard and put away wet prods my ass to move like a bat out of hell. 

I’m ready now.  I think my head is going to explode.  My heart is racing and the burn is excruciating.  I can’t feel my legs, but they have to be there, moving with passionately increasing rhythm until the ultimate climax.  One final push sends me to the edge.  My shoulders heave as I allow the feeling to travel through my body.  Suddenly, all movement ceases.  The only cognizant sound is the whoosh, whoosh of blood rushing through my ears.  Shaking and shuddering, I slowly step back.  I feel weak, spent and completely soaked, but sated.  I’ve completed my mission.  I nearly fall backward as I dismount.  With a Mona Lisa smile of complete satisfaction, I register the 700 calorie burn and 4.7 mile trek on the Stairmaster workout screen.

Tomorrow I think I’ll use the treadmill.

Job search angst!

•June 26, 2009 • 1 Comment
In Your Dreams

In Your Dreams

I’ve decided to pursue my own business while writing my book, VANITY: Behind The Plate (V:BTP).  I’ve started an online store called Scribblology at scribblology.com where one can purchase original artwork and T-shirts with positive motivational messages for children and adults alike.  Have you ever heard of “Happy Bunny”?  This cute, smiling character is anything but happy.  I would rather see a 13 year old in a t-shirt that says “IN YOUR DREAMS…anything can happen” rather than a rabbit with a contradictory smile that claims that a fake world is so much better than the real one.  Come on, people.  What kind of messge are we sending our kids?  I want my daughter to know she can do anything she dreams of with her life.  I also expect her to respect others, their beliefs, possessions and their space.  Creating a positive t-shirt that speaks “teenage-eze”, yet still remind them of their responsibility to our world and all who live in it is a much more inspirational message.  Yea to Scribblology, the study of line, color, form and shape to express emotions!

I am your worst nightmare!

•June 25, 2009 • 1 Comment

I am your worst nightmare.  I’m the blond, bouncy, bubbly aerobic instructor everyone hates.  The fodder of many raspberry scone and latte induced discussions; I’m the one who makes you feel bad about eating at McDonalds. 

Heaven help you if you run into me at the grocery store and you haven’t’ been to the gym in two weeks.  I’ll greet you with the love and energy of a long lost sister.  You aren’t safe from my Samari-like hug and earnest tears of dismay when I proclaim how much I’ve missed you in class.  You will cringe from guilt as I administer my distressed inquiry about your health, your family and the possibility of a fire, tornado or earthquake rendering your alarm clock inoperable.  You will panic as I glance down at your cart, trying to remember if you put the ice cream on the bottom and worry if your Hot Pockets are visible.  Darn, why didn’t you put celery in like you tried to convince yourself to do?  I’m not going to mention your extra large bag of peanut M & M’s, your 3 boxes of Pop Tarts, even if they were on sale, or the huge bag of potato chips you have floating on top of your purse so they don’t get crushed. 

I’m dressed in the cutest little exercise outfit; the spandex clinging to perfect thighs, which makes your Gucci sweatpants look like K-Mart rejects.  You wonder if the three helpings of mashed potatoes you polished off at Thanksgiving are visible on your thighs yet.  Leftovers are tantalizing lures screaming your name from the confines of your refrigerator. You eliminate temptation by eating them in one sitting, rationalizing that you’re protecting yourself from indulgence.  You are .  Can I see them?  Will I make you do five more sets of squats in class, letting the entire group know you are to blame for your lack of will power and commitment to a healthy eating program? 

You profusely apologize for missing class and promise me you’ll be there next week every single day.  I laugh casually and tell you not to worry about it; I’m just glad you are okay.  But you will worry.  And wonder what I’m going to say to my friends the next time I see them about your lack of motivation.  You will get indignant and think how dare I judge you?  I’m just an aerobic instructor.  You are a powerhouse at the school, volunteering for every committee and running for president of the PTO.  You are a busy woman and don’t have hours to spend in the gym like I do.  Who do I think I am?

What I don’t tell you is that you really are important to me.  I know your name because I care about whom you are and how you feel.  I know exercise makes you feel like a better person.  I ask about your husband and children because I am concerned with their well being.  I know you care about them much more than you care about yourself and I want you to continue to feel good about whom you are and I want you to be healthy for them.  They need you. 

This body isn’t natural.  I work very hard to be fit because I know I’m an inspiration to you.  If I let myself go, I am letting you down and I cannot do that.  You need me to encourage you and support you.  You really want to be fit and I want to help you achieve your goal.  Neither one of us can be present for the people we care about if we’re not doing as much as we can to help ourselves.  I know how you selflessly commit to school programs because nobody else steps up to the plate.  I commend you on all that you do; raising a family, working for the school, taking care of an entire household, being the everything for your husband and children, pets,  ailing parents, failing grandparents and only think of yourself when all other commitments have been honored.  You need to feel special and I want to help with that because you are special.  You are a unique individual with a marvelous sense of humor, a heart bigger than Texas and a loving soul.  I want you to be in class because that is how I know you’re being as good to yourself as you are to all the people you care for in your life.

My best friend, Webster

•June 24, 2009 • 1 Comment

I’ve looked up the word “post”, as well as the word “page”, and I’m still not certain about the difference regarding this site.  Am I the only technologically challenged person in the world?  Sometimes it feels like it.  When I ask my 15 year old daughter about something computer or internet-related, I get the eyeroll, attitudinal cock of the head to the side, and big “my-mother’s-an-idiot” sigh.  I’ve always considered myself intelligent, up until the time my child turned 14.  I’m fond of saying to her, “Honey, I’m the dumbest person you know right now.  But as you get older, watch how much more intelligent I become!”.  I asked my mother if I were this awful when I was a teenager.  She responds with, “Worse!”.  So I guess I’ll just count my blessings.