Thursday, July 29, 2010
Skirts skim butt cheeks and some shorts actually show the cheeks. It’s like we've all been inducted into the Raunch Society. Personally, I think there are only a few instances where such shortness is appropriate. The list includes, but is not limited to, strippers, hookers, singers, models, actresses, athletes, photo shoots, and costumes. (Mental Note: The fact that attire for strippers or hookers can be included in the same category as an athlete is...interesting)
Many of us are not in any of these categories. So, why do some designers feel the need to fill up the racks with this stuff? Or better yet, why do we buy them? Let’s face it. Some of us don’t need to be in such a hurry to show off legs that haven’t seen the gym since the 6th grade. And I certainly don’t want to make that observation while you’re bent over trying to grab fish sticks from the back of the grocery store freezer. Please spare me. I’m not showing mine, so don’t show me yours.
I know as women we always struggle with the whole too much/not enough skin thing. But, seriously some of the shorts/skirts out now are borderline, “Dude. WTF?” Again I ask. Is it me?
You know what? I think it really is me. I can remember in my early twenties I thought, the shorter the hotter. And I’m embarrassed to say, I have played Peek-A-Cheek before. We all have. And now that I think of it, short shorts/skirts have always been in stores and I haven’t been offended. So, this means only one thing. Ms. Petunia Prudepants has moved in.
Who let her in? It certainly wasn’t me. It could have been Sensibility. Although, I can’t picture her needing any help on the intimidation front. She is the intimidation front. Petunia is wedged somewhere between “Granny” and “Ew” on the P.Y.T. list. I’m sure Style Duchess would hang herself with a cashmere scarf before summoning Petunia in all her stuffy glory. And FBB? Really. So, that leaves Grown & Sexy. It could be a plot to gang up on P.Y.T. Those two are always going at it. But, I really can’t see that, either.
Maybe it was none of the above. It’s possible it wasn’t intentional. She could have come disguised as the Avon Lady or after a certain amount of birthdays maybe she automatically comes with the candles. I don’t know. I admit I am too old for the slut look, but I’m not old enough for prude.
The way I see it I have two choices. I can take Denial out for a spin, but she may want to pick up Delusional and I don’t have time to play with them right now. Or, I can play the perfect hostess to Petunia and bring her some lemonade. With vodka ice cubes.
Monday, July 26, 2010
This here body's gettin' old
Gonna whip it back into shape
Got lipo in the morning at eight!
I finished the 21 day bootcamp program on Saturday, so I'd figured I'd dish the skinny. After the first day my arms hissed at me like a rabid cat for 4 days straight. I was in pain! I've never felt such pain after working out. Then again, I've never done a jillion push ups either. My muscles from my shoulder to my elbow were wound tighter than a pair of Spanx. Every time I moved my arm I was afraid my fists were going to turn around and jab me in the face while singing, "Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee."
Of course, it was partly my fault because I started off thinking I was G.I. Jane and did push ups like the big boys. After about 10 of them I dropped to my knees like the girl I am. And that's how I did them for the rest of the program. I have no shame.
I was supposed to have gone to 11 classes, but I missed 2 because I had very pressing appointments--ahem, hair--to go to. I'm sorry, this weather and my hair are enemies. Seriously, is Earth going through a mid-life crisis? I could have sworn I lived on the East coast and not 3 feet from the equator. Anyway, if I don't keep up with my appointments my hair frizzes up like Simba. Besides not knowing all the words to Circle of Life, I'm not a raw meat type of chick. And it's just not cute, well maybe for Disney it is, but for me? Not so much.
But, this program works because after only 9 classes my six-pack is coming back. If I suck it in real tight and stand at precisely the right angle, it really looks like I'm working with something. And my thighs and arms are toner than what they were. But, my butt is still holding on to the back of my thighs for dear life. Even after 500 squats! Jeez, it needs to let it go.
I guess misery loves company because the thighs are still Dimple City, but there are a few less potholes on the street. So, more work needs to be done.
Sadly, I won't be able to continue the program--as much as I'd love to--because the price was just an introductory type thing. I would have to shell out like $78 more a month. Um, no thanks for 2 reasons. (1) It's cutting into my shoe fund and (2) it's cutting into my shoe fund. Really. Fall is coming and that means boots. Priorities, people.
So, my theory is that I can do the same bootcamp stuff on my own. I've made progress and I don't want to lose it. If I can get up at 5 a.m. and pay someone $52 to whip me into shape, I can do it myself. And expand my shoe portfolio. See? I win, the bod wins, and my closet wins.
My goal is to get back to G.I. Jane push ups. One-handed. Now, that's a tough chick. Okay. G.I. Jane may be a bit of a stretch for me being I'd wear stilettos with my fatigue pants. I'm more like Combat Barbie. But, I can live with that.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Of course “Crystal” can virtually mean anything on the Web and throwing “Blake” in the mix gives me 8,970,000 hits. Let me tell you, I have a pretty impressive resume. I’m a photographer, I sang vocals on Young MC’s “Bust a Move”, I’m a character in Stephen Bly’s books, and I’m someone’s “mummy” in the UK. Yeah…I’m a bad chick.
But, I had to be a little more specific if I wanted to find myself under the “author” fedora. I entered my name every way possible (Crystal Blake blog, Crystal Blake blogspot, crystal-blake.blogspot.com, Crystal Blake author, Crystal Blake Mighty Chicks, etc.) to see what came up and high-fived myself while laughing like the Wicked Witch of the West. But, I did it with great humility.
I’m taking my award—which is not so much of an award as it is a button—and pinning it to my shirt. The button looks a lot like a cut-out hot pink star glued to a safety pin, with the words “Google Me” written in silver. Hmm…I wonder who did that. **wink** Anyway, I’ll wear it with pride as I continue to leave my moxie dust—I’m not a pixie, so a girl has to improvise—across the Web.
Ooo, I’ve got to run…a waiter just walked by with a bottle of champagne for me. It has my name on it and everything! Wait. They spelled it wrong…eh, it happens.
So, a big thanks and smooches to you all!
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Then, you catch your foot on the coffee table or the door. In my case it was the brake pedal of my car. Brake pedal…really? How is that possible? And of all toes it's the big one.
You instantly freeze because you’re afraid to look down. If the polish survived an attack like that it would be a miracle. Or, the polish was made from liquid armor.
You take a deep breath and slide your eyes down to take a peek. The polish is gone taking a chunk of the nail with it as a souvenir. You search for the broken piece to place it back on your toe. Why? Because sanity has taken a coffee break and it's the only thing you can manage at that point. You carefully match up the jagged edges to remember how fabulous your toes used to look.
You silently mourn your perfect pedi. You shed a tear for all the colors you already had in the line-up. The neon green you’ve psyched yourself up to try because you were too chicken before. There was that pretty blue that reminded you of Caribbean waters and of course the sexy candy apple red. All gone and never to return until next summer.
Then it hits you. You can clip the rest of the nail down close enough to the broken part! There’s still a chance! You immediately speed home.
As soon as you open your door you go into rescue mode and set up headquarters for Operation Pedi-Coat in the bathroom. You kick your shoes off to maximize balance and hike your foot up on the toilet. You pick up the clipper, take a deep breath, and say to the shower curtain, “I’m going in.”
You clip slivers off nice and gently because it’s vital to preserve as much of the polish as possible. It’s already looking better. You get so excited you almost topple over, but you quickly regain composure.
As you continue to clip it becomes painfully obvious you’re running out of nail. Your heart starts to race because you realize the nail broke off into the meat. Anymore clipping and not only is your toe going to jump up and jab you in the eye, but you’ll need stitches.
The nail salon is not going to be able to fix it either. Sadly, you realize the soldier could not be saved. Your only option is to wait for reinforcements—the nail growing back. But, there’s only one month left in the summer and your nail is not going to grow back in time. You’re pretty much screwed, so you’ll have to make do with the situation at hand.
You can (A) get a boring light color so the chip will be less obvious, (B) get a fake toenail, (C) stand with your toes curled under, or (D) wear closed toe shoes for the rest of the summer.
Let’s examine the choices. Okay, (C) is only reserved for gymnasts and gorillas. If you're not swinging from vines or back-flipping on a balance beam keep it moving. (B) is not exactly necessary because your situation is not that serious. It’s just the corner and not the entire nail. Plus, let’s be honest…it’s freaking weird. (D) is doable, but it’s hotter than a hooker's underwear outside and do you really want your feet kayaking around in a pool of sweat? So, (A) it is. Personally, I’m going with option (E), getting black polish so I can color in the missing piece with a Sharpie.
The things we women do to preserve our cuteness.
P.S.--I really hate that friggin' chipped toe...
Monday, July 19, 2010
That thong th thong thong thong
(Sisqo, "Thong Song")
How did it happen? For years we cruised through the decades never knowing something like that could exist. They crept quietly onto the tables and racks at stores. They hid in catalogues. Then, the moment came for them to reign in all their cheekless glory. The female jock strap, G-string, dental floss, sling shot. They created a new era. Welcome to Generation Thong.
Seriously, love 'em or hate 'em, we need them. I don't care what anyone says, panty lines are never ever cute! And hello if you get a wedgie it's everyone's business.
Somewhere over the past 12 years I've morphed into a full-fledged thonger. And proud of it. The process was gradual, though. It used to be I only wore them with tight pants or skirts. Now, I wear them with everything! Not a stretch since everything is tight now.
Honestly, I don't see how we ever made it without them. For those of you that feel as if something is stuck up your bum, I understand. But, there is a method. You have to get the ones with the skinniest string possible. And they have to be your right size. If you wear a large don't buy a small because that string will engage in tug of war and you'll be wearing your buttcrack as a belly ring by the end of the day. Painful.
I admit my opinion is probably a little biased. So, I figured I would give "underwear" another shot. I took a pair of regular Jane's for a walk one day just to see what I had been missing. And you know what? I'm really choked up about picking my ass all day.
I had on a dress and everything was fine. While I was home. As soon as I stepped outside the Jane's went spelunking. All day long they rooted around. I pulled one side out and the other marched in. A few times both sides went for it. I guess one side didn't want to be outdone by the other. And what were they looking for? Hieroglyphics on my colon wall?
I picked, pulled, shimmied, and wriggled to no avail. And you know there is no discreet way to pick a wedgie in public. It was one of the most uncomfortable things ever. Either, I've been wearing thongs for so long that I've forgotten the wedgie invasion or they got together the night before and lubed the inside of the Jane's with Crisco.
I was so disgusted I threw the Jane's across the room as soon as I got home, vowing to never wear them in public again.
"Hey. Don't blame us." They said. "We just wanted to see what it was like."
"What are you talking about?"
"Everyone wants a thong these days so we wanted to see what the fuss was about."
"But...your underwear. You're not designed to be a thong! You're supposed to be on the butt, not in it!"
"Just trying something new."
"Oh, yeah?" I said sarcastically. "What did you think?"
Jeez. Everyone wants to be something else.
Monday, July 12, 2010
It’s a catch 22
Cause the cure is found in you
I don’t want it but I do
You’re just like poison
My affliction, I’m addicted, I can't lie
Baby kiss me one more time before I die
He’s mysterious, strong, reliable, and sexy. I’m addicted to another man. Scratch that. I’m obsessed with another man. I can’t help it. From the moment he came on the scene, he got inside my head. It’s a dangerous thing.
I know his every move, I know what he smells like, and I know where he lives. But, he doesn’t know I exist. It will never come to be. See, we both belong to someone else. I have a great guy and he’s a figment of someone’s imagination.
Seriously. He’s a character from a series of books I’ve been devouring by Janet Evanovich. Freaking hilarious! The main character (Stephanie Plum) becomes a bounty hunter out of desperation at her cousin’s bail bond agency. And she is the worst bounty hunter ever!
If a gun-toting granny, a 250-lb hooker turned friend, and exploding cars don’t make you race to the bookstore…Ranger most certainly will.
Ahh…Ranger. Curse that Janet Evanovich for introducing me to him. He’s Cuban-American and once upon a time he was Special Forces. Now, he runs his own security agency and rescues Stephanie. He only wears black and Evanovich often describes his shirts as being “painted on.”
I can sum him up in one word. Yum!
I’m not in the least bit embarrassed by saying this, I STALK RANGER! I feverishly flip through the pages searching for his name. Before him I never did that to a book I liked. Reading ahead ruins the element of surprise for me, but in this case I have to get my fix.
Stephanie is caught between a seesaw relationship with her cop boyfriend (Morelli) and jumping Ranger. And she’s not the only one. Evanovich has created a fun rivalry—equipped with T-shirts—between her fans: Team Ranger and Team Morelli.
And you all know you want Ranger across your chest. Why? Because somewhere in this cosmic world it’s written that a girl shall lust after the bad boy.
Take my guy (Nick) for instance. He’s tall, sexy, and also rescues damsels. But, he lacks that one thing Ranger possesses. Eau de Bad Boy. I thought he was perfect. And he still is. For my first book.
But, Ranger has poisoned my mind. Obviously reality is an issue with us and nothing short of divine intervention is going to fix it. So, to ease my bad boy hunger, I’m going to have to create one of my very own. I’m not sure how or where he’s going to fit in, but he will.
He’ll be so kick ass delicious his pheromones will smell like cupcakes baking in the oven. And kvkt Liiromfndf wmd’t nr kkle oe rkliyz…Whoops! My eyes rolled back in my head at the sound of that. Sorry.
What I meant to say was even Sensibility won’t be able to resist him. Hmm. Light bulb!
Until I know where to put Future Bad Boy, he’s going to have to sit tight in the condo upstairs. You know how many “women” I have up there so it’s going to get ugly. They’re going to climb all over him like ants on a cookie crumb. So, I’ll need a security system. Like a Bad Boy Protection Program.
Hey, maybe Ranger could come over and install it. **wink**
And while all the gals—including Sensibility—are stuck to FBB’s windows like wallpaper I can sneak off to visit Christian Louboutin.
**Evil grin** Bad boys are good.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
I own 6-inchers and 4-inchers. Platforms, flats, and Mary-Janes. Peep-toes and open-toes. All of these represent a fabulous shoe portfolio, but something is missing. Several somethings. Manolo, Choo, and Louboutin. They stand tall and emulate the three C's. Copy me, Crave me, and Covet me. They're the big dogs. Or, in this case the Big B's. **sigh** I heart Big B's.
My portfolio will not be complete until these are resting in my closet. My goal is to have one of each. Oh, who am I kidding? I want them all, in every color! And if by chance I actually slipped my piggies in a pair, I'm pretty sure I'd faint. But, that's okay because my feet would look damn sexy sprawled across the floor. Right now, all I can do is look. And drool.
The one thing that's stopping me from crossing the street to Big B Boulevard is something called a price tag. Sure, I could drop the hundreds--ahem, thousands--it costs to take them home. But, sensibility parachutes in every time and drags me away. Why don't I fight back?
Honestly? She's a little scary, that Sensibility. A presence that can't be ignored. And she's freakishly strong. Seriously. I think she's supernatural. Or either she bench presses SUV's.
She saves me from self-inflicted wounds like stupid and crazy. Good stuff. If I get the urge to drink caterpillar blood. But, not when it comes to the Big B's! I don't think she understands the magnitude of diversifying my shoe portfolio. How could she? The closest she's come to dolling up is camoflauge paint.
But, I'm a shoe broker...it's my job!
You know what? It's my money and my feet. I should be able to put anything I want on them. I don't need permission. Especially from someone who has never worn anything other than a combat boot! The next time she blocks me from buying a Jimmy Choo I'm going to stretch myself up to 5'3" and let her have it! I'm going to tell her she's not the CEO of my life, I am. And that means I'm the one running things. Not her!
And after I peel my face from her fist...I'm going to ask her if she'd consider letting me get them on sale.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
I was in the store with my mom when it happened. I left her in the “Mom Section” and ventured out on my own. My shopping senses picked up a scent and my nose shot up in the air to take a whiff. I turned my head to the left and spotted a red and yellow sign.
70% Off. Hot damn!
I combed the first rack and right on the edge sat a black and white dress. I spotted the little pink sales sticker…$59.99 marked down to $17.99! Oh, be still my beating heart! Yeah, I'm a sale slut.
I snatched it up and held it at arm’s length to mentally scan my shoes and belts for possible matches. It was worth a try-on so I slung it over my arm and headed back to find mom.
“Oh, that’s really cute. Where did you get it?” She asked.
I pointed in the direction of the sales rack. “Over there where it says 70% off.”
“Where? Over here?” I moved my eyes slowly in the direction of her voice. My head joined in a few seconds later.
“Oh, I see it.” She said as she ran her hands along the clothes.
Was she looking for her size? No. Couldn’t be.
“That’s not my size.” She mumbled.
I heard the music from Psycho play over the loud speaker.
“Do you see my size?”
My brain ceased all functions and I moved on auto pilot towards her.
“I found one.” She said.
I screamed and passed out. Oh, wait. That only happened in my head.
“I’m going to try it on, too.”
Aw hell. A generator kicked in and jolted my brain. I needed a plan. Okay. After I put my head between my knees and gnawed my lip off, I was going to tell her it didn’t fit. Problem solved.
But my little 7-year-old clone followed me. She perched herself on the small seat and waited patiently. If I didn’t try that dress on she was going to snitch. Dammit! Bullied by my own kid.
I picked up the dress, wrestled it over my head, and tugged it down. It was hideous. Yes!
“I don’t like it!” I shouted over the wall.
“Me either!” She shouted back.
I zoomed out of the fitting area, jumped onto Denial, and rode it right out of the mall.
I rode along for a minute or two before Denial needed a tune-up. I spotted Flabbergasted and Discombobulated across the street. They had a full tank of gas and were headed to L.A., so I hitched a ride.
I love my mom dearly. But, she’s 68-years-old. She has her own style and I have mine. They don’t play well together and until that day had stayed in their own corners. Either they had watched Elmo and learned a lesson in sharing or something was wrong.
Had I really reached that point in my life? Impossible.
I rolled my eyes to the top of my head and looked around. P.Y.T. was trying on lip gloss and G&S was reading a book. I glanced over at Style Duchess. Yeah, I have one of those and some others I’m sure you’ll meet over time.
She had a sign on her door. “Gone to the spa xoxoxo,” it read.
That was it! She does that periodically and it’s cool because even she needs a break. When she’s on vacation I know not to go within twenty miles of a store. But, she snuck off without warning and I was tagged by a matronly dress. Obviously.
To save myself from myself, the next time I go shopping with my mom I'm burying my wallet in the yard and handcuffing my hands to my belt loops. I'm not taking any chances.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Time kidnapped me and dropped me off ten years later…
I didn’t give an explanation for this blog. This is for all the ladies, gals, and chicks who have found themselves between the between. We’re not 20, but we’re not 40. As a matter of fact you don’t know what age you are. If you’re like me you think you’re still in your twenties, but your birthday proves that was over 10 years ago. What happened?
Okay. Think of it this way. If we were food we would be the Mighty Kid’s Meal at McDonalds. Why did the King of Fries do this? Because they realized at some point kids feel a Happy Meal is babyish, but a Big Mac is too much. And they still want a toy!
This is us. Mighty Chicks. Wedged between P.Y.T. and Grown & Sexy, but we still want to play. We’re young, but not that young. And we’re not old, either. We’re Bi-Youthful. Our bodies are betraying us; we have two gray hairs, and we still have zits. We’re constantly in a tug-of-war with P.Y.T and G&S. And let’s face it. Sometimes it sucks!
Like you sashay into Forever 21—don’t act like I’m the only one—to check out what’s new. You wander around and you spot a hot little—and I mean little, but that’s a blog for another day—dress. You eye it. You touch it. You want it. This is what happens.
“Oh my God, that is so cute.” P.Y.T. says as she reaches for it.
“Are you freaking crazy? She can’t wear that?” G&S screams.
Something hits a nerve and you immediately roll your eyes to the top of your head to confront her.
“What do you mean I can’t wear that? Says who?”
“Your boobs. They’re kissing your navel and you can’t wear a bra with that dress.”
“Excuse me.” You snap back. “But, my boobs are not at my navel.” Okay. So, they’re at your ribs, but jeez! That’s not your navel.
“Don’t listen to her. She didn’t take her Bean-O this morning.” P.Y.T. tells me.
“Yeah, and you didn’t take your Flintstones.” G&S shoves her.
You leave them to killing each other and move to the next rack. But, P.Y.T is a sneaky little thing and somehow the dress ends up in the fitting room with you. You try it on anyway and guess what? It looks like crap.
It’s actually a reasonable length, stopping below mid thigh. But unfortunately the only toned part of your leg is a millimeter above your knee. And wait a minute…something’s not right with your hips. The fabric is bunched, so you smooth it out. What the hell? That’s not fabric, that’s extra meat!
Your self-esteem slips a few notches because you realize your body has gone soft and you’ve got to whip it back in shape. It’s new territory. Before, you were a P.Y.T. Your body had snap-back. Now, you’re at the part where you’ve got to work to keep what you’ve got. You tell yourself you’re going to exercise, eat healthy, and moisturize.
And what do you do? You head to Baskin Robbins.
So, to all my Mighty Chicks out there who have veggie hearts and ice cream thighs...I hear you.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
"Tell me about it. I tried to do a cartwheel the other day, just to see if I still could, and I felt gravity pulling me to the ground."
She looked at me. "That wasn't gravity. That was your ass."
Okay, seriously. I've been bodyjacked. I'm not sure how or when it happened but some twenty-year-old stole my six-pack abs, my toned legs, and my firm butt. I looked in the mirror one day and for the first time I didn't like what I saw. PC term: Cellulite. Real girl term: Big Dipper Dimples. Because that's what they look like when you connect them. And for $1 they'll jiggle.
Anyway, while my real body is AWOL I'll have to shape up what I've got. Fun. My first step in de-jiggling was going to a 21-day bootcamp program this morning at 5:30 am. First thing that popped into my mind was a drill sergeant yelling at me in his gravelly voice to move my jelly ass and running me so hard my ovaries fell out.
But, Sergeant Satan had better things to do and a personal trainer was running Hell. We did strength training in timed intervals and I got a total body workout. How do I know? Because I could barely lift my leg to get in the car. The best I could do was sort of roll into the driver's seat. And when I lifted my hand to put on mascara I swear I heard my arm call me the B-word.
Only 20 more days to go. Yay.
I'm going to push through it or die trying--a few times I think I did. In the end I'll be toner than tone. Firmer than firm. Tighter than tight. And most importantly my butt will have divorced my thighs and relocated to a condo up north.
So, to the bodyjacker...Keep the bod toots. I've moved on to greener pastures and firmer asses.