The Biggest Challenge

So, recently I've fallen into doing a lot of those things that a lot of fuller figured women hate.

I've been binge eating sugar, and blaming it on stress.

I've been comparing my figure to other women my age, and finding myself lacking.

I've been cringing at myself in photographs and mentally re-taking them without the double chin and the flabby arms and minus about 40kg.

I'm a strong, confident, intelligent woman with plenty of admirers and I love myself. So why must these insecurities, these imperfections, these destructive behaviours keep returning to haunt?

The answer: It's complicated.

Social pressure these days is not only about the 'perfect' image for women, but about the health conscious, which makes it more of a serious issue for most of the BBWs I know. Once it's not about looking like Barbie and being a sexy size 6 stripper that would fit on an MTV screen, but instead about the fact that being within the correct BMI framework means less serious health issues, better quality of life, and more time to enjoy things... You start to take it seriously.

You read all the books, buy all the 'right' foods, feel proud of yourself because you went to the gym twice that week, or because you chose to walk that extra bus stop...

Right before the pressures of that poster at the supermarket, advertising your favourite ice cream on special.

Or when your friend is being really depressed because her boyfriend dumped her; so you eat those calorie-laden fudge brownies you baked her in a marathon sugar/crying session over men. Your reasoning is that it's alright because it's comfort food, and it's for your 'emotional health'.

You're late for work and forget to make lunch, so you go to the bakery to buy something. Surely you can get a filled roll or something. Yes, you can. Ooh, and what about one of those apple strudel things? They've got fruit in them- it counts, right?

... One thing I can say, straight up: Bitches be crazy.

It's no wonder, with all the conflicting information we get given!

Be sexy, but it's essential to love and accept yourself how you are.
Be slim enough to fit into generic label clothing, but beauty comes in all shapes and sizes.
Eat 'healthy'- which means, of course, being on the right diet for your body type/ blood type/ gender/ star sign.

I'm a Libra- that means I get to eat chocolate every day. Honest.

As a plus size girl of 23, I don't want to feel unattractive. I don't want to feel that I don't measure up to other girls my age, or that I have to accept just having compliments about my pretty face and my great personality.
I want to be admired. I want to see lust in a man's eyes, and in his pants.

I want to be a real woman, and to me that means having realistic goals for a realistic image and a healthy lifestyle that I have control over.

So, as a favor to myself, I'm going to stop lying to the one person in the world I lie to:
Myself.

I'm going to admit it when I'm eating for comfort.
I'm going to hold myself accountable for decisions I make and the consequences of them.
I'm going to take it easier on myself when I'm stressed out, and be harder on myself when it counts.
I'm going to set achievable goals for my weight, for my eating habits, and for my self expectations.
Most important of all, I'm gonna put a post-it note on my mirror, and here on Blogspot, to remind me of the most important thing of all.

We have to learn to be our own best friends because we fall too easily into the trap of being our own worst enemies. ~Roderick Thorp, Rainbow Drive

The Joy of Christmas

So, Christmas is one of my favourite times of year. Sure, it's a commericalised shopping holiday for the masses... but it still holds a special magic for me, in the way that it brings people together and kindles the spark of mischievious excitement that we all felt as children. Christmas is a time where everyone can feel loved, and special; each a special star in the communal bond of humanity.

 Of course, naturally some stars shine brighter than others... (It also looks like I'm trying to backhand Jen's boobs and chop off that poor pedestrian's neck...)

Those of you who know me well probably know that I don't really have the typical family structure. My family is made up of an odd assortment of friends, lovers, and geeks. At this time of year, it's really important to me to show them that they mean a lot to me, in good times....

...And in better times....

The holiday season fills my heart with joy for so many reasons- Christmas lights, the smell of pine, brightly wrapped, mysterious box shapes under the merry lights of a decorated tree... Mmm, fresh baking, and pudding, and... Gigantic dinosaurs!

This holiday season, I'm making it a priority to spend time with my friends and to really live in the moment- experience everything with open mind, heart and occasionally legs.

Laughter is most definitely on the agenda, as is making an absolute ass out of myself for the sake of comedy.

This year, I've learnt so much about myself, and met so many amazing people, done so many mind-blowing things (and women,) and I feel that Christmas really is the best way to finish up.

So... Merry Christmas everyone! Find the magic, the fun and the connection this season and remember to play safe ^_^

On life, and death, and how to win.

This post is dedicated to a woman, and the legacy of her loss. My apologies for the sombre tone of this post, but it would have been my mother's 58th birthday today, and I feel it a fitting time to publish the post that I have been sketching out for a while.

She was a woman born into the 1950's role of femininity, a 5ft barely-there doll of a woman that lived and loved and, I feel, should be written about by someone.

In the words of James T. Kirk, "How we deal with death is at least as important as how we deal with life, wouldn't you say?" and I believe that remembering and sharing our feelings of those that have passed is a peaceful, accepting way to deal with death.

Janette was the daughter of Brynley Davies, a Welshman that served in the Navy throughout WW2,
and Mary Edith Davies, his wife who passed from a brain tumour when her daughter was in her teenage years.

In her lifetime, she gave birth to five children, developed a passionate love for poetry and listened to her Foster and Allen CD 3,650 times. She was fiercely patriotic and the Welsh national anthem was played regularly in our household.

The things that I remember most about my mother are little things, and usually things that make me smile in fond remembrance.
The way her skin was so amazingly soft as she held me against her when I was upset, the conviction of her words as she told me that I could do anything I wanted in my life, if only I applied myself; and the amazingly average food that was seasoned with bland, extra salt and overcooked meat.

I remember the day that she died so vividly. The friend calling me from the nursing home, telling me to come and say goodbye. My denial, my vehemence that it was all just another false alarm. The drive across Auckland in rush hour traffic, heart pounding with the fear that it might actually be the last time I spent with her.

Walking into her room, and seeing the faces of everyone gathered before I saw her; seeing the sympathy in their eyes, the resignation, the embarrassment at not knowing what to say to console the heavily pregnant youngest daughter of the dying.

They all shuffled out single file, leaving only my partner, my mum, and myself in the room. She was seated in her chair, the one she was always sitting in when I visited, dressed in that faded hospital gown.
I had to double check that she was breathing; the movement of her chest was so slight. Her eyes were closed, peacefully, as though she was already gone. I didn't know what to say, didn't know who this person was that sat before me.

So I sat, and I took her hand in mine, and I sang to her. I sang to her the song of a Welsh homecoming, and for a brief, precious second, her hand tightened in mine... The first sign of communication I'd had since I arrived. So I sat, and I held her hand, and I told her that I loved her. Then we left.

The nurses told me they would call me when there was any news; good or bad. A short time later, at 3am, the phone rang, and I knew. My mind blanked, white and silent, when they told me.

"I'm sorry. Your mother passed away a few minutes ago."

They asked me if I wanted to come see her now, or if I wanted to wait until morning. They told me that it was as if she had been waiting to say goodbye to me; hanging on to life until she knew that I would be okay, until we'd connected that one last time.

I mumbled something about coming in the morning, and thankyou for letting me know, and yes, I would be able to organise her possessions and make funeral arrangements. The dial tone kicked in, and I walked back to bed, fell into my partner's arms and cried, my grief pouring out hard and fast, a torrent of pain unleashed in wordless wailing.

Sleep came quickly, surprisingly enough. I organised her things. Her house, her will.
I went to see her, lying still and pale in that wooden box in a room in a place full of the scent of disinfectant masked by floral freshener. I kept waiting for her to breathe, for her chest to lift, for her to open her eyes, and tell me that everything was okay; that I wouldn't be motherless at the age of sixteen. That she would live to see my first child born. That it was all just some terrible mistake, and any minute now those things would happen...

But they didn't.

I remember her funeral. The people.
All of the people at her funeral, their eyes full of sadness and loss. I knew she wouldn't have wanted us to be sad. I knew she wanted us to celebrate her life... Though tears still fell down my cheeks as they played 'her song'; Sophie B. Hawkins', 'As I lay me down'.

I remember thinking that I wished I could take all of the pain that was held inside that chapel into myself, away from everyone else, away from the friends and the children and the brothers and sisters. That I could hold it, that enormous, unspoken thing that brought so many strangers together, and somehow make it something that only I had to endure.
Maybe that was because I couldn't feel anything. There was a void in me, and my emotions faded to grey like the end of an old movie.
I was on automatic, and I kept everything going like a well-oiled machine. Slowly, and with time, I began to feel again, regaining a new sense of self and identity as a mother myself.

And so, life went on, as it will. And really, that was the most important lesson that I learnt. Life goes on.
It's what we do with our lives, with every day, that counts in the end. My mother spent her life planning her death, being afraid of herself, of the potential of failure, and in the end, that's what I mourned the most; the loss of a beautiful yet unfulfilled life.

I understand now how important it is to go for those things you want, those dreams you dream, because you never know when and how the opportunity will be taken from you. In some ways, it's what my mother didn't do, as much as the things she did, that taught me about the value of challenging yourself, and of challenging others.

It was the profound impact that her death had on me that helped me to comprehend the complexities of human relationships, and led me to question how I would want to be remembered at the end of my lifetime, and whether or not I would have come to regret the decisions I'd made.

"Live every day as if it were your last, because one of these days, it will be."

Get your Rave on!

Saturday night, it's Rave time! Special Forces theme, and we're ready drop that heavy-ass bass.

First up, Dance Commander Velvet. Sexy, camo'd, and ready to bounce booty.

Here are some pictures from before the camo paint:

Of course, later in the evening, it was time to go devious desert camo...

Next, Trance Trooper Kyle. He's dedicated to dancing. Mind melting beats commence!

And, of course, Smooth Mover Chris. He's got the dancing genius...

Mission status: Complete. Successful collection of dirty beats; euphoric headspace achieved.
Next mission: Acquire new status: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KicVw7cYJ4k

dnalrednoW ni ecilA: Through the Other looking glass.

Alice was, I believe, a perfectly normal human being with a vivid and slightly twisted imagination.

*You*, of course, could argue that if you look at some of the ideas suggested in the tales of Wonderland, you can read either the innocent, if confusing, dreams of an eleven year old child, or the hallucinogenic ravings of a maladjusted juvenile.

Let's walk through this mirror and see reality with a parallel scope. Of course, all of the following interpretations are tinted with the paint of my mind, and as such, I'm sure that you will find yourself making sense of these events in your own way.

We shall start at the place that all good stories start... at the beginning.

In the beginning, Alice was a sleepy young girl that was paying far too little attention to things that ought to have been thought about. Her cat, an innocently evil little fluffball named, of all things, 'Dinah', was apparently her sidekick in this miscellaneous muckery.
Alice, being the stereotype of petulant little girls who don't go to bed when they're told to, was very tired and fell asleep under a tree in the warm afternoon sun; although this fact is not apparent in the writing of the story, so as to make the reader question the reality of said events.
Later on, we may discover the fact that she got sunburnt and developed melanoma.

Now, we can assume one of a few things in this next part. Either Alice was dreaming that she saw a little white rabbit in a waistcoat with a pocket watch running to the hole in the tree or she was filled to the gills with hallucinogenics. In either case, that's precisely what happened, and dear little Alice decided to indulge her natural curiousity with no thought for the consequences.
I mean, really. Who jumps down a rabbit hole without a rope and some carrots to bribe the vicious bunnies?!

The scene at the bottom of the rabbit hole, that of a room with a table holding grow me/ shrink me drugs and a small door, is obviously some kind of reference to the idea that you can't get where you want to go in life without cheating sometimes.
That, or it was merely demonstrating how easily kids are tempted into taking drugs and thus we shouldn't leave our shrinking potions lying scattered around the house, in case they just happen to end up in a mysterious parallel universe, chasing a rabbit.

An important lesson here is that the grass always looks greener on the other side of the small enchanted door. Perhaps if Alice hadn't been so keen to escape to new pastures, she wouldn't have entangled herself in the curious happenings that followed. The question is, however, whether or not it was beneficial. Of course, if she had been a more organised sort of person that had given more forethought to the consequences of her actions, she may not have ended up ten inches high and swimming in a sea of her own tears.

It seems that Alice was a very unhappy little girl for the majority of this story; I choose to take this as a warning that taking drugs and chasing rabbits while wandering in the wilderness of your mind is a VERY BAD THING. This particular story is full of well meaning moral guidings. A good example is when Alice ends up being mistaken by the white rabbit for his housemaid, Mary Ann. She, the silly twit, doesn't correct him on the finer details of her true identity, and attempts to do the job of the maidservant. Alas, temptation appears in the form of a tiny bottle labelled 'DRINK ME'. Now, there are a few things about this situation that make it rather worthy of comment.

Firstly, a bottle that has any kind of directive label on it and is full of mysterious content is sure to be trouble. Secondly, let us take this anecdote as a caution against the vanity and dissatisfaction of self image. If Alice had been more content with the way she was, she would never have felt the need to drink. "I do hope it'll make me grow large again, for really I'm quite tired of being such a tiny little thing!".
Sadly, little Alice learnt the lesson of Regret as she found herself unable to handle the consequences of her decision. "That's quite enough-- I hope I shan't grow any more-- As it is, I can't get out at the door-- Oh I do wish I hadn't drunk quite so much!".
Enough said, really.

The little girl *did* have a fairly good idea when it came to purpose, however. When speaking with the frustratingly obtuse Cheshire Cat, she said "Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?"
To which the puss replied with a sensible "Well that depends a good deal on where you want to get to."
Now, Alice said next that she didn't care much where she wanted to get to; so long as it was _somewhere_.
This strikes me as a very mature response for such a young person, and perhaps something that is difficult for most people to grasp regardless of age.

Indeed, it is a question in the transient, arduous journey to seeking happiness: Will we be happy when we get to where we're going, or is it the journey that matters? Is it the destination, the goal fulfilled, the reward claimed that sates our need, our drive? Or is it the things that we experience on the way there, and the feeling of satisfaction that comes from merely moving, from continuing to walk to 'somewhere' instead of going nowhere?
However, in this case, we'll take a leaf from Alice's book, in which she states to the Mad Hatter "I think you might do something better with the time than waste it in riddles that have no answers."

Of course, after her encounter with this enigmatic man and the March Hare, Alice finally finds herself in the garden which tempted her into taking size altering drugs in the first place, which proves that you can, obviously, achieve your goals even when distracted, high, regretful and three inches tall, if you go 'somewhere'.

There are many other themes in this aphorism-laden story; things such as the power of authority, the wisdom of asserting one's boundaries when threatened (in Alice's case, with being beheaded,) and the importance of good sportsmanship in croquet.
The Duchess realised this, and indeed remarked to Alice as they strolled through the Queen's Garden arm-in-arm that "Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it."

I do find myself wondering if the King pardoning all of the executions ordered by the passionate-for-beheading Queen during the croquet game was a reference to the facade of rule and power of monarchs in England at the time (and indeed, now,) or if it was a more subtle allusion to the perceived 'madness' and impulsiveness of womankind in general, and the damage control initiated by men after the emotional bombshell has exploded.

Really, there's not much else. The story finishes with Alice's sister waking little Alice up, only then to drift into her own imaginings of strange alternate realities, the concept of which merely served to show her that life would go on as usual; that Wonderland was really with all of us, in our own minds, ready to serve up a good dose of abstract advice when we least expect it.

Awkward Dinosaur at Armageddon!

So, on Saturday I went to Armageddon. It was great! As usual, the costumes were fantastic, and the entertainment was entertaining.

Highlights for me were:

Hugging Elmo! (Picture above)

The Guild panel  on the Main Stage at 2pm

Hugging Sackperson (as shown below)

Buckets of mini donuts!

X Men bubblegum

Ninja Bears! Hyaaaaah!

I really love being able to just geek out in a large hall full of other geeks. Can't wait to experience something like DragonCon!

American Woman

So, you know how some women seem to attract sleazy guys? Two-timing scumbags? Sometimes a girl's lucky enough to attract an emotionally stable guy, or a guy obsessed with her.
I, ladies and gentlesaurs, attract Americans.

That's right. You heard me. Soda-pop-drinking, politically dualist, loud and usually 'entitled' masters of the bedroom, aka Americans.
The first time it happened, I thought it was a fluke; I'd never even met an American before DancingBear!
Still, there he was in his expensive Armani suit at the Britomart bus stop; Shaun, the Investment Banker.
He was from Boston, and he talked a mighty smooth line... Right into my panties.

Then there was the sexy, sweet talking saxophone player. He was from Tucson, AZ. He found me on OkCupid, convinced me that it would be a fantastic idea to catch a taxi at 11pm on a Sunday, so that I could... Chat with him,
Yeah, that's right. Sweet, passionate conversation. Well, apparently that wasn't all he had in mind!

After that followed cowboy Thomas, gamer geek Stephen, and Daniel, the tantra-practicing Californian dude with chocolate skin and a smile smooth as sarsaparilla. (Actually, I don't really know what sarsaparilla tastes like, but it was a good word!).

Soon, with my entrancing hypnosis skills and my talent in the bedroom, I will rule the world through the stray men of America. Those who dare to wander through Aotearoa and into my bedroom, or slip a message into my hot box on the site of Cupid's affirmation won't stand a chance against my oh so awkward feminine wiles.

Ah, America. The land of opportunities ^_~

IRONY

No, not the adjective, in which one describes a taste.
"So, Carny, how's your man-snack 3.0?"
"The fat's really good, and I like the ribs, but he's a bit iron-y for me."

No, what I'm talking is about is when you experience or observe a situation that has incongruity between what is expected to be and what actually is.

Take, for example, an experience that occurred to DancingBear and I. Washing powder was spilt upon the tiles of the bathroom cave, and we tried to put it back in the box. Alas, it had mixed with hair and dust and dirt and was no longer useful for cleaning clothing. Shouldn't a cleaning product make the floor clean, instead of being made dirty by said floor?!

 There are many examples of irony; feeling tired because you've slept too much, or rain on your wedding day... To Ra, the Egyptian Sun God.

To me, irony is one of the funniest forms of funny out there and it happens every day, all around us.
And soooo... to another topic.


POLITICS.

Politics are full of irony. I've always considered myself to be on the political fence, leaning slightly to the left. I mean, I see advantages to both right and left wing Governments in New Zealand; they don't try to achieve the same goals, so you can't really say one is 'good' and one is 'bad' unless you're comparing them from a bias. I have, however, just taken a political map test that assures me that I am a communist/ libertarian bordering on anarchy. I'm situated in the exact spot where Gandhi and the Dalai Lama live.


So, with that in mind, how do I feel about the following question?

Q) Those who are able to work, and refuse the opportunity, should not expect society's support.

A) This is one of the more difficult questions I was asked. Not because it's intellectually tricky, or even because of the potential moral implications... I found it difficult because it asks me to sum up, in one single word (Yes, or No,) how I view other people and their actions regarding work, and makes me wield the power to decide what *they* (the people who are able to work, but refuse,) should or should not expect in terms of their rights and how they are treated as individuals and human beings.

Some of the things I thought about in answering this question were:
Do I believe that people should be punished, even passively, for taking an action or non-action on a collective basis?
What is my first, instinctual feeling about people that choose not to work but are able to?
How might I feel about this if I could not work, but would like to?
Who is viewing work as an opportunity? Is it an opportunity? Or an obligation? Perhaps a contribution?
What is 'support'? Is it money, paid by tax payers? Is it shared resources? Is it care and affection?

 So, in answer to the above, in order:
No, I do not believe in withdrawing support because of a lack of perceived input from society. I do, however, expect that if individuals want something out of life or of others, they ought to (in an ideal, utopian world) put something in.

My first instinctual feeling when I think about someone given the 'opportunity' to work but refuses to is that they are perhaps content. Content with their lives as they are, and unwilling to change or to expend effort in the goals of the masses.

It is possible that if I could not work, but would like to, that I may feel resentment towards this person. I may think that they are selfish, and lazy, and arrogant to think that they may partake of the fruits of society's good works... And yet, only to an extent. I would believe that any living thing has the right to the basics of life; food, water, shelter, love, oxygen, simply on the grounds of being alive.

I believe work is many things to many people. It is survival, it is a responsibility, an obligation, an opportunity and a contribution. Work is more than just having a job. Work is more than money, and it's more than a title, more than a trade. Work can be doing something you're afraid of, or something you don't like. Work is choosing to do one kind thing purposefully for another human being. Work is making children inside your body, healing torn ligaments, and creating art. Work, in my humble opinion, is anything we do that we consider worth doing. It is our mana made tangible.


All in all, it is my thought that society has become a machine, with large parts reliant on corporations and Governments and those brave people that stand up and let their voice be assertively heard and recognised across the globe. We are all expected to be part of it, in the broad view of 'society', a working, efficient piece of the automaton that keeps everything on time, moving forward, productive.

I do not believe that every person is needed for this machine. I do not believe that it is for every person that they fit within the realms of what is acceptable and expected for the masses. My answer to the person that has that job opportunity and refuses it?
Seek your dreams, find your place, and be content in the knowledge that we have ours.

Today I wore my Underpants on the Outside!

Okay, so it was yesterday, but... I actually did, you know! I felt like.... A goddamn superhero!
I went to D&D, rolled five 20's in a row.
I also stopped a bus with a pelvic thrust. That's right. Let's set the scene:
It's late afternoon and there's a light rain falling. A solitary dinosaur stands at a bus stop. The bus, large and green, comes into sight, moving quickly; too quickly for any regular dinosaur to stop it.
You see her wave frantically, and the bus shows no sign of stopping. The driver isn't even looking her way.
Suddenly, the dinosaur thrusts her pelvis towards the bus; perhaps she was an Elvis fan, or maybe some secret power that only works with particularly rude gestures.
Whatever the case, the bus swerves into the stop, and the dinosaur clambers on.
The driver says "Sorry, didn't see you there. I just happened to look over at the stop at the last second, and there you were."
The dinosaur smiles, nods, and sits down. She knows what really happened.
So, great story huh? I know. I'm amazing.
As a conclusion to this, the first post of my new blog, I shall merely state that I am into everything to do with receiving ham.
Good night, and good luck!