On becoming a Versatile Blogger

A blog can be so many things.

It can be a place to gripe, whine, bitch and moan. It can be a place to rant, rave and tell the world and all within it just how horrible this place is. It can be a place to share dreams, ambitions, hope and yes, even failures. It can be a place of solace, a place to connect, even a place of anonymity depending on your fancy.

A blog can be cathartic, it can inform, it can educate, it can motivate, it can inspire.

A blog can erase boundaries of time, space and ability, both mental and physical. Bloggers come alive within the pages of their blogs and posts. Bloggers live out fantasies within the pages of their blogs. Bloggers are meek or bloggers are bold.

Bloggers and their creations are humanity itself. Blogs open doors and windows into worlds we might only imagine on the fringes of our consciousness. Bloggers have as many reasons to write as there are grains of sand. I am a blogger, and today I was nominated for the Versatile Blogger Award by a fellow blogger who brings beauty, insight and depth each time she posts and I thank her sincerely for her nomination.

This lady can create a story with pictures alone. Visit her blog and see for yourself:

http://sfkfsfcfef.wordpress.com/

Follow her blog. The pleasure of stepping into nature with her photography can brighten even some of the dullest, hardest, and longest days. Those sorts of days when all you want to do is complain. Then you see pictures like this

or read posts like this one called “The Rabbit’s Return” and somehow you want to kick yourself a little and say “is it really that bad?”

So a huge thank you to Sue (Mac’s Girl) for the nomination!

Now, following the tradition of Versatile Bloggers before me, I must nominate 15 outstanding blogs that I feel deserve recognition. Will you be one of those?

Also, as a requirement for this award I must share 7 things about myself specifically for my nominating blogger but in this case how about if I put myself and my “stuff of interest” out there for all. So here ya go:

1. I want to stop working and write.

2. I want to live in Italy and ride around the countryside on an old bicycle, in the sun and picnic by the side of the road.

3. I want to be 21 again and live a completely different life (although I don’t want to give up my children).

4. I want to be unafraid to sing, loudly in public.

5. I want to know if ghosts are real.

6. I want to know what happened to the two Patrick’s from my childhood/adolescence.

7. I want to see my father again.

 

 

 

 

 

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When it’s all said and done, will you have said more than you’ve done?

Here’s another of my 50 questions to answer and this one is easy.

When all is said and done, will you have said more than you’ve done?

Yes. By far I can say more than I will ever accomplish in my life. I can have plans, dreams, goals, ambition and I will spend more time talking about any and all of them rather than doing any or all of them.

Why? No time, little money, fear, inability to commit, laziness, too far away, too close to home, lack of proper companion, physical inability, and probably a million more excuses.

Where are the people that do? They don’t waste time, their own or anyone else’s in talking. They simply see and do. I am not one of those people.

I am a talker, a planner, a cover all the bases, think long and hard, discuss, debate, play it safe person.

My memoir will read:

She talked a lot about a lot of things and only accomplished a very little. She was a doer trapped in the body of a garrulous, loquacious  and expansively effusive person plagued by inaction, inertia, lassitude and stagnation but wow, she could use some really impressive words.

Baby girl musings

Our family found out the sex of our first grandchild a few days ago. Baby Dazz is a sweet, baby girl and if anything like her mom and most likely her dad, she will be full of spunk, stubborn and the best thing they could ever receive into their lives.

I of course have been thinking back to the time I was pregnant for the first time, carrying Baby Dazz’s mom and counting the days until I could meet her for the first time. Way back then, we chose not to find out the sex of the baby and so had to wait until she made her appearance to hear, “It’s a girl!” I had a secret hunch all along though that I was having a girl. Couldn’t tell you why, but something inside me just knew.

I have told this story to Baby Dazz’s mom but the most amazing moment of her birth came when she was placed into my arms and as I spoke to her she turned and looked directly at me. That was the most incredible moment of my life and I fell in love with my first daughter in an instant.

I can only imagine the moments like this both mom and dad will have when Baby Dazz is here. Learning to parent, learning to let go, learning that worry and fear will follow them for years, learning that your baby will always be your baby even when they are adults and in the midst of becoming parents themselves.

I used to teach childbirth education classes and work as a doula or labor support person before I went back into dentistry. Baby Dazz’s parents asked me to be their doula. That might sound rather odd, the mom of the mom taking the role of doula for her own granddaughters birth. Being a doula is a privileged service that I always felt honored to give to any couple who needed my support. I am doubly honored and really rather humbled that mom and dad asked this of me. I think the birth of this first grandchild will hold special meaning because of their request, over and above the fact that Baby Dazz is my first grandchild. To be asked to support a woman, any woman in labor is a gift. It will mean so much more because it is my daughter and granddaughter who I will help birth.

Mom is heading through week 20 and in a few short months we will welcome Baby girl Dazz. I can hardly wait.

Time, just a little more time…and muffin tops.

I could start this post with a number of cliché’s regarding time, like “time is fleeting” or “time waits for no (wo)man” but I truly don’t have the time.

I hate that I have neglected my blog(s). I am writing this post during my early morning breakfast-plus-wait-for-my-hair-to-dry 10 minutes of free time. Truly, I have started, edited, stopped and re-written these last few sentences simply because I am distracted at the moment, which means there will be nothing substantive written here today. The cat is clamoring at me for attention, I should be doing some homework, I keep looking at the clock, but oh—I miss my blog, sigh 😦

So here’s a short and oh so truly non-informative and who the hell cares topic for today: muffin tops.

I have this t-shirt that is a lovely mix of olive/spring/leaf green. I bought it for the color because it just shouted springtime in the PNW to me from the rack at Kohl’s. My computer desk sits directly next to a window. At this early 6AM writing, I can see my reflection in the window, just like a mirror because it’s still very dark outside.

I have now dubbed this fantastic shirt my muffin top shirt. I am 52, menopausal, not skinny but not really overweight; just of unequal distribution of the weight I have, meaning: around my middle, and this wonderful shirt shows that off perfectly.

Also a perfect illustration of time. Time does bad things to bodies. Time should be ashamed of itself. Time to turn off the computer. Deep sigh.

 

 

Wow! My chestile area is amazed

Well, I guess I found the secret to being a blogger, write about intimate undergarments, especially those involving the chestile area and/or use the word boob and you will get more likes; comments; and follows in 1 day than you ever have before!

Thank you all sincerely who took the time to read my last post and I am so glad you enjoyed my writing or maybe it was simply my long overlooked admittance that said chestile area needed attention. Either way it was great to wake up this morning to like, like, like!

By the by, I do realize (and I hope that you also realize) that my use of the word chestile is a complete fabrication. I actually think I might have stolen it from a friend of my daughters, or at least something like it. K**** is fondly thought of my me as someone who is quick on the draw with made up words and if I didn’t hear it directly from her then she was my inspiration none the less.

Just to be safe, I Googled chestile. Not because I really thought it might be a word, come on now, but you all know you can Google just about anything and someone, somewhere will be using the word. My search reveals:

  • Che Stiles—tiles of Italy. A locally owned New Zealand tile company
  • Chestiles—a band called Nightwalker with apparently 1 YouTube hit
  •  Chestile.com—an Italian site that has something to do with art and painting although my minimal Italian language skills don’t allow me to fully grasp what it is I could order through Paypal

I refuse to go any farther than page 1 as this is truly a silly, made up word. But at least in some odd sense I feel better as a writer because I have sort of given credit to those who have come before me. I try not to plagiarise, really. But I have enough of citing references in class so I am not going that far.

Hey, that’s an interesting concept for a blog. Make up a word and post what you find on a Google search, all the while applying your own viewpoint. Probably taken already and actually sort of takes the fun out of making up words.

I will leave you this morning with an image. I couldn’t help myself. I had to run to Google images also in a search for chestile. Guess what, I found the disc put out by the infamous band I mentioned above. Now I feel that I can truly hold my head high, double credit in a post has to make up for using their word right?

(?) Musings on ladies undergarments

I have finally decided to break my silence on this topic after a short struggle in which I was trying to determine just how much I might offend some of my readers.

But the reality is this: I made a vow to myself that this blog would be about me, all aspects of me and my life and I am still struggling to let all of me be revealed. So I take this stance. When I decide to write a slightly sketchy post openly I am going to begin the title with a secret code. To any of my readers who wish not to read about any of my odd, or more personal ramblings then disregard any post title that begins with this (?).

You have now been warned so enter at your own risk.

Tonight the topic is bras, or if you prefer brassieres, although I have never liked that world. It makes me think of the 1950’s style Playtex bra with the cross your heart design, the stitching that went directly across the cup and the oddly pointy quality to the bra itself. I remember these because I thought it was great fun to put on my mother’s Playtex bras; stuff them and walk around like I had boobs when I was about 8 years old.

And of course I have to pay homage to Jane Russell if I am writing about Playtex bras, but really was the female anatomy ever really that protrusive?

My revelation involves a personal inability to realize for a long, long time that one’s body changes as one ages. I have seen evidence of this as clothing sizes have advanced and retreated over the years, clothing choices and styles have changed regularly based on new or advancing bulges and bumps but for some reason, one area of my body that has been locked in a time warp has been the chestile area of my person. I am not sure why I have been unable or unwilling to realize that for many, many years now that area has not been the same size it was 10, 20, maybe even 30 years ago.

This does not mean that I am walking around in the same bra I was wearing at 20 years of age. I assure you I am not. But I have been consistently buying a size that in reality has not been “my size” for many years. Why have I not noticed this change? It is not for lack of any want or desire that their be a change. Quick the contrary. One of the most awe-inspiring times of my life was during my childbearing years when I had the privilege of actually having a chest and cleavage. Somehow though, I simply assumed that when those fruitful days had passed, I had also returned to my pre-motherhood size and shape and I simply purchased my usual whenever the need arose.

I consider myself an intelligent woman. Why in the world did I assume that while the rest of me was changing and morphing and bulging and receding, my chestile area was frozen in time. It was not, and until very recently I did not acknowledge this. So in a fortuitous moment, an ah-ha moment, an epiphany actually I decided to not only look at the possibility of new sizing but actually went so far as to try on and discover that reality is an amazing thing. Purchasing new and correctly fitting undergarments has greatly added to my comfort, my self-esteem and my cleavage.

This by the way is only an example of what I may have purchased. I am not advertising for any brand personally

The downside of this though, and you knew there would be a downside because I am 52 not 22 is that ultimately the need for this up sizing is not all positive by any means. Yes the need was there but much of what was once not being contained that is now being contained is the result of age, 3 children nourishing themselves, and what I affectionately like to term, “underarm boob” which is my way of not completely admitting to that little bit of extra skin and tissue (ok fat) that tends to sit just to the side of the breast itself and in an ill-fitting undergarment likes to peep over the top of the band. Sort of back fat but just a little more forward.

I am happy to report that everything is now contained nicely. I feel much better about myself. I spent more on brassieres lately than I have in my entire life* and I can finally say proudly that I don’t have a little girl chest anymore.

No, there will not be pictures, video or revelation of actual sizes. I leave that all to the imagination of my readers. There will be no pointedness either. Thankfully I have outgrown that phase also.

*My cheapness may have also been a factor in the many years of wrong size wearability as it is well-known or maybe not so well-known that spending $30 or $40 or more dollars for one bra makes me wince mightily and refuse to acknowledge the need for a change.