don’t judge a princess by her tiara


Isn't this a pretty sunset? *this is a blatant attempt to lure you into this post.

Isn’t this a pretty sunset? *this is a blatant attempt to lure you into this post.

I recently had a medical procedure – wait! don’t go anywhere yet. I promise you, this post will not contain any gross details. Unless you love disgusting and putrid information. In that case, Louis, my personal bouncer, will show you the way out. He lives for PX90 and eats metal for breakfast. Louis!!! 

Okay, back to my exciting medical procedure.

It’s always been difficult to get a blood pressure reading from me using those arm floatie things. I used to tell technicians about my history of arm-floatie-failure, but they never took me seriously so I stopped saying anything.

This time they gave it a good go using both arms, twice on each arm. Nothing. All four times, the cuff strangled my arms until they couldn’t breathe. If it weren’t for the good meat on these bones I’m sure my arms would’ve passed out and been rendered useless for writing this post. Wouldn’t that have been a shame?


Okay, back to my exciting medical procedure.

Look! Another beautiful sunset. *and another despicable attempt to keep you here.

Look! Another beautiful sunset. *and another despicable attempt to keep you here.

The technician wisely decided to get the manual cuff and the reading was a success.

More staff arrived for the next part of the procedure.

Nurse (peering at me): “What happened to your arms?”
Both upper arms were marked with dark red, vertical lines.
Me: “Oh, those are from the blood pressure cuff.”
Nurse: “Well, aren’t you a precious little Princess.”

I consider myself pretty quick with the comebacks, but that line was like a kick to the head. All of my fancy, funny words fell to floor, stunned into unconsciousness.

Half the people reading this post know me. That’s two of you. And you guys know the irony of that statement. (Unless it’s a truth you’ve been keeping to yourselves, fearing I would go mental on you if you said it out loud.)

I don’t mean to diss any real-life precious princesses, but I think what she said is hilarious. I consider myself way too sensible and sarcastic to be a princess. I am not girly. Hell, my voice is lower than most men’s voices.

But I do have a fluffy, dreamy side to me. Sometimes I’m dainty. I can be bossy. I own 33 tiaras…damn…maybe I…

one of my loyal subjects bowing down to me

One of my loyal subjects bowing down to me. the idea of being royalty.

But the label “Princess” makes me want to kick someone’s ass. Or their calves, since I’m too short to reach their ass. If I were a violent person, I could cause a lot of damage to a lot of legs. But since I’m not…


I’ll sit for a moment and give this entire topic a bit more thought…

I wish I weren't wearing flip flops in this photo. I'm pretty sure royalty don't wear them. Darn my love of comfortable footwear!!


the ‘S’ word

Selfie. An Ingmar Bergman Production.

An Ingmar Bergman Production.

I’ve been participating in a photo sharing group called August Break 2014, moderated by Susannah Conway. We are receiving daily prompts for the whole month and it’s been fun taking photos, being creative, sharing them.

And then came the Selfie.

I don’t publicly display many selfies. They simply never turn out that well. I’ve only really tried to take a good one for: (1) (I no longer have an account, so don’t try to find me and trick me into flying you in from some distant country); and (2) my avatar.

It’s supposed to be a good idea to use the same image, preferably your own face, across all social media and other sites in order to be identified as the same person. I don’t know what’s wrong with being identified as different things, like a typewriter, a pigeon, a pizza. For the longest time I was a pair of running shoes. At some point I might have been a piece of pie, too. I like pie.

My wingspan is not that lengthy, so most selfies that I’ve taken are way too close for comfort. I honestly don’t want to see my own chin hairs that closely. Too vulnerable a thing to share with the general public.

For the photo prompt, I decided to use my camera’s self-timer so that I could be a safe distance away. It’s gosh darn difficult to balance a camera on some rocks and then walk on said rocks. Whose idea was this?? On top of that, I had to squint menacingly in a sweet way. It’s my signature look.

I had ten seconds to get into place, but sometimes I didn’t know where the place was or I counted too slowly:

If you're wondering why I'm not dressed in some beautiful beachy-type outfit, it's because I had the brilliant idea of taking my photo right after a run. Everyone knows how good a person looks after a long run.

I like how some people are so comfortable with their selfies. I mean, so many of them are taken in bathrooms where a lot of intimate, personal stuff happens. But I sense their shyness, too, what with the sunglasses, fuzzy focus, and toned abs. I wonder what their outtakes are like. There are so many things I wish would not enter my mind.

For a retired ninja, it’s a big deal to put my face on the Internet. I hid one recently on my About page !shameless plug! since no one really goes to it. But it’s a year old and unlike the photos in this post, I prefer to look freshly showered for my avatar, depicting the mature, adult-ish girlwoman that I am. Besides, I got new glasses.

A friend recently took a photo of me in some very good light. I see how important light can be. Nice light…goooood light. So it’s now my avatar. Don’t zoom in on it, for goodness’ sake. The chin hairs, remember?

It’s another small step in being seen.

If you’re trying to build a dream, you gotta show up for it, right?

Dude Looks Like a Brady



“Who’s that lady??” My friend asked, pointing at someone in one of my photo albums.

I peered over at the lady in question.

“That’s me.” I kindly informed her.

That’s a lie. I mean, it was me, but I wasn’t kind about it. I screeched at her like a really angry chimpanzee. No, I didn’t throw my own poop at her. You guys are disgusting.

If there is one thing I know for sure: I am no lady (see screeching and talking about my own poop).

At the time of the photo, my hair was growing back in and it had decided to grow in curly. Really curly. Like the Brady-Bunch-in-Hawaii curly.

I was the envy of all the older women who volunteered at my place of work, which was troubling, yet flattering at the same time. I even let some of them pet my head. And just like the Brady boys, I had to convince them that it was completely natural and not a perm.

Girl. Chick. Woman. Lady.

I reserve the right to call myself anything I like at any time. I detest pigeon-holing-descriptives, even though we need to use them sometimes. Don’t you hate being labeled? You are so much more complex than way-too-many-purses-girl or turkey-sandwich-no-mayo-guy.

If I were to get lost in a crowd, my friends would frantically describe me as: “…really short! Her hair is short, too, and wavy. DO NOT ask her if it’s a perm. She looks like an old girl – does that help? Asian, glasses, sarcastic…if she looks at you suspiciously, that’s her!!” Or perhaps they wouldn’t look for me at all. I’m very suspicious of my friends.

In any case, I don’t think it matters to me how I’m addressed as a female (except the obvious ones). It’s the context and spirit behind it that matters. I’ve accepted: “Duuuude!!!” I’ll even allow “Foxy Lady”. But, please, it has to come from the heart. Nothing is worse than a meaningless and sludgy, “Hey there, Foxy Lady…” from the wrong person. I can’t seem to stop saying Foxy Lady. You know those words that sound stranger the more you repeat them? This is the opposite of that. But it’s starting to get creepy, so I’ll stop.

In some ways, I think how we define ourselves is much worse than what others think of us. We can be hell on ourselves. It makes me crazy when I realize I’ve called myself a failure even before I begin something. While I was drafting this post, I was using words like unfeminine, boyish, and former band geek. That’s my perception of myself and I can be those things, but it doesn’t define who I am. You, like myself, are uncontainable. We stay the same, yet we are constantly changing. We are everything inside. It’s a trick, this life, to keep true to yourself yet still be open, forever expanding in all directions.

Today, I go out into the world as an athlete, a seeker, and friend. At some point I might be a Brady, Foxy Lady, and an inconsolable baby. At the end of the night, who knows?

That’s another trick: Can you imagine what life would be like if we didn’t keep trying to write the endings first?