Why little drops Reaction to Dove's "Real Beauty Sketches" Makes me Uncomfortable ... and Angry

After I got up from reading this post: http://jazzylittledrops.tumblr.com/post/48118645174/why-doves-real-beauty-sketches-video-makes-me I started putting away dishes. And as I usually do when I get fired up about something I have an internal dialogue, refuting all her points that pissed me off. As I slammed dishes onto the counter, I had these thoughts.

Guess what, dude, maybe because Dove is a company that is obviously launching an advertising campaign they are targeting their customers. Maybe they know more white women buy their products. Maybe if this was a Ken Burns documentary, we'd see every one's reaction. But, no, this was essentially an ad. Just like Folgers like to make me cry with the soldier who comes home Christmas morning and his mom practically faints from joy; so, too is Dove trying to get an *emotional* response from their target audience. Why? Oh, because *emotions* trigger us to *buy*. Yeah, so maybe we shouldn't be so hard on the *company* that is trying to sell us something. We KNOW that. We're women! We ARE smart AND beautiful ... and guess what ... as human women, that's part of our POWER.

I mean, why don't we tell Mr. Peacock (pictured above), Hey, buddy, calm down, you can get the ladies without plumping up those tail feathers. I mean, I'm pretty sure the Old Ladies Peacock Club didn't get together in the 50's and determine that they need to undermine male Peacocks by telling them the only way they're worthwhile is if they keep those plumes in tiptop shape. That comes pretty naturally. As it does with us, you know, WOMEN. And males, if I should be so bold to say so. Consumerism drives males and females equally - Hey, guys, grow your hair, maintain your hard on, trim that beard, don't stink!

And if there is more concentration on females it's because (ta-da!) we traditionally are the spenders! Advertisers: they know what they're doing. Really.

Just like I won't let a man tell me what to believe, I won't let this feminist-on-steroids tell me what is truth and what's a lie. I CHOOSE to use beauty to feel empowered. Women have greater power than men BECAUSE we can illicit responses (yes, I'm referring to sexual attraction) in our male counterparts, or not. Men (really, just people in general, but maybe men more so) are attracted to bright and shiny things. Yeah, that includes heterosexuals and homosexuals. Have you ever noticed that some homosexual men like to primp as much, if not more than some women? Right, so there is power in "beauty". It IS one of our powers, as we have MANY and men KNOW this. Men have known for millions of years that we wield greater power than they do because we are the vessels for the continuation of our species. No doubt misogynists have wreaked havoc on females for centuries. But, here's the deal, I don't need some party pooper to tell me I shouldn't use beauty to feel empowered. I am woman, hear me roar: I LIKE TO FEEL BEAUTIFUL.

A Little Birthday Wish List

Haircut
Jeans
Tops
Pillows
Bed frame from IKEA
China Cabinet from IKEA
Date night: dinner anywhere and any kind of show
Grass in the backyard
IKEA shopping spree
A carpenter to: build a fence, build enclosure for laundry "room", convert bonus room into master bedroom
Hawaiian vacation
Vehicle for six people and a dog
Lose 34 pounds
Cure for Stress
Desire to Exercise

“To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.”
― Federico García Lorca

Once in a Lifetime

It's not that I'm complaining - well, no, I totally am complaining. I do realize my current life is my own doing and I am fully responsible for where I am right now. I just wish I could go back 10 years and shake myself by the shoulders and say: "The next ten years are going to pass you by like crazycakes! Do the right thing, God damnit!" I could shake down a list of regrets from the past ten years, aaaaand also the last 20 years, but I do believe the choices I made/make paint a picture of who I am. It may not be a pretty picture, but it's my picture.
I never thought I'd be in my 30's wishing I'd made better choices in my 20's, because I honestly believed I was making excellent choices. Granted, having a child at 21 was a bit of a surprise, even to me. I decided from the time that I found out I was pregnant with David Lorenzo Casillas (Dave) that I was going to be a perfect human being to prove to all the naysayers that having a child in my early 20's would be a disaster: I am fully capable of being not just a responsible parent, but a successful one. So, I buttoned up, all the way to my chin. I clinched my butt cheeks so tight no one could try to screw me, and I marched into my destiny as a mother. We moved out of our awesome studio barn, rented a reasonable apartment next to the library, I got a job, I enrolled in school, I put my son in daycare, I left his dad who I felt wasn't heeding the call of being a "responsible-enough" parent. I took on an internship. I got back together with the father of my child, because he proved he did want what I wanted: a family, a good life, to make reasonable, responsible choices. We moved into my childhood home (a rental), our first single-family home with a bedroom for Dave and a bedroom for us. We adopted a cat, I graduated, we adopted another cat. I took a job offer with good pay and benefits, I did the 9:00 to 5:00 Monday through Friday, with my child in daycare 8.5 hours per day. My partner took a better job as a painter, he got benefits. I left my job to work part-time so I could spend more time with my son. We went to Disneyland. We decided we could have another child. We felt like we were making it. David (my partner) was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. We had nutritional paradigm shift. Roman was born. I had the worst case of post-partum depression I've had with either of my three kids. Dave started kindergarten, I went back to work, I put Roman in daycare. I cried. I was depressed for 5 months. Then, in January 2009 Roman's daycare, the place I put all my faith in, told me due to the state's budget cuts, would be closing that June. I was devastated. I was dumbfounded. I fought. I fought the community college, I fought the state, I implored news stations and newspapers to listen to me, I started a petition, I sent emails. In the end the daycare closed, I left my job because I couldn't trust anyone else to take care of my baby. And I spent the summer searching the want ads online. I was determined to find a job at night, or from home. I would not put my child in daycare anymore. When Roman was in daycare those 9 months, he was sick 90 percent of the time. He had so many ear infections the doctor considered putting tubes in his ears if he had one more case. He had multiple fevers, he had sicknesses that I didn't even know existed. I got sick, his brother got sick, I missed work, I was shelling out 80 percent of my income to have him in daycare, even on the days he missed because he was sick, and I lost income to be home with him. Going back to work and putting my children in daycare was not an option for me. I spent the summer taking care of tasks I'd put off. Organizing photos, organizing closets, organizing, organizing, organizing, and watching lots of Trading Spouses. I thought I'd never find what I was looking for. By July I hit the jackpot. On Craigslist I found a job for an at-home transcriptionist. I was suspicious. I researched the company. I applied. I got an interview. I got the job! Holy hell, I got the job. I was so nervous. I thought I'd fail, I thought I'd be fired because I couldn't hack it. By September I was waking up at 4:00 a.m. to work, I was spending time with  my sons, I was exercising. I was in love with my husband, who had just received another raise. I felt good. We thought we could buy a house. We did. Two days after we moved in our totally paidoff car died. We took on a loan that added an additional $500 a month (loan and increase in insurance) to our already stretched expenses. Two months later I found out I was pregnant, despite having an IUD for the past two years. I got really sick. I couldn't work. I was devastated. We were going to fail.
After Nora's birth, David left his job to start a business and I went back to work after a three month maternity leave. Summer was great. Fall was bad. Winter was devastating. We stopped paying our mortgage, because if we didn't, we wouldn't eat, stay warm, or be able to flush the toilet. We married. We started dating again. We went on vacation, we did things we hadn't allowed ourselves to do in years because we were being so GD responsible about everything. We got a dog. Our family was complete. Oh, my God! Look what happens when you give your mortgage lender the finger and start treating yourself for once. It felt *good*. I felt like a person again. I felt I/we deserved this kind of life of fun, and intrigue and fulfilling desires. I was happy. Then the foreclosure notices came, the threats from the bank. By the end of summer we were told our house would be put up for auction in November. I started to freak the fuck out. We scrambled to do as the mortgage lender said. We filled out forms, we filled out more forms. We were granted a chance to prove ourselves as responsible home owners. The last three months we have scraped up the funds to pay our mortgage right on the deadline. We are always behind on bills. I eventually had to return my leased vehicle because lenders wouldn't finance a car for us for less than $500 a month. We have had the cupboards and refrigerator bare. We have dug to the bottom of the change jar to buy gas. We live day to day, week to week and at best, month to month. And sometimes we're lucky and we can go out (sort of) like we did when we were "free".
The words that go through my head all the time is lyrics from "The Talking Heads": How did I get here? I got here because I wanted more for myself and for my kids. I refused to work 8 hours a day, spend an hour each day in traffic and pay out the nose so my kids could be in daycare where they got sick every other day.
I try really hard to be a good parent, a good wife, a good daughter, a good grand-daughter, a good person, and sometimes I feel like a failure. I don't make enough money to be self-reliant. My parents both worked so hard all the time. They separated when I was 5, divorced when I was 8, and I felt alone all the time. My mom worked every day at her small nursery. My dad worked overtime at Boeing, even on the weekends I spent with him. I don't remember wanting for much, just more of my parents' attention.
I want to be here for my kids. My chosen career is motherhood. But, I work part-time because it's the happiest medium between being available for my kids and contributing financially to our household. I still feel like I'm being stretched in two different directions. How do people do this? Do I not have the right to have children because I want to raise them myself? Should I have disregarded my love for David and waited for a richer man who may not have loved me as much? Should I sacrafice what I think is right to be considered "responsible?" Should I have aborted when I became pregnant when I I wasn't trying to get pregnant? No.
After Nora was born I understood completely that all life should be is following your heart. Before, I had tried so hard to control my environment. I thought if I pulled my boot straps up high enough I'd eventually make it. Well, guess what: Life, the collective Life, has a greater agenda than mine. If I follow my heart, everything will be OK. Maybe this hippy agenda doesn't jive with the ubequitous "they" that says I have to sacrafice to get ahead. And there is still a part of me that hates myself for not having "more", as if that is what success is. I believe I am successful even though my bank account and FICO score say otherwise. What I do have can't be shown on paper. It can't be quantified. I know everyone has something in their life that isn't they way they want it. And right now, it happens to be our finances. It happens to be that we can't afford a second car. But, I look at this struggle as a lesson. It's a lesson for our kids that we can have fun in the mud, becaue we can't afford to put grass back in our back yard, walking to school is more fun that driving, because we can pick flowers and play at the playground on the way home. The lesson is that being unconventional opens yours eyes, opens up possibilities, stirs your creativity and enriches your life.
So, I regret that in my 20's I buttoned up and puckered my butt to make people believe in me. I wish I'd followed my heart and let myself be unconventional. Who knows what amazing possibilities could have opened up for me back then. All I can do now is live with my heart wide open and wait for the next adventure to walk in.

New Look

It's Spring - time for something new and something fresh. I think the new title and design reflects my personality a bit better than the last one.

Here is a sampling, in pictures, of my week so far:

 

Woke up Sunday Morning to "Feed me Seymour" - these cats live for 4:00 a.m. feedings.

 

Miss Hipster getting ready for a trip to the G-Grandparents

 

Hipster Mentor, and Dave

 

Thrills

 

This is awesome!

 

Corn Flake Muddy Buddies make everything better.

 

Rhubarb found a new home with the mailbox, porcelain frog and hummerbird feeder.

 

The Wee blueberry bushes - I now realize they are directly under a likely bathroom for the little Wee birds ....

 

Moved Roman into Nora's Room. It's so cozy!

 

Dave has his big boy room ...

 

 

Where he has set up shop.

 

Reconfigured the playroom/office/guest room/laundry room.

 

Apparently when you don't have a car to avoid your home, you find things inside your home to keep you away from things like cleaning and working ... which reminds me, I should be working right now ....

 

And here is an article explaining why I'm probably stressed/depressed and trying to fix it by rearranging things in my house:

 

http://simplystated.realsimple.com/2013/03/27/top-stressors/

Fool

"I must learn to love the fool in me - the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries. It alone protects me against that utterly self-controlled, masterful tyrant whom I also harbor and who would rob me of human aliveness, humility, and dignity but for my fool." - Theodore I. Rubin, MD

Right now the fool in me includes the one who eats too much, and exercises too little. It has consumed my life, this whole not being able to lose weight thing ... do you know how frustrating it is to be 15 pounds heavier than you were a year ago? Probably some of you know, and then some. And then there are those of you who have never experienced the frustration of putting on weight like you were applying lipstick but losing that weight felt like trying to get dried super glue off your dining room table. It makes me so angry sometimes it's hard to love the fool that got me there, with all her need to feel comforted and celebrate by eating an entire bag of tortilla chips or half a loaf of warm Pugliese bread. *big sigh*

Why am I like this? Why are there women out there who can eat apple fritters and chocolate shakes and barely gain an ounce? WHY?! Why couldn't we all be created equal in the weight department? I laugh about how I look like a hobbit, all short and stocky and round, and matronly - but it sucks. It sucks a hell of a lot less than it did when I was 15 and felt like everyone was Barbie and I was a Troll Doll. Being 31 (and a half) and being short enough to be mistaken for a middle schooler from a distance, but flabby enough to be seen as a mom up close is just annoying. I have always thought to myself - just once I want to be beautiful, gorgeous, thin, put together. That's why I wanted to have a huge wedding. I wanted to lose 50 pounds, look amazing, wear a flattering dress, hair style, makeup, and have beautiful photographs taken of me. Like, Glamour Shots, but less tacky and with presents. :)

It's hard to look in the mirror and not see the reflection of who you think you are. In my mind I feel intelligent, wry, sporty, tailored, statuesque. I am everything but the last three, and I feel like the dopey, disheveled stump on the outside eradicates any indication that I might contain the first two aspects. I think over the years I have let go of my desire to be graceful and beautiful, because I just knew my body would never meet my standards. So I started changing who I am on the inside. Hello, goofy, unconventional, and inappropriate. Of course I don't care about my less than ideal body, and in case you were unsure about that, my personality should clear up any misconceptions. As a whole, I'm less than ideal. My husband always berates me for being so hard on myself in my posts, and I know I am. But I'd rather point out what I feel everyone else thinks about me, than imagine what people say behind my back. I already know what you think, you don't need to judge me.

Fear of judgement is one of my many poisons. I  just want to please everyone all the time. I know "they" say that the older you get, the less you care about what people think. And so far this has been true. Each year I care a little less about what people think about me, but I start to care a little more about what *I* think about *me*. I think about my legacy. When I look at pictures of my mom when I was young, I see a gorgeous and graceful woman. When I see pictures of me, especially when Dave was a baby, I am a fat and awkward jacktard. When I was about 13 I told an adult  friend that a mother's hands should be elegant and delicate, not stubby man-hands like I had. How could I ever be the kind of mom I wanted to be with my horrible "carny hands"?! She said, "That's funny, because my grandmother had hands like yours. To me, your  hands are mother's hands." I still wanted pretty mommy hands, but I realized that everyone has their own ideals.

I am trying to evolve my own ideals. That I am a different kind of beautiful with my lumpy butt and tummy that never seems to glide roll-lessly into a nice fitting pair of wide legged Citizens for Humanity jeans. I keep trying to get to my ideal and I keep making adjustments. I'm not there yet. I'm not happy with what I look like, and the older I get, the more fearful I am that I will just get fatter and uglier. Am I never going to have my "Glamour Shots" moment? Will I never get to have photographic evidence that I am gorgeous and graceful on the outside?

Life is rough enough managing all the minor details and nuances in a single day. Being reminded that I have a body that requires extra maintenance only tires me out and pisses me off. For now, I deal. For now, I keep trying. For now, I am just living. One day, though, I just really want my moment to shine.  

Home

Yesterday was probably the worst mental health day I've had in a long, long time. One benefit to being on Prozac is that it has helped me control my temper. Oh, yeah, in case you didn't know, I have a tendency to freak out once in a while when I feel hurt, ignored, shamed, etc. I really crave peace and harmony, but when I feel slighted, especially by people I love, I crumble. Rarely do I ever freak out in public or at strangers.

Yesterday started off a relatively good day. I accomplished my morning and afternoon fairly easily, except not making time to unload the dishwasher in the morning (woe is me). After a pleasant dog walk and exchange with my friend Margo, I went to Target to run some errands. Which was fine enough, except I was wearing a ratty old sweatshirt with some massive tears and a few errant stains on the sleeves. This sweatshirt is about 40 years old, and belonged to my dad in Junior High. I love it, but it does not scream "put together mother". I do a good enough job of looking like a mess when my clothes are clean and neat, thank you very much. So, as I was driving away from Target my friendly iPhone rang out it's train whistle sound, reminding me that tomorrow Dave has a soccer game at 9:30 a.m. and oh, yeah, I have snack duty! WTF, I just left Target, damnit! Gar ... I could have easily turned and re parked and returned to the store. However, my incredibly regular son informed me he needed to use the facilities. Wonderful. For those of you in the know, juggling a toddler, harboring your full basket of carefully selected goods and aiding a 4 year-old to a cramped bathroom stall (with your 18 month-old) is a circus act. I had begged him to wait until we got home. So, there we were, headed for home to commence Operation Bathroom. I decided I would hit the Safeway in Des Moines on my way to pick up my oldest at my mom's greenhouse, instead of driving the extra couple miles to Fred Meyer, where I normally shop. This is about 4:00 p.m. when everyone is scrambling to get their snacks, dinner, beer for the long-awaited Friday night. I am laboring up and down the aisles looking for the perfect snack that is frickin' peanut-allergy friendly, and healthy. I stock up on 10 oranges, get stuck behind some guy yelling at his wife to check the price of the whole chickens, make my way to the bread aisle because I decided to F the healthy choice and buy packs of mini donuts. I pile 20 in my cart. I'm tired of being the lame mom who brings the Organic Granola Bars from Trader Joe's, I decide. Then, who wants juice with donuts? Milk, I say! No dice in the refrigerated section for individual servings of milk. A-ha, the juice aisle has milk in juice boxes. I stock up on 18 of those. Hey, it's Friday, let's have some beers. Backtrack to the beer aisle, where I pick up a 12-pack of Newcastle (hey, it was on sale). Meanwhile, David texts me to not forget halftime. Halftime, I think. What? Oh, he must want snacks for the beer while dinner is cooking. *sigh* I'm really trying to lose weight, but I do have homemade salsa in the fridge, and, oh, Hey, the Juanita chips are on sale, too. Cool. When I text him back to see if chips are OK, he writes, Don't we usually have fruit at halftime. Huh? For Soccer, he writes back. Ohhhhhhh! Right, yeah. Got the oranges already. I'm in line, so I'm keepin' the chips ... for, you know, later, or whatever. Yeah. Anywho, I'm the "express lanes" for a minute when I am told to move down to the cash register on the opposite end, because their scale isn't operating, and I have oranges that need to be weighed. At this point, the lines are so long at all the registers, they reach the beginning of the aisles and I get stuck behind a bunch of people with overloaded carts. As I try to follow the cashier to the register 5 miles away, a few other tag-alongs trail behind her, in front of me. Oh, fuck that. So, I choose an altogether different cash register. As I'm waiting in that line, I observe a tall, lean, well-dressed woman with beautiful straight dark hair, casually sipping her venti Starbucks whateverthefuck drink. Over the white noise of grocery store chatter I hear something like, "I'm going to have to move you, this one isn't working." Huh? What? Oh, it must be specific to Brunette Barbie, surely I won't have to move again. "It's OK, not your fault," I hear Ms. Svelte say, with her nose turned up in he air, as she gathers her neat stack of goods and trollops off behind the cashier, who is yelling at me to move down to the next register, as I stand there, dumbfounded. Oh, hell no! I still stand there, he comes back. "This machine is broken, go ahead and move down to the next register." In a voice that comes from the lowest depths of my soul I say loudly, clearly, and steadily, "You better get me to a cashier that can check me out right now. This is the second time I've been asked to move and I am not waiting in another line!" He stutters, telling me to give him just a minute. He fumbles with the machine and then disappears. I look behind me, and the mass of people that used to be there have disappeared. I'm heated, I'm angry, my heart is beating out of my chest. I am hungry, I am crampy, my throat is dry, Roman is asking me what's going on, Nora is trying to escape from the grocery cart. I am losing it. I give Roman his coat, haul Nora out and storm out of the store, leaving my cart with all the snack stuff sitting in the abandoned check-out line. I'm near tears. I just wanted to get the god damn snacks and be done for the day. I just wanted to be done. for. the. day. Now, I have to find the time to buy snack stuff before we need to leave for a 9:30 a.m. game. I am feeling like a toddler about to have the biggest meltdown. I start to breathe, pushing the air out between my clenched jaw. I get to my mom's and collapse in her wicker chair in the corner of her office. After chatting for a minute, I slowly drag myself up and load the children in the car. I make the 15 minute drive home that feels like I am a tug boat, hauling a huge tanker. I get the kids out of the car, stumble into the house and out of my shoes and coat, throw any bags I managed to grab out of the car on to the floor, and collapse on the couch, cover myself with a blanket, and turn on "Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives". The sun is streaming through a patch of clouds, right onto my face, and Dave asks me, "Mom, you want some tea?" *big sigh* He's a sweet, caring boy. Roman cuddles up next to me, Nora crawls all over me, Dave brings me tea and starts playing with his Legos on the couch. I am OK. David calls, he is getting the snacks (and the beer) and he will make pizza when he gets home. *huge sigh* I am OK. I don't really leave the couch the rest of the night. We eat the homemade pizza my husband made, which is delicious, and watch Madagascar 3. We laugh and we snuggle, and we are all OK.

I love home. If I could figure out a way to not leave my house and still live a fulfilling life, I would. Finding the energy to run errands, load kids in an out of a car that is way too small for my family, reading off lists of carefully thought out items that correlate with the stack of coupons in my wallet, struggling with Roman who wants to show me for the fifth time the birthday card with the swearing squirrel at Target, Nora trying to escape from the belt in the cart so she can run rampant through the store - it is exhausting. I am exhausted. Come to me, world. I wish it was like that. I make the moves, I put forth the effort to get the job done. Some days I take it in stride, I don't collapse in a fit, and I am patient. Other days, when the elements line up just right (meaning in such a way that everything goes wrong), I want to run and hide away. Home is where I bunker down. It's where I can corral all the things I love. Home is where the world's teeth can't sink into me. Home is where I heal. *sigh*

Color Me .... Thin?

I'm going to continue on with the weight thing again this week, mostly because it's permeating my life. I've gained another two pounds and my "fat" jeans are creating muffin-top. Frick. Ironically, I have no appetite for anything, but I continue to scrounge for something delicious to eat every morning after I put Nora down for a nap and before I start working. I just want to feel alive or something. I don't mean to sound so dramatic, but I think that is the appetite I'm trying to satiate. It seems so easy to overload my plate with obligations before I feel like I've eliminated any space to enjoy something that reminds me I'm Rachel. Something that reminds me that when I read, the story becomes part of my conscience, that when I listen to music it represents the flavor of my emotions, that watching a really good movie takes me to an alternate universe in which I take a mental vacation from my life's problems, that baking pies, cakes, cookies, muffins, and anything else in the realm of delicious makes me feel like a creator with control, that writing this blog makes me feel like I have a voice worth stopping to hear, and that watching "The Real Housewives of New Jersey" makes me feel like I'm an incredibly intelligent and rational female. It's important that I remember I am not only a mother to three gorgeous, life-inspiring children and wife to a steadfast, equally-inappropriate soulmate, I am also a veritable rainbow. I've decided to set aside 1 hour each day to remind me of my colors. 30 minutes a day moving my body in a way that doesn't involve hauling a 4 year-old and an 18-month old out of the car or handling any cleaning tool. That would mean, dancing like Seinfeld's Elaine, stretching my ham hock legs to make jump shots, or getting dirty in the backyard yanking out weeds or overgrown plants. 30 minutes for reading, writing, playing Words With Friends, or watching trashy television. I owe it to myself, my kids, my husband, and anyone else who has watched my sparkle fade, to refill my color palate. If that is full, maybe I'll stop trying to fill a plate of a different kind.