Monday, August 6, 2012


Like an infant I am occasionally fascinated by my hands enough to sit and stare at them a while. The most clear outward display of the things I want to be, for myself and for others. Allow me trippingly try to tell you what I see when I get lost in the lines and creases I carry with me daily.

One of the many juxtapositions of me: my hands. While small they carry heavy weight, callused palms matched with brightly polished nails, scarred and yet well maintained. They tell many stories about my life, and display for all the world the basic tenants of my personality.

My Mimi was one well dressed woman, she never left the house without being put together from shoes to hair. This was a process of many steps, and much routine. She taught me the value of skin care and accessorizing. She passed from my life long before I would need either lesson at the age of twelve, however they have stayed a part of my daily life. An over flowing jewelry armoire and bathroom counters can attest to my  dedication to both traits.

Memories of my maternal grandmother lead me to believe she would have supported me in anything I chose for myself, but I know she would have preferred something less violent?masculine? rough? Yes, rough is the word I want. It is her influence in my youth that draws me to design my games day outfits with a softer touch, in more feminine colors. Pink was my predominate pallet for years, now I wear purple. Just because I play a rowdy game of explosive strength doesn't mean I can't look like a girl while doing it. (see ex:  frilly bloomers, matching hair accessories, socks and lip gloss)

"I don't mind living in a man's world, as long as I can be a woman in it." ~ Marilyn Monroe

This picture hangs in my sitting room, mixed with antique milk glass and a black crystal chandelier, because to me this is class.  

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