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The Right to Frump
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Apr 12, 2006 11:56 pm
458 Views
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I remember seeing a chatroom interview which was supposed to be a "Dominant 101". One of the subjects was how to get into Dominant "role". The "instructor" for lack of a better word said something along the lines of "Would you believe I was a dominant if I was in a dressing gown and furry slippers? Of course not. This is why we learn to dress up properly to demand respect." In which everyone fervently agreed and laughed accordingly at those Dominant people who dare to call themselves Dominant without possessing a proper wardrobe.
Bollocks.
It doesn't matter what I'm wearing, people KNOW to get out of my path on a street. If a group of lads off for a curry run start nudging one another and snickering when I stride toward them, they very quickly stop and step out of my way when I make eye contact. They're not doing that for my boots. They're doing it because I'm ME and that's just the way it is. I'm not a target, and I'm not a doormat. That's pretty obvious to anyone when they meet up with me.
I love to get myself into more "girly" clothing, but again that's for my own enjoyment more than anything. I like the attention factor I get when going from my usual frumpiness (spending an hour to get all dolled up when my son has yoghurt-and-honey all over his hands is useless, y0) into Bad-kitty space. But that's not something I have time for but rarely.
Most of the time I'm downright butch - combat boots and saggy trousers with one of my husband's shirts I pinched, or a hugely oversized potato-sack of a shirt I had to buy entirely too large in order for it to fit across my wide Nordic shoulders. Plunk a hat on and make sure my septum piercing is in properly and that's all I've got time for usually. That's just reality - I can't walk six miles a day in stiletto heels, and it would be a bugger trying to garden with a full overbust corset on. There's a time and place for fantasy, and putting on the trappings, and then there's a time when you have to just get your business done.
We all have the Right to Frump on our own time. I wouldn't expect anyone to look like they walked off the cover of GQ all the time. There are times when just sitting in your pants (or less) on the couch and sipping a pint is perfectly deserved. And it sure as hell doesn't make anyone less of a Dominant or a submissive to do so.
Clothing is an accessory, but it's yet another one of those things people seem to get so very hung up on. I however, am not. I may like having one or two nice outfits, and I wouldn't turn down the gift of items to wear either. But clothes don't make me who I am. And my clothing choices shouldn't have a damn thing to do with whether I receive respect or not. I don't possess a single stereotyped "Dominant" item of clothing and never have. You'd be more likely to see me in a chemise and pantaloons, or silk harem trousers with a choker and bells on my ankles, or bellydancing gear than in leather and PVC. For some reason that means I'm not "Dominant" and I've been mistaken for a submissive more than once at play parties, even WITH the look in my eyes. Because, as I was told more than once "I don't dress like a Sister." Oh come on...I don't need a secret handshake to prove myself to the "order" or whatever that rubbish is about.
I get the same thing from the goth community as well though, though I've been in that subculture since before you could buy the clothing in a mall. But because I don't possess the very latest from Whitby (as if I could fit into it anyway!) and I don't wear black or spend two hours of putting on my makeup just to walk to SPAR, I must not be goth. Ever tried to chase after an autistic child in platform boots? Yeah. I may wear the occasional outfit when I have time to myself to do so (read "never") or when I go clubbing (read "never" again), but I've got a few more responsibilities these days than spending £90 on a skirt made out of crap crushed velvet. Yet I can still talk about the most obscure gothy subjects, possess most of the typical "gothic" items at home, have most of Tim Burton's work at home, read Neil Gaiman's books about the Endless, have more than enough goth music all over the place, can sing my favourites from Rasputina, Cruxshadows, the Cure, and helped found the Oxford Dark Masquerade. I earned my black stripes...but I also reserve the right when to wear them.
And thus do I type this with my hair yet again pulled back because it's too much bother to try and sort it out, my husband's dragon longsleeve shirt and an old bellydance skirt I've taken in at the waist as it was too big. High fashion let me tellya...but I reserve the Right to Frump.
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HAIR
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Apr 12, 2006 9:44 am
447 Views
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Yes, demmit, I set up the hair appointment! On 3 June I'm off to go get my hair put into black/purple UV dreadlocks. Woot!
I'd write more but my son is downstairs doing something daft.
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The common denominator
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Apr 11, 2006 3:09 am
396 Views
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In the wee hours of the morning, a mental exercise in wordsmiting came to mind. I found myself thinking "What is the one phrase everyone on the planet can relate to? It doesn't matter what language, what race, what belief system they belong to...but saying that sentence means something to everyone in the world. What would it be?"
I knew it wasn't love - unfortunately love isn't something everyone can relate to or understand. It also wasn't hate, or something about religion. It had to strike a chord, something upon reading it everyone could attach significance to in their own way.
I think I finally discovered the phrase.
I survived.
Does it work?
Pass it on.
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Ms Occasionally (Updated 16/7/06)
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Apr 10, 2006 7:27 pm
490 Views
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One of the main problems with being polyamorous is time scheduling. Let's face it; there just aren't enough hours in the day to have multiple relationships with anyone, especially when it's me. As I don't do quick shags like dropping off a roll of film at a one-hour photo, meetups always require a lot more planning and dedication than most people care to put into things, much like getting time to communicate. But here's another "real world" tip: with a two year old, an allotment, a jewellry course and general day to day things, having time to chat comes rarely.
I am not the type of person to demand someone's undivided attention. As I've already got obligations elsewhere, I cannot dedicate myself completely to anyone else's time. This doesn't mean one can't have a good relationship with someone, but I won't be constantly in contact. Hence I call myself "Ms Occasionally." I have no issue with seeing a lover once a month, if not less. For some people, that fits as they have their own obligations (obligations, not "cheating schedule"), but it does mean taking some workaround.
Thus, here's a 101 guide for communication with yours truly, Ms Occasionally - and perhaps a hint for anyone else doing the poly thing and desperately trying to juggle time:
1) Know what you're getting into. If you're expecting a full time primary relationship you'll be disappointed. Ironically, people don't like to consider themselves "second best" but they're more than willing to find bits on the side and lie about it. If you think you're merely second best, you either don't understand poly or you're just not the type of person I'm looking for. This isn't a pecking order - but at the same time I am not leaving my life and family to go and run off with anyone I'm seeing. Keep expectations down - yet allow yourself to let your imagination run wild. It can be a lot more than just "friends with benefits".
2) Communication, no matter how infrequent, is key. I don't ask for emails every day, but if I haven't heard from someone in a week, I usually assume he isn't interested any more and they go off my radar until they can be fussed to contact me. For a site like this, I have loads of brilliant break-the-ice conversation and then I hear nothing afterwards; no follow-up, no email, zilch. I have thus taken the policy if someone doesn't at least try to keep in contact now and again, there's no interest, and I then turn to the next person in line. If you want it, impress me, gents.
3) Schedule well in advance. In my case, quite a bit in advance! Announcing you want to meet me on Saturday and it's already Wed doesn't work for me. I've got to clear with the ex-husband that he'll be around to take care of my son (and more often than not he isn't). I have to schedule my day right so I'm not too exhausted to actually go out, and then I have to get myself wherever is needed.
4) Overnights are often right out. Sorry, darlings, but I fear I deal with a very incapable ex-hubby when it comes to dealing with my son for prolonged periods of time. Me being out all night causes a panic, and unless I really want to have my cell phone ringing every half hour because he's desperate for me to be home, I must bid adieu in time enough to get home before the morning routine begins. Besides, I hate trying to sleep in a place I don't know. I like sleeping in my own bed, alone.
5) Make the best of the time. This actually should probably be number one, with a few stars and asteriks and some neon lighting. How about this? MAKE THE BEST OF THE TIME YOU HAVE. For some people this means one thing, and one thing only. For me, it means a hell of a lot more than that. Impress me, show me you have at least a modicum of interest. Learn my likes and dislikes, cater to the fantasy - I assure you I'll be doing the same. Make the time spent time to remember, and it will be all the more sweet. The perk of being Ms Occasionally is familiarity doesn't have time to breed contempt; the relationship is just new enough each time that I don't get overcomfortable. Thus, I'm always sharp and in role. I always try to look my best, and after such a while, the Bad Kitty has built up enough energy she's pacing to be let out. For you, that's usually a good thing.
See? Not that difficult really. Ms Occasionally allows you to have a bit more freedoms than you normally would if you can manage to get round the checks and balances. It can be quite rewarding, but requires forethought and at least some shred of interest and capability on my partner's part.
So...who wants a go?
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Nice boots....
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Apr 7, 2006 1:16 am
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So I decided, since I now live in a place where I can get away with looking a bit freaky, it was time to pull out my shoe collection - which has been sitting in a box collecting spiders until now.
I love boots. I'm not a high heel girl as I can't walk in the things and I really don't need to be any taller than I am. Stilettoes do me no favours and I always feel like I'm clumping about like an elephant on toothpick stilts. I know people have this huge boot fixation without truly understanding what a bitch they are to wear, but I prefer comfort over looks - which isn't to say I don't like a bit of flash!
I adore boots, and always have. I usually try to stock up in winter for boots to wear during summertime when everyone else is wearing sandals, but again I'm in the UK and shoes rarely fit, if ever.
I found some New Rocks a few years ago. They were one of a kind and I believe are actually men's shoes. I loved the things and bought them impulsively as I was so happy to find boots that FIT, I couldn't resist. I've worn them all of three times since then, as they tend to rub against my heel and can be a bit uncomfortable for long wear. But I have purple boots, dammit!
I've also a pair of some Victorian boots I ordered from the US. I adore those boots with a passion and they're my "dress boots" for going out in Victorian dress or to masked balls when I attend them. They tend to need the soles replaced quite often but they're as close as I can get to the button Victorian boot without having to do a Louis heel - something I'm certain I'd snap off as I've never mastered the walking-on-toothpicks method.
I've also got a pair of flapper shoes a burlesque-dancer friend of mine sent to me from the US. I've yet to wear these as I tried them on when I was still pregnant and bloaty and just figured they'd never fit. Now is a different story, however. They're brilliant, very pin-up girl. Just need a proper pair of backseam stockings for the things!
Boots are a big thing in the BDSM scene. In some instances, I've often felt I should just toss a pair of them to the crowd and let them do as they will, as some subs seemed to be staring at my footwear and nothing else. I was just an accessory to my boots. I don't like getting overly hung up on my apparel to please various fetishes. In actuality I've been known to wear the opposite of what people thought I "should" be wearing; chokers, for example. I love chokers, but they're for "marking territory". I also am very fond of bells at the ankles, which supposedly is another "slave" trapping. So my boots I think are an extension of that. I think stiletto pointy shoes and boots look quite nice and dramatic, but I don't think not owning any of the things makes me less of a alternative styler. Any insistence I have to possess a pair of spiky footwear is usually met with a bit of suspicion on my part. There's more to kink than leather and heels. Besides...aren't you in it for the person I am, and not what I'm wearing?
But a sistah won't complain if you buy her a pair of boots, y0.
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Epiphany, Part II
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Apr 6, 2006 7:35 am
385 Views
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I went blog-spotting today. I was about to pass one particular profile as I figured he was looking for yet another tiny, cute, slim, fit submissive but the profile was longer than a paragraph, and I can never resist a good read.
Definitely looking for a submissive he was, but he was a wordsmith, through and through. It was like reading Anais Nin distilled through a man's psyche. Couldn't help but read the whole thing, and then the blog.
Now I never thought of myself as even remotely submissive - as stated before I tend to get rather violent when put into restraints and I don't think I can ever trust anyone to do the "sub thing". But his most recent journal turned me on big time. Apparently the writer (whether real or implied) is pining for someone - someone who has him completely out of his head with desire. The man who wants to control a woman down to the hairstyle she wears, being driven mad in the wee hours of the morning by the mere face of the object of his desire. It was a huge turn on just reading it, to my own surprise, and I had to sit and think about why: it wasn't the erotica itself, it wasn't the descriptions.
No.
...all that power...
Let's face it: in a D/s relationship, it's the sub/slave that makes the rules. A sub can decide to walk out if they don't agree to the contract at any point. They can decide what they want to do, and why. They may follow the rules with head bowed, but they're completely aware all they need to do is show a bit of leg, or a glance beneath lashes filmed with tears and the Master is foaming at the mouth. When I was the Mistress, I enjoyed the powertrip more than the means to the end with my husband - how many submissives do you know will pour wax over themselves over and over again when you say "Show me how much you love me?" I'm not talking tapers - pillar candles. BEESWAX candles. My husband poured the wax of 12 candles onto his chest, howling, and yet, he still did it, over and over again, until I stopped handed them to him. He said it really did his head in to do that to himself, but for me, I was utterly convinced I'd never let him go, solely because he did that for me. Without even realising it, while I had the power to tell him to do that to himself, his obedience made me HIS slave.
I've never ever thought of myself as a submissive person by any stretch. I don't think I could give so much up, so much of who I am to be molded by someone else - and then cast aside when something better comes along. I don't think I could ever trust anyone like that, in any way. But then I just had a read of my "fantasy" for my profile, and it came as a bit of a shock that, in essence, it sounds rather "submissive". Everything planned for me (as apparently you can't be dominant and want to be cherished). But what I enjoy about that sort of fantasy is the anticipation that builds until the man cannot stand it any longer and must obey his nature.
It's given me something to think about. The power to bend a man's mind like that...
I'm almost envious. I hope she's enjoying it.
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Another one bites the dust
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Apr 6, 2006 12:10 am
410 Views
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Seriously, is alt.com where all the scrubs hang out because it's cheaper than hiring a prostitute? Please. I am not a cheap alternative to a pro-Domme. I am not going to show up someplace to give you what you want and get nothing in return for my time. This isn't about money, honey, as I don't care about your pocketbook. This IS about having at least a shred of romanticism in your heart and having an ambition higher than beating your current score on your PS2. This is about being able to do more than just thinking about a quick shag and getting off. I'm finding it faintly boggling this is so difficult to comprehend.
Have a vision, I don't care what it is. Have a goal in life. Have an ideal, and a scrap of artistic beauty in your soul - and be willing to share it. But gone are the days when I want to dress in tie-dyed sarongs and live in a VW bus. I've done it - I actually enjoyed it at the time. But tastes change, and now my idea of roughing it is Best Western. If I'm "high maintenance" it's because sleeping rough for five years and wandering most of the US on foot has taken its toll on my joints and knees. I require spoiling because otherwise I can't walk without paracetamol.
Fibromyalgia is a b1tch, y0.
However I am meeting some rather fascinating people even so. There's more than a few Don Juans upon this site, and I correspond with them now and again. I've even found a party or two I didn't know about, and while I don't have the time to actually attend one, it's nice to know The Magic Theater exists in one form or another. I get a mail now and again from people who read the blog (thanks my dear for the image you sent, and thank you there for the pointing toward Torrid). I've met a few people whom make me wonder if we weren't seperated at birth.
Even so...it's all well and good to talk. But I'm not here to chat. I'm looking for something, like everyone else here. Whether I'll find it remains to be seen.
But I have time.
**************
In other news - I am going to start my jewellry course very soon, and I've been toying with some ideas for BDSM jewellry. It would be purely for show; elaborate chain and semi-precious stone collars, piercing jewellry, and so on and further. It wouldn't be my primary line of jewelcraft but it would be one of the many facets. I will be mostly making Egyptian reproductions for myself, completely one of a kind. I'm excited to start a new project in creativity. I've been working with metal off and on for some time and I'm really looking forward to doing it again.
In any event, off I flit.
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Non-consensual beating
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Apr 4, 2006 2:49 am
408 Views
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If I ever wanted to perform a completely non-consensual beating, it would have to be on mainstream fashion designers.
I hate mainstream clothing. Hate it. Come on, the stuff everyone wearing right now looks crap, I don't care what size you are. Low-rise jeans on people without hips will NOT make you look like you have curves, it will only make you bulge over the trousers in unflattering ways. It is NOT SEXY. Bulky belts worn over jumpers looked rubbish in the 80's and twenty years hasn't dulled the memory...or improved the look.
I had to shop for jeans today. This is something I have tried to avoid since I came to the UK for aforementioned reasons, but as I'm starting a course in jewellry making I need something which can hold up to metalwork, and skirts won't work. So I dragged myself into Evans, the only store in the whole of the UK which can cater even remotely to my size, and even then it's a tossup.
I took a "size gauge" by trying on a standard pair of dress slacks without stretch - and was gratified to note yes I have lost weight, and I'm wearing a 20 now (but with my measurements that actually means in the US I'd be wearing an 18. For me, that's awesome). So...I head over to the jeans...I could practically feel the foreboding radiating from the rack.
I knew I was doomed before I even started. I go into Evans and first thing I have to do is sort through all the low-rise-off-our-ass-so-we-look-
like-we-possess-curves crap, then through the "standard"-translation-if-you're-over-five-foot-five
-you-will-look-like-you're-wearing-capris trousers, and I was stuck with a handful. I didn't even think about trying on my new size (Size 20 it seems, so losing weight indeed) because I knew it wouldn't work. Tried a size 22. Couldn't even get them past my thighs. Size 24, same thing, size 26, couldn't button them, size 28, could button but felt too tight.
Size 30. I've got about six inches of loose fabric around my waist but they're the only thing I could fit my black booty into.
Let's look at the numbers again, shall we? I wear in skirts and regular dress trousers a size 20. The jeans I had to buy were a size 30. SIZE 30! And they don't even fit so I had to buy a cloth tie belt thing as it was all they had that actually could function as a belt, as apparently belts are only to be worn over clothing in a very we-obviously-don't-remember-how-crap-this-looked-in-the-80's style.
Who in Goddess' name comes up with this? Who in what clothing creation portion of Hades said "Oh, yes, well we know these sizes are standard, but this year, impossible-jeans are in, so let's ignore the fact women on this planet have hips, and we'll also pretend when we say "top of the legs" we mean it literally, and glutes don't exist. We'll cut them so low people can tell whether women shave their mounds or not, and we'll pinch in the waists so fat bulges over the top, and we'll call it fashion!"
I demonstrated this atrocity of fashion-crime to the store manager, first by trying on size 20 trousers, then having to put on the size 30s. She couldn't believe it, but then, she didn't care much, because what's the option? I had to buy them, complete with the craptastic pseudo-belt.
So now I've got jeans that are so big they're shapeless everywhere but in the hips, and some bit of frilly dangly cloth I have to tie round just to keep them up, not only making me look like a South American prostitute, but also completely defeating the purpose of buying the damn jeans anyway because I can't have this tassely crap anywhere near a metal grinder or it will snag or catch fire by sparks.
Fume...
Right, if we're going to re-enact the 80's I'm going all out. I went and bought a load of gel pens, and two bright purple packets of hairdye. I'm doing my hair now (pictures later) and tonight I'll draw all over these godsawful jeans. In the usual way of things, I bet everyone squeals in delight and asks me where I bought them.
Whenever I find the fashion moguls of the world, I'll tie them up to the ceiling by their thumbs with a pair of lowrises and beat them with these giant chunky sad leather belts, while saying. "Just because you're thin doesn't mean you have class! Repeat after me - I WILL NEVER DESIGN CRAP CLOTHING AGAIN."
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Spring Spring Spring
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Apr 2, 2006 11:34 pm
391 Views
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Well now, I can certainly tell the sap is rising...at least I have a few saps looking for some rise winking me now and again. Boom-boom. It's not all bad however but there are some glaring examples of why some people remain single and looking in my inbox this week...
Still with the advent of Spring I feel more of an interest in getting out and about, perhaps doing a few social things; not that this will happen without serious planning as I've got a load of irons in the fire at the moment. Still, perchance to dream.
I haven't been feeling very bad-kittish this past week as I've been having to deal with some rather large issues - it seems our son may be autistic, and it's done my head in a bit. This has required me to focus on important things in life, and darlings, "forcing" you to do things you really want, without any regard for my own personal enjoyments or needs, isn't very high on my priority list right now.
I was asked by a prospective what it is I'm actually seeking. My answer? Imagination. Imagination can do wonders, it can create the most elaborate dreams from Ten Thousand and One Nights with a bit of creativity. And I don't mean dictating a woman's appearance right down to her shoe size. I mean setting the stage of awareness and taking care of the MEANS, letting the ENDS happen as they will. The mundane gives me no joy, creates no spark, awakens none of my senses whatsoever. A lover should always be inspired to create the best of the best, to enjoy the thrill and anticipation which can be prolonged for some time. There is no enjoyment for me in a hastily-designed encounter of an hour or two - pleasure cannot be rushed.
Spring is a slow process in England. It requires days of rain and temperatures that warm slowly, then fall without warning, only to be coaxed once more into warmth by the rays of the sun. It is sporadic, unpredictable, and fickle...but sooner or later, with persistence and time, the bluebells bloom and carpet the forests with baby blue, and the daffodils bow their heads before the strengthening sun's rays.
Be creative gentlemen...and see what blooms.
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Genetics can be a bugger
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Mar 28, 2006 11:33 pm
395 Views
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I put on my usual pair of trousers today and realised - with a bit of a shock - they were loose around the waist. No issue with needing to find a belt, as I have wide Ashanti hips (I will NEVER be anything less than a size 12, and thank the deities for that! - bone structure forbids it). Said hips and my Norwegian shoulders are the sole reasons why I never seem to notice when I lose a lot of weight - I'm built like a warrior queen, and I always have to buy clothes too large just to get my bones into them. In England, where women have as much curve as an eel on end, and barely go over 5'6", I'm huge.
I don't go to the cinema because the seats are too small - I have to fold myself up like a pretzel and my knees are always pressed bruisingly tight against the seats ahead of me. Of course, they're not wide enough either - yes I've got bootie, but I've always HAD booty, it's not going any where. As I said, these hipbones take no prisoners. It's the same problem going to a cafe or something else with seats with arms on them - they're downright painful to sit in. I bruise to the bone on my hips because my hips aren't covered in a huge layer of fat, like people seem to want to assume. They really are WAAAY out there, thankyouverymuch.
Finding shirts is my size necessitates I buy shirts about three sizes too large unless I want to split the seams right down the back, and don't even get me started on not being able to button them over my definitely-bigger-than-a-size-B-cup breasts.
Trousers don't fit - I hate the low-rider-show-us-your-chub trousers, again designed for people without hips or bootie. Even a regular pair of trousers is too short and tend to rise several inches higher at the hem than I'd like.
Bras? Don't even get me started on those....
So, essentially, I've got the build of a Boris Valejo painting whilst living among the Lilliputs. Being surrounded by people with stick straight hair and willowy frames, I've been feeling like a stumping, bumbling giant ever since I moved here four years ago. I eye their upper arms which I could probably put one hand around easily, their skinny little legs, no muscles showing anywhere, and somehow that's been sticking in my head. I've just been losing weight, and ignoring the muscle tone. For a while I thought it wasn't a big deal.
But the thing is, I used to body build. I dug ditches with my father by hand when I was 10. I could pick up a grown man at 13 and carry him over my shoulder. People called it "fat" because anything that isn't dainty must be "fat" on a woman. It wasn't - of course I didn't realise that until much later, but it wasn't. It was muscle and bone structure, plain and simple. When I went into the gym for a membership in Seattle, they gave me that sneering once-over, automatically assuming my size was flab. I was used to that look as I've had it all my life. Then they did the fat-measurement test; the woman couldn't believe it. She said "You have less body fat than our trainers." She actually did the test twice because the fact I could be as big as I was and NOT be obese just didn't fit into her little fitness-club world. I got the membership anyway, as I've always loved working out, but after that test, it clicked. I wasn't fat. I was just built like an Amazon. I'd ALWAYS been built like an Amazon. But for years, I bought into the "fat" mentality. All that time, I believed it - and it wasn't even true.
Off that tangent, my point is I'm never going to be willowy. Ever. Anyone who gives me the "You should lose weight line" can kiss my bootie, because they've no clue. This is my build. I can't change it. I won't change it. Size 14, maybe size 12, is as low as I'll ever go, because the bottom line is I'm used to seeing muscle structure on my body. I LIKE being buffed out. Not huge definition like a pro builder; I admire the form and dedication, but I've never really wanted to be "ripped". But to me, I've lived so long with at least some form of muscle in my biceps and trapes, with at least a bit of muscle structure in my calves and thighs, that just feeling NOTHING there is downright strange to me. That I can't open a jar of honey without asking the husband is just not on. I used to be stronger than this!
I know I'm no slouch still, I'm probably stronger than the average woman but...well I guess we better face some facts.
I don't like being this girly. I don't like feeling like I'm this weak. I don't like the idea I couldn't win an armwrestling match with a man. I don't like the idea of having reedy arms, of losing muscle tone. I don't like the modern idea of "feminine". I know there are loads of men who disagree, but they don't have to live inside my skin, so I don't care. I don't shave "down there" because I don't like it. I don't wear typical fetish clothing because I don't like it. And I don't want to be weedy because I don't like it. The end. I want my warrior-body back.
I'll get the "You're probably a man anyway!" thing flung at me, like always. Some things don't change - men don't like to hear the word "no". But unlike other women who say "no" to a man, I don't have to worry about a man coming after me physically at my size. I intimidate the hell out of men. That too can be a bit of a pain. And there's always the really SHORT fellows who seem to think they've got something to prove and won't leave me alone, humping on my leg like a chihuahua. That's fine, they can have that issue if they want. But it's something I will just deal with.
I've found Tall Girl clothing, which is cool. I'm doing my at home upper-body sets, and I'll keep doing the Callanetics for the rest. I'll make do. I'll sort it.
So thanks to my ancestors. You created the Amazon with your 64ths of ancestry boiled down and distilled into my structure. Now if you could bless a sistah with some money for a wardrobe that fits...?
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To link to this blog (OyaD) use [blog OyaD] in your messages.
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Mon |
Tue |
Wed |
Thu |
Fri |
Sat |
| |
|
|
|
1
|
2
|
3
|
4
|
5
|
6
|
7
|
8
|
9
|
10
|
11
|
12
|
13
|
142
|
15
|
16
|
17
|
18
|
19
|
20
|
21
|
22
|
23
|
24
|
25
|
26
|
27
|
28
|
29
|
30
|
31
|
|
