Days of my Life #40

Song in my head: Tossing n Turning

There’s always a reason stuff pops in my head when I first awaken. This time it’s obvious. I went to sleep itchin and a scratchin this annoying spot at my left wrist where some little hungry insect stuck their pointy fangs in me. Am I that tasty? Naw. Otherwise I’d be riddled with additional marks and that would’ve decreased my sleep even more.

I remember waking at three, determined to hunt down an effective remedy for my discomfort. With less than half my brain working, which half is debatable as the part I was working with was having a hell of a time focusing on the task at hand, I began noisily rummaging through the cabinet housing my various homeopathic vials of pellets, ointments and tinctures. Even in my sleepy itchy stupor I knew what I was looking for but either I wasn’t reading the bottles and jars correctly or I had neglected to open the right drawer, because it wasn’t until I methodically opened and inspected each of the twelve drawers twice in one smaller cabinet, did I finally discover the tincture “Ledum Palustre”.

“Aha!” I remarked loudly, half expecting daughter would run into my room asking if I were okay. Thankfully my “aha” was not loud enough to waken her yet now I was fully awake and ready to apply my discovered remedy to the point of my discomfort, the bug bite. Only now the squeezy thing for the bottle dropper was determined to stay attached to the bottle so that when I attempted to unscrew it, it wouldn’t fucking budge. “Grrr!” I proclaimed, enough to have Porter the lab raise his head off the bed, but not enough to get up to examine the source. It also didn’t move the the stopper.

I knew I had to calm myself or I would either wake up the entire household or break the damn bottle, neither would be the desired outcome of my wee hour foray for a cure to what ailed me.

Mumbling unintelligible sounds, even to me, I very slowly began to twist the tiny bottle top, eventually (and surprisingly not breaking it in the process), separating the upper top and rubber thingie from the lower bottle. “Eureka!” I whispered, this time, as I dabbled droplets of Ledum onto the little circle of red on my arm and waited for the pain and itching to miraculously subside, which it did, as I knew it would.

Now that’s I’m wide awake, because it’s morning and I’ve applied another few drops of tincture on the “spot”, I’ve had warm, brewed water processed decaf espresso and a freshly made sourdough bagel (thanks to the first fruit of my womb who is currently on a baking frenzy), I can say unequivocally that homeopathy works when one knows what they’re doing, even in semi-sleep, which I do.

Of course the debate about the efficacy of homeopathy continues elsewhere, because there are tons of people out there who are unaware of it, or have totally bought into the Big Pharma machine or are too skeptical for their own damn good. And I’m not here to explain homeopathy this time.

I, however, thankfully, learned over forty years ago, when facing the looming possibility of either radical or full mastectomy, because one of my breasts had grown into resembling a personal size watermelon while the other was not even a B cup, that it is a quite viable, effective and truly Hippocratic “do no harm” form of healing.

When three renowned breast specialists, one in Canada, and two in the USA and my frantic mother who worshipped regularly at “Our Lady of Kaiser Permanente”, told twenty-three year old me I’d need life changing surgery, I screamed “Stop!” After which my very helpful older sister drove me to the Herring Family Clinic in Berkeley California (it’s no longer there) for a two hour appointment with a classical homeopath. I had never heard of one before that, nor did I even know what homeopathy was.

I recall driving from San Francisco across the Bay bridge, filling out forms, sitting with a very nice youngish man who asked me even more questions than were on the forms, watching him look at me then writing some notes, after which he excused himself, and left the room for what seemed like at least an hour, or more. There I sat, with a ridiculously mismatched pair of boobs, scared, in a room filled with magazines I had absolutely no interest in reading, when he reappeared before me with a small bottle of teensy white pills. Handing me perhaps an eighth of a teaspoon full of the pellets he instructed me to open my mouth, insert the pills under my tongue, neither eat nor drink anything for 20 minutes, to avoid caffeine, camphor and mint and to report back in a week.

I left the office crying, bewildered, questionably thankful but determined to see this out. Within three days my watermelon was a grapefruit, within the week and at my next appointment it was a near match to its breast-mate. The knife-happy quacks were bewildered and in the land of denial when I reported the “miraculous” healing. I decided then and there I would henceforth make homeopathy my go-to health modality. And by the way, the watermelon never returned and I went on to nurse my two healthy children.

As I said, it’s obviously the reason that song popped into my brain this morn. My sleepless night was another reminder for me that homeopathy works. My itchy spot is now barely a memory. Homeopathy has saved my bacon more times than I can count.

Tune in.

Days of my Life #38

Stormy Weather

I’ve had that song dittying inside me for the past fifteen minutes.

Could it have been the storm of two nights ago or was it the recollection of my lost love? Nevertheless, today I am full of an unusual melancholy.

It’s crazy, this feeling, since the sky is blue with some cloudiness here and there and the sun is really all warm and the light is perfect, artistically inspiring – with the exception of threatening humidity and’s prediction of thunderstorms, in general I’m feeling pretty secure that the day, weatherwise, will continue to be okeedokee.

Which brings me to the other choice of my lost love. No, he didn’t go spelunking in a cave and couldn’t find his way out. He also didn’t (to my knowledge) get lost in the arms of another woman (nearly impossible). Nor did he head out around the world in a leaky canoe, or attempt to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro. Granted, those things would’ve been tough to handle and far more romantic than losing him in 2012 to fucking cancer. But the latter took him away from me and that is that.

And it’s been going on nearly eight years since the dear man went off to explore another plane of existence so I’m not even certain that the sadness I feel has anything to do with him, because this is a newish, weirdo sort of feeling. But what then?

Today I went to the Central Market to pick up what was on my “list” while daughter, grandson and Zappa the pup went off to explore the nearby pond. I donned my mask and approached the pre-sterilized shopping carts all lined up in neat rows as if they were readying themselves for adoption. I whispered to one “would you like to be my vehicle for mass consumption today?” Perhaps it was my imagination but I thought it said, “Yes! But, Do you really wanna take me for a ride?” I didn’t stop to answer because there were now a few people standing by, at the appropriate six feet, who were anxiously awaiting a cart of their very own. I also didn’t look around to note if they might’ve heard our interchange because that might’ve been slightly embarrassing.

Together we rolled up to the hand sanitizer for a couple squirts then into the produce section where I picked up a couple cukes, weighed them, printed the label, then repeated this action with peppers, celery, tomatoes, mangoes, etc., and continued throughout the store, stopping at the dairy, cheese, bakery, and deli sections, picking up probably more impulse items than I had intended, all whilst passing other masked shoppers and staff at a socially appropriate distance, eventually reaching the cashier stand where I loaded my mostly overpriced stash onto the moving belt. All the while I felt as if I were in a strange movie.

Normally, or what used to be a regular occurrence, lo those two or three months ago, I would visit Central Market on a Thursday morning to write postcards to politicians and various movers and shakers to voice either my approval/support/thanks or my words of indignation/anger/reproach, all while visiting with other progressive folk where we would schmooze and support one another during what I thought were the worst of times.

Then after my business of doing “my part” I’d hop downstairs to do some shopping for groceries, many of said delicacies are not found elsewhere in Austin. (Woe is me.) It was a purposeful day. To add to the regularity of it all I would stop at my post office box, occasionally being overjoyed to find a check from heaven knows who. Sigh.

Is my melancholy about the loss of “normal” Thursdays? Or is it something much deeper? I recently promised myself I would no longer write about things like the horrid state of the USA, or he who shall not be named, or our environment, etc. because everyone else is doing such a good, yet depressing job of it. I also made secondary promises that I wouldn’t gross people out with pictures of fluffy kittens or threaten to hold zoom meetings or do something inane like tell stupid jokes in a sort of comedic-relief sit-down on YouTube. So far, at least in several days I’ve held true to these inner vows, though the latter might actually be moderately amusing, for me anyway.

Perhaps these contracts I have made with little ole moi are what is causing my despondency. Time will tell.

Tune in.

Days of my Life #16

Breakfast was filling if nothing else; shredded wheat and oat milk with a touch of dark brown sugar and some “why bother” decaf. I have already begun my day by perusing the news and email. Yuck!

Even the travel ads are having the “How can I get excited by armchair excursions?”challenge. Just the other day I received a tantalizing invite to travel to Spain and Portugal with a group of cutting-edge science/history/comparative religion nerds (that may not seem sexy to you- but those peeps and their suggestive haunts really turn me on), only to be cock-blocked by the first page on their website reminding everyone about possibilities of date change/cancellation due to covid. Cold shower time.

Even though I’m guarding myself for another disappointment, I’ve been preparing to rev up for the election with new insoles for my block-canvassing sneakers, extra sunscreen, all-natural insect repellent, “go-blue” hat and my selection of socially responsible tee shirts. I suppose I’ll have to wear something like pants or shorts, that is if we’re not still in lockdown or the slug who would be king declares martial law and usurps our elections. If need be, I can always do bottomless virtual block walking, but that’s TMI!

It’s time like these I wish I’d paid more attention to the crystal ball gazing class I took back in the eighties. Of course if I could’ve foretold the future then I probably would’ve divorced husband #1 sooner, definitely wouldn’t have married husband #2, would’ve moved to the south of France or Barcelona or at the very least, Portland and might’ve taken controlling interest in Amazon to make it a socially responsible company. Oh well, hindsight, but then it is really 2020.

I, like so many others, am finding so much time to reflect, to imagine and then locate the remote or iPad charger. I’ve made a bunch of masks, calls to friends & politicians, signed online petitions and donated to food banks, yet I’m still wondering with all this time on my hands I might do something more worthwhile, like create a “why didn’t someone think of this yet?” cure for cancer or world hunger or homelessness or war or joblessness or global climate change!

I am reminded of the adage “every cloud has a silver lining”. While we don’t have cures for the above specific woes, we have the possibility/opportunity to look at them with new eyes. Years ago, my dear friend and teacher, Aristhaia Cash, goddess rest her soul, said, “Most homes have a front door and a back door and usually a few windows -yet most of us mainly use one door to enter and exit and a favorite window by which to regard our outside world. But what about the other door/s and windows? What view/s are we missing? Do we need a skylight? How is the foundation?” Her wise words have served as a reminder that I’ve gotta look everywhere for answers because the predictable views don’t always have the total picture. Its not even the point of fake news as it is limited news, just who’s paying for it and what is their agenda?

To be a critical thinker one must exercise their skills of investigative discernment. A sort of treasure hunt for real, unabridged truth, which these days is a full time job, given the internet and people who only read headlines then spout off with their minimal information and apparent lack of deep thought.

Am I being hypercritical or just unrealistic in thinking we’ve gotta be better than this? Perhaps, then again I’m reminded at just who is running our state/country/world into the polluted ground.

Oh dear! Now I wanna escape to the land of oohs and aahs where I can be spoon fed deep dark chocolate lava cake with vanilla bean ice cream after having a long and oh so sensuous massage by a geeky, creative, straight hunk who whispers sweet everythings into my ear.

Alas, these sorts of brief fantasies are short lived in these times of virus. I’ve finished the cup of decaf and I’d better go take the dog for a walk.

Tune in.

Selling Max’s CJ7 – do they drive jeeps in heaven?

Judging by my title, most people who know me also know I’m finally ready to sell Maxie’s infamous jeep. For those who don’t know me, I can say that the JEEP has been a labor of love, grief, frustration, more love, a lot of tears, a good deal of hard earned cash and help from the angels, probably one of whom is none other than the also infamous Max Middleton, RIP…or maybe not resting in peace but perhaps riding around the Great Beyond in a replica of this new and improved CJ.20140619-193620-70580995.jpgYou can buy this wonderful piece of manliness …go to for how!

Maxie loved this vehicle. Perhaps more than he loved me, but we shall never know and I’d like to think we were at least equally held in great regard. However that being said, I certainly got a bit more attention in the last couple years of Max’s comparatively young life (he was only 61 when fucking cancer got him) than the jeep. Oh sure he got the oil changed and the tires rotated, but by the time he was on the decline in spring of 2012, so was his jeep…. The seats were tattered, the muffler was noisy, the engine sounded like shit…the jeep’s condition was sort of a metaphor for cancer’s attack on his health. During the final months of Max’s life I was doing what I could (because I did think I could) to empower Max to regain his vibrant self. I couldn’t. He didn’t. And he died. Crap!

So, there I was with one dead love of my life and a jeep that was on its last legs to boot. I was a weeping, grieving mess and knew I was not going to “snap out of it” very quickly. I was, however, and still am, the sort of person who required a means with which to transform the shit that had hit the fan of my life into some sort of productive compost…with which to grow a new…me…blah, blah. And so I made the choice to take the jeep on as a project, though in retrospect I must admit I must’ve been fucking out of my mind. I knew zip, zilch, nada about cars except to change the oil every 3-5k, check the tires, rotate the tires, replenish the fluids…etc. But they say if you don’t know, someone else does and all ya gotta do is locate the one who does…and so I did, or at least thought I did.

I hired a friend, who kinda knew…but rather than go into the sordid details that he was in way over his head and then about the other homeless “friend” who though he was a crack mechanic who deftly installed the new engine, fuel injection and electronic distributor, then became less than amicable when it came to getting him out of my art studio where he had ensconced himself for three months, and so, a year and a half, many dollars, bits of mild hysteria, an abundance of gray hair and countless new Jeep parts later I finally went to Mike at who thankfully got Max’s CJ rolling down the road, and nicely at that.

Oh god I could go on and on about the jeep and Max and the times we drove it to Malibu, the wind in my hair (Max had lost most of his) or when we had to replace yet another stolen radio (a jeep drawback…but seriously who can hear a radio with the top down anyway? or the times Buck, our beloved husky would try to drive the jeep, leaning heavily on Max’s shoulder as we tooled down the 101. But I will not wax on, poetically as I am tempted.

Instead I will close this bit of jeep lore in the hopes that someone who also loves jeeps might fall in love with Max’s Jeep and decide to bid (a lot) on it and buy. I know that if it’s possible my sweet angelic Max is driving his version on whatever plane of existence he is riding. And I’ll know the past two years of mourning will have been worth it.

If you are interested, or know someone who might be and has the cash…go to Then click on the ebay link. Thanks for reading…and I hope you like my other blog too!

Sacred Change… Let’s Embrace it!

Why are we so afraid of change ? Alright, I will point my finger at myself. Why am I so afraid of change? This is a question that seems to keep coming up and slapping me in the face. Ouch. Yes, there are other questions, but it appears that the change thingie is the major one for everybody.20131216-090203.jpg

I have a private healing arts practice where I employ the creative arts in empowering people to heal themselves where traditional psychotherapy has, in their past, failed them, often miserably. I have pondered this at great length, not exactly the reasons therapy didn’t work, but how the years of repeated self reflection, self punishment, denial, etc. can often be self perpetuating, thus preventing the reflector from the very change they thought they were choosing to embrace.

My sweet Max used to say in our many discussions on the subject of change, it is the “devil we know” and I would often add, we are “secure in our insecurity…we know just how to make things shitty…but whatever will we do if faced with choosing to do something differently?” We would then nod our heads in agreement and continue our postulations on embracing change as a sacred act.

When Max got the BIG cancer diagnosis we both went into an emotional tailspin. He got really quiet and unusually withdrawn, while I became very vocal, encouraging him to express his feelings and thoughts through the processes I have been years in developing and employing with successful results. He rejected them, mostly. I was sad, to the extreme. Because the techniques were mine? Maybe….No, it was because I knew from experience I could not force him to embrace this new way of dealing with the changes in his life. I admit I was frustrated he appeared to be contradicting the very thing he preached daily and that he knew I had practiced results with others. As for most people, understandably, his fear of Cancer scared the crap out of him. It did me too, but not in the same way.

Fear mostly keeps us from changing, sacred or otherwise, plain and simple. And fear is a bigger monster than silly ole cancer. Yes, I did call it silly. You see most cancers we usually can’t see with the naked eye, which can be majorly freaky, more than the monster in the closet or under your bed… Can’t see him but ya know he’s there lurking… but much worse than all the scary movies you’ve ever seen, even those with the timed CRASH to make you jump out of your seat to reinforce that fear.

“Fighting” cancer by running, wearing a pink ribbon to commemorate breast cancer survivors, cutting out tumors/diseased organs and/or donating to the American cancer society does little in my book to dissolve our fear of the Big C, or to eliminate it for that matter. It may slightly assuage our fear or make us think we are doing “something” about it, but really?….not a lot does it actually do. Think about it. Why are we still fighting cancer, and yet we have been battling other wars and have NOT yet REALLY won ANY of them… Take Afghanistan, drugs, domestic violence, crime…to name a few.

No! To change, transform, transmute the dis-ease of our bodies or our culture, we must begin to make it EASY to change, first with our perception, then with our words and language, ultimately to fully heal, mind, body and spirit…in whichever order we are able, but it must begin on the inside, this change, cure, solution to whatever is ailing us. There really are no winners or losers when it comes to cancer, or any other cultural dis-ease, though that’s not a popular opinion and in most people’s current frame of reference, ludicrous.

Bob Stevens, who teaches Conscious Language, and with whom both Max and I studied, states that when we “Breathe, Touch, Stay, Feel and Love ourselves through life’s challenges we heal instantly. This healing is not solely physical. Most of us run from our feelings. It is that little Dinosaur inside of us who flies from danger, lashing out with claws and gnashing of teeth at what we perceive danger to be. One doesn’t need to be a caveman to know that when a doctor gives a diagnosis of cancer that the first instinct is to run like hell…metaphorically speaking, though some actually do run.

Yes, one might say you can’t see LOVE either, but love doesn’t get reinforced the way fear does. Take a look around you and see just how many people are loving their fear, disease or ex-spouse, and watching their spontaneous, positive, self transformation. These peeps are few and far between, because somehow it seems to be so much easier to growl back (after running) at what frightens us, and when the culture at large reinforces our reptilian fear-inspired reactions, it is little wonder that our love gets tucked under the covers til it seems it might be safer to come out.

Of course some cancerous tumors are visible, but shit, they are just ugly fucking things that with a lotta love, possibly hemp oil applications, ozone treatments, a regular castor oil pack (thank you Edgar Cayce), doses of internal Clarkia tincture and a totally vegan diet, and the nasties will eventually go away. Yes, that sounds like I’m in favor of complementary healing…of course I am, what rational, open-minded person wouldn’t be?! I also know that our culture shuns it, not because it doesn’t work, because so often it does, as it did for me when I was diagnosed with cancer…and no longer have….that’s another story later on down the line.

For now, lets remember the subject of change and fear of it which I was talking about when I began this piece.

When well meaning people invite the FEAR Monster back into the room, people have a choice as to how they will respond. Which brings back the touchy-feelie-staying-breathing-loving thing I mentioned earlier, that Master Stevens encourages us to experience. When we recognize change is imminent, we have some BIG questions to ask and REAL choices to make. The first is “Do I RUN or STAY?” The second is “What am I feeling?” The mighty flame of LOVE can dissolve anything, provided it hasn’t been quenched by doubt.

Such was the case with my sweet Maxie. He was a fabulous actor. To most of those on the outside of our world he was positive and talking the healing game, but inside he was feeding that Fear Monster like the hungry sucker it is wont to be. That didn’t make what my dear Max was doing “wrong”, it just was what he had learned to do and was too deeply engrained in his being for him to love his way through to healing his physical body. Though in his process of completing his days here on our physical plane he was pure, unadulterated, <emLOVEhaving finally embraced the change he had so often recommended we all do. Cancer may have won over his body, but LOVE won his heart, spirit and mind and fear did not.

This piece is about what I am currently learning. Embracing change and making it sacred for me. For the past 16+ months I have been going through the stages of grief, each one a wake-up call to living my life here on this plane of existence. Several times during this period I found myself slapped to my senses, by a situation to which in former days I never before would’ve agreed. I gave people leeway when I would’ve been wiser and directed them to the highway…you get the picture. When Max was here, like a guardian, he would watch out for me. Now he’s gone, at least in the physical and I am awake, fully present, and fine tuning my senses.

I’m breathing, touching, staying, feeling, and loving my path…and most of all, being thankful.

I’m Back…but things aren’t all Black & white…

Yo. Like I’m sitting In the chair at Capella Salon in Studio City and lookin @ my gray roots, as in hair, as in “What’s with this shit, I’m so tired of spendin all my scratch on covering this perpetual patch.” I say to my homegirl Jody Cherevka, aka L.A. stylist Extraordinaire. And she, in her Deva Curl Y.G. wiz-dom asks, “Why don’t we like streak it or sumthin? Like, make it a gradual change. Talk it over with yourself while I mix up some stuff”. So here goes.

These roots are meant for greying!

Of course I am finally back in lalaland. I’ve been here for a few weeks and have been jamming with stuff to do. I guess that’s what happens when you take off for a five weeks, but whatever… Anyway, here I am in the land of the beautiful, where the issue of age is far greater than any other place on our wonderful planet. Just open up an LA Weekly and whammo, on almost every single page you’ll be smacked with an ad or seven about lasering unwanted hair, botoxing wrinkles, shaking away cellulite, adding hair extensions, reshaping breasts, tightening up vaginas (no comment), extending penises (that big, eh?), applying permanent makeup (that’s a tattoo), burning calories in sauna-hot yoga (don’t they know the Indian yogis are skinny because they live in a hot climate, have tons of parasites and eat intestine clearing curries?), adding longer and more eyelashes and getting yourself a get out of jail card to consume medical marijuana because of your acute medical problems which may include the acute psychological trauma of staying young and flawless. Whew!

cut and paste
youthing to combat ageing?

In this land of quasi perpetual youth it is no wonder that many who live here opt in for the extreme economic and emotional expense of maintaining their “looks” and “age” (whatever those may be). Living here and then traveling outside this bubble of “youthful” perfection has given me a different, though possibly skewed perspective, which in turn may be the reason I may be finally allowing nature to gracefully take her course on my head, why I also may (though i’m still thinking about it) forgo plastic surgery and instead chart out the lines on my face as if they were all a wacky google treasure map of my life experience.

baby tatoo
This is one hell of a tattoo !

My recent journeys have taken me both inside myself and out. In Austin, I observed young mothers who adorned themselves with both gorgeous and godawful tattoos, pierced their lips, transformed their earlobes by installing giant plastic hoop-rings and heaven knows what else and for what exact reason? I pondered. Their babies didn’t reject the tatted nipples, why should I find fault with their choices? But I am thinking about it, so it must be something for me, since those women appeared to be fine with it all. Why should their choices affect me so strongly? Obviously my esthetics are different from theirs. Is there a right or wrong? Should there be? What does all this have to do with my concept of beauty? I haven’t chosen to get a tattoo, so what is my problem, anyway? And my thoughts continue.

Age and beauty are relative, not merely social. No, really, I mean these beliefs are dictated in part by what and how our actual relatives, parents, grandparents, etc. showed us about maturing, beauty and acceptance. However judgmental, our families gave us a means by which we seriously consider what is “right” for us. My parents were “young” in body, mind and spirit, even into their eighties. They participated in thrice weekly aqua aerobics classes, traveled out of the country, cooking/dining with friends/family and engaging their minds in political and social debate. My father neither lost much nor ever colored his brown hair, which also never turned grey. From an early age, my mother dyed her locks from brown to blond; only her hairdresser knew for sure if she ever went totally grey. Neither parent had plastic surgery, they ate healthy (no fast or artificially preserved food, except the occasional hot dog at Costco once a month). Cancer got ’em both, 9 years apart but I wouldn’t be surprised if they continue to lead stimulating and vital “lives” in the great beyond. Oh yeah, while on this earth plane, they looked simply marvelous. Excuse the tangent.

Why are we, who live in the land of the angels, so consumed with looks? Hollywood itself may be the first and easiest answer. I for one am surrounded by actors who are working diligently at “making it” in this town. I keep hearing from many of the women, “I can’t divulge my age or I won’t get work!” My response, “Tell it to Meryl Streep… Or write, produce or star in your own tv/film piece.” This really doesn’t go over too well, nor is it really fair. These awful stigmas, for women (especially), were set forth years ago which have since created dozens of separate but equal beautification industries to enforce the fear of “flaws” and aging. The many thousands of actors in plastic surgeons’ waiting rooms, psychoanalysis, drinking in bars and attending, NA & AA meetings, clearly attest to how messed up the entertainment industry is for those who have bought into the hype. Even my dearly departed Max ((you can read about him in my earlier posts) was so uptight about revealing his age, even though he looked much younger than his 61 years. He was an actor with an ego but to me he was the handsomest man, I’d ever known, but that’s another story.

Funny he didn't look 61. Max Middleton was too young to die.
Funny he didn’t look 61. Max Middleton was too young to die.

Those of us on the outskirts of Hollywood’s artificially imposed standard of living can also become infected by the malaise of “perfection”, though maybe not quite as bad.

Yes, we can also blame the other “media”. If blame is what we must do. TV and film are still “Hollywood” and also purveyors of fashion. Women and men have both been slaves to fashion, each in their own way, but there are deeper issues here than blame and blame does not solve anything and heads us in an unproductive direction. The cultural malaise must be healed.

Take me for instance. At 15 I was full of angst (what teenager doesn’t go through that in our beauty culture). I thought it was my nose, which was anything but turned up (I later discovered that turned up noses have their origin in syphilis…Google it,I don’t have time here). I convinced my overly concerned parents to pay for rhinoplasty to give me a better outlook on my young life. Did it? Temporarily. The angst got suppressed for years and had little to do with my nose, though it is a nice one, I breathe petty well through it and it doesn’t look fixed. Okay where was I?

Age. Beauty. Fashion, yeah I’ll go there.

Lets take shoes. I just bought a pair of clogs. They are so comfortable and really fun. When I’m not wearing them I’m in running shoes or sandals. I’m going for speed and my tootsies have gotta feel oh so good. Ive asked myself: Why the hell would any woman wear heels so high that eventually the bones in their feet come through(ouch!)? But they do. That’s what happened to my mom when she was my age… Then she had to wear all sorts of orthotics to help her compensate for the years she wore high heels. Take a look around or just ask any podiatrist.

Take a look at this article when you have time:

Besides, high heels make you look like you’ve got something up your ass and you are trying to get away from someone without them knowing! Nasty. I checked out this page just to see what others were saying about heels:

Bras. Oh yes, I AM going there. Because it is so important for the health of all women. While Victoria may have a secret it’s not the one you think it is. Wearing underwire, pushup and cleavage enhancing bras may be “sexy” but not when the women who are wearing them discover they and their lymph glands are being sacrificed. Could it be that these sexy undergarments may result in breast and lymph cancers? Funny that instead of teaching women to wear healthy, breathable and mildly supportive bras they are encouraged to have regular mammograms? Kind of ass backwards if you ask me. Besides we all know that mammograms promote benign cysts to metastasize, don’t we? Oops I forgot, those corporate pink ribbons keep getting in the way of the real truth about breast cancer…that too is another story about which I may write soon.

You can read about bras, underwires and mammogram risks on these pages. Yes, there is conflicting information. I believe in erring on the side of caution. It is up to you. About Bras-

and don’t just read my blog…you can read this:

Also about Mammograms:

Yes I know some of you out there are breast cancer survivors and it may be very difficult to read/realize and come to terms with the FACT that the medical establishment has capitalized on OUR fears and may very well have caused the very thing it has purported to prevent. This is scary but remember the well informed patient is better equipped to be healthy …that means eating up and digesting all information, not solely that which is being dished out by the conventional pharma/medical industry.

So where does this leave me? I’ve mentioned hair color, plastic surgery, beauty, shoes, tits and more tits. It’s been a few days since my seat in the beauty chair. I am now highlighted, and heading toward joining the white haired ladies brigade. I ain’t rushing. I’m letting nature kinda sorta take her course. This means I’m not going to be visiting my Y.G. Jody very often, except for a few more lightening streaks, or is it streaks of lightning? … perhaps a trim, a deep condition, or one of her fabulous scalp massages…yeah, I’m still going for the feel good aspects of the salon experience. I’ve purchased a couple delightful over the shoulder boulder holders that are sans wires, and some sexy but comfortable shoes.

I’ll keep in touch.