Category: health and beauty

Realistic Image

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Advertising is everywhere.  I was listening to a podcast and the program challenged the audience to count how many advertisements they saw in a single day.  I have not accepted this particular challenge because I am not sure that I can count that high.

I know that everywhere you look companies are trying to trick you into buying something. This is a fact that I accepted a long time ago, and I can say that for most of the time advertisements don’t really work on me.  Not only because I don’t have extra spending money, but also because I know its a trick.  And mostly I don’t want extra stuff.  I like my space to not be cluttered and I hate getting rid of something that I spent money on.  Blame it on my Dutch heritage, but I am a true penny pincher.

The worst part of advertising is the unreal portrayal of female beauty.  So much of your worth of a female is based on your looks.  For men, it is based on how much money you make in life, but for the female, it is about weight, makeup, skin, boobs, hair, jewelry, fashion, and shoes.  I know that the images are photoshopped, I know that the models are teenagers, I know that a lot of women get boob jobs- but my knowledge does not matter.  I still compare- I still look at myself naked in the mirror and pinch my fat, lift up my boobs, consider spray tanning, I want to dye my hair, I need to stay on my diet.

I am lucky though because these are passing thoughts, then I get dressed and remind myself that I am hilarious, charming, and one of a kind.  I don’t need a certain pant size to make an impact in the world, I don’t need the perfect body to find love.

It’s not because I am more mature than women around, it is because I am a realist, because I live in the world and I look around.  This is one reason that I am glad that I live in a city, it gives a larger base of comparison.  I look around and I see how women actually look, and I see very few models.

But what about the ladies who live in smaller towns, who don’t have the comparison with the world at large?  These are the women who I feel for, who only have ads as a base for their self-worth.

 

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Sam

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I don’t like to talk about the curved condition of my spine.  It’s embarrassing.  It’s a sign of weakness.  It’s a deformity.  I know, you might not care very much, but for me, it makes me blush.  There are seriously only a handful of people who know about Sam.  My mumsy and my two best friends being just about the full extent of the all-knowing club.  Which is well-played considering that the physical presence of Sam is not subtle.  He is obvious, he is bold.  There is nothing shy about Sam.

I always have tight shoulders and always need a back rub, but I hardly ever let a friend/boyfriend/lover/ acquaintance/ anyone give me a massage.  I avoid it actually. I always say no. Even if someone is nice enough to offer up some TLC.  I don’t care about the pain, I don’t want them to find Sam and label me in any way.  Or be grossed out, or turned off, or see me as pathetic.  I am very sensitive about what people think about the severe curve that has made a home in the spine.  The only way I can talk about it is through a clandestine mask of Marigold.  She is not as shy as I am.

Remember in middle school when they had an annual check up, when you had to go into the women’s bathroom and bend at the waist so that a doctor could check for a curve?  Well one year after the simplest of tests, it was seen.  Sam was spotted.  As soon as that genetic seed had blossomed, the bathroom doctor sent me to a specialist.

They caught it early. To this day, I still don’t know why they were so concerned with spotting the scoliosis right from the get go.  It’s nothing like cancer, where if you catch it early on it means all the difference in the world as far as treatment is concerned.  As for my genetic mutation, I have no idea why I was paraded from doctor to doctor.  There was and there is no treatment.  They basically informed me early on that I was fucked.

I went to a chiropractor who said he could cure me.  That was a surprising lie (not).  In reality I have never been given any treatment.  They said hope for the best but if it gets worse we are going to cut you open, slicing up your body like a half peeled apple, splicing a spiraling staircase out of your body starting at your breastbone and twisting around my small waist to the upper part of my butt.  They wanted to pop me open like a canister of Pillsbury crescent rolls.  Then they would insert a metal rode, fuse a portion of my spine together, guaranteeing arthritis in the future, and, lastly, an impressive scar for keepsake. Wow, thanks.  I will pray extra hard doc for a miraculous reversal of a crooked spine.

So for a long time instead of growing up, I grew sideways, praying for a salvation that is for all intents and purposes is impossible.  The doctors never said go to physical therapy, they never said do yoga everyday, they never said get a massage every week.  They called me deformed, content with the belief that the only treatment was god’s will.  I have never been a lucky girl.  So instead I closed my eyes and went through adolescence as freak, as a deformed little girl, terrified about the possibility of becoming a bionic girl.

So I hide Sam from the world. I still like to pretend that I am a straight women leading a non curved life.  But really, Sam is my constant companion, he is my reason for being the strange, slightly askew woman that I am.

Since Marigold is to make me a bolder person, since Marigold is a way for me to exercise being comfortable with who I am, and since Marigold is to highlight the best of my amazing life, this post is to help me be more comfortable with what is inside my skin.  To be less bashful, to take myself less seriously.  Life is, after all, short and sweet, not long and severe.

Cheers Chicago.

just another day

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I am blessed with very sensitive skin.  Combined with the attribute of wearing my emotions on my sleeve, I battle with acne.  Its the worst.  Its on your face, and its so noticeable.  Thank the good goddess for make-up.  Its so good.  But my problem is that I cannot kept up with the upkeep.  I work in a 100 degree kitchen.  That is not an overstatement.  Its hotter then balls hot.  My makeup runs, I look like joker town fool by the end of my shift.

So I have this zombie dead zit that is the worst.  Its been holding steady on my fore head for honestly months.  It won’t budge, just chillen, making a home.  But now its full blow sickness, it a colony plotting to take over my whole face.  Really, my face it going to turn into a big zit.  Its happened before, and its. Terrifying.  Downright awful.  Its going to chew my pretty face, consume my self, and I will be left right where I am now.  I have had three people comment on my face.  The first asked if I got cut, the second if I had a bruise, and the third if I got into bike accident what’s wrong with your face?  Honest to goddess, this happened.  A bike accident?? A bike accident.  No. Nope.  Just a zit.  I mean this happens to me.  I get a fuck face zit for like half a year.  The worst? Terrifying??

No.

Not even close.

Honestly I don’t give a fuck about my face town fiasco.  What I walked into today at work was terrifying.  It was beyond a blemish turned bruised.  I walked into a pure hell of a greasy mess.  How and what have I done to deserve this level of grossness.  I almost had a heart attack.  No warning, just a ball of hot greasy splattered evenly across every surface.  Dust settling again on top.  New oil waits new grease.  I couldn’t even walk from my cup of coffee to my station.  I had to walk around the entire restaurant just to get from the front line to the back.  Within being there for no less then 5 minutes, I had inexplicable oil on my hand.  One hand sink was being repaired and out of commission.  Since it was being worked on, there were tools everywhere, around the sink and the hallway leading to the office.  Everywhere I looked and walked was not okay.  Not a single sight being up kept or cared for.  Everywhere is neglected.  Fuck, I haven’t been there for one day.  One.  The other hand sink was so dirty it looked like a bus boy had puked it in.  There was no soap at that sink.  Mind you, I had to walk a solid 2 minutes to get to 2/2 no functioning sinks.  No big deal.  NBG. Its only me.

What have I done to deserve this?  If I was in prison, it would be cleaner.  And it might most likely be a more pleasant environment.

Good goddess I wish this was the end.  Only the beginning really of my day.  Remember, this is first 5 minute of the day.  The kitchen was a greasy snot ball of hell for the first hour.  After a fury of soap and anger, I checked the schedule.  Oh, I am working the hot line by myself, after no real training.  Also, was I warned?  Nope.  Last conversation with chef was that I should start learning the station.  So now I am on my own, with no warning, a station I hardly know, apparently in charge what comes out of the kitchen, a fucking messy ass kitchen, plus I have my pastry prep to do, put the order away, oh yeah there is a 100 person party tomorrow at noon.  Did I mention no warning of an extra aside from the party?  That at least I was informed about.  Carrot cake is good and fast, but goodness.  At the end of the shift, the chef was courteous enough to remind me that if I had cut the cake, I wouldn’t have to come in so early in the morning.  God damn, if only I had thought of that.

Its Tuesday.  Tuesdays are slow.  Its a chill day.  We started with a nice embarrassing 14 on the books.  But of course, since I was so ill prepared for the day we got shook.  Mini earth quake.  It was a smooth earthquake, but it could have been less exciting.

Oh, I think I am going to work 12 hours tomorrow.  NBD.