Are You Beauty Stupid?

I want to share a point of view with you. But I need you to close your mind’s eye and empty it, if you can, of your prejudices and your perceived “preferences,” and read carefully what follows.

First, forget all that nonsense that “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” While there may be a mustard seed of truth in those dull, uninspiring, shopworn words, it isn’t relevant, nor does it negate in any way, what I am about to say.

Continue reading

Beautiful, Successful, Rich, Undressed

silhouette of erotic woman

Dear Reader!

Am I cuckoo? Because I am feeling cuckoo and more than a tad bit nauseated too!

Why is that Food Network chef—you know, the woman everyone thinks is so beautiful—wearing a very body conscious, white dress and making like “sexy” as she lies in a pool of marinara sauce?!


Why is a famous, really famous, Academy Award-winning actress known for her very pouty lips wearing nothing but that pout and a naughty sliver of silk?!

Can it get any worse?!

Why is Food Network’s Ms. EVOO wearing nothing but a bra, a tiny red and white gingham apron with pink bows, and red heels as she removes the Thanksgiving turkey from the oven? And why is she up on the white tiled kitchen counter in hot pants—yes, hot pants—all sudsy and giggly?

Alright, it officially just got excruciatingly worse!

Why is there a life-size poster of a rap diva with all three assets on display: back arched and arse out, boobs in your face, and her painted, pouty lips suggestively parted?!

This at my local mall: Kids, impressionable kids, go to the mall.

Okay, I am about to upchuck my breakfast, second breakfast, and lunch, so I will stop here.

The descriptions above are just a few of the unfortunate, au courant images from the covers and/or pages of popular men’s magazines.

A truly powerful woman has nothing to prove and no desire or need to undress herself in public simply for random male viewing pleasure.

Seriously, these days, my local magazine stand resembles a soft porn site. It seems like magazine covers are in need of a rating system like movies, R(estricted) or NC-17 (Adults Only).

Unsurprisingly enough, I have NEVER seen any handsome, successful, rich man featured on these same magazines naked, with an open crotch, with suggestively parted lips, or with the infamous arched back and arse shot. And they certainly do not slosh in food–that would be ridiculous, right?!

For example, Channing — the bod — Tatum graced one of the guilty men’s magazines wearing (1) a pair of long pants, (2) a shirt, (3) a jacket, and, get this: (4) a damn vest too.

So, why are women who are considered beautiful and successful and rich willingly getting undressed for these types of photo ops?


Is it vanity? Is it insecurity? Some deluded sense of power?

Where is the power in the centuries old male game of female objectification?

How is a woman powerful who needs to be always seen as indiscriminately fuckable?

Where is the power in looking like a submissive, fuckable, blow up doll?

What does it say about a woman whose dignity and sensual mystery is for sale, especially when she doesn’t even need the money or the exposure?

Yes, these women may be getting paid, but they are not in control.

Too many women have drank the spiked Kool-aid that they can express themselves in any way they damn well please, but the truth is: A truly powerful woman has nothing to prove and no desire or need to undress herself in public simply for random male viewing pleasure.

On the other hand, an insecure woman searching for daddy’s or any man’s approval, well, that another story…

Call to action: Am I cuckoo? Are you feeling cuckoo too?

Below are links to related articles written by other people that make very good sense:

Mom’s Epic Open Letter to Daughter
A Daddy’s Letter to His Little Girl
Words from a Father to His Daughter from the Makeup Aisle

Choose to Love Better

two people, clasped hands

Dear Reader!

What a hateful week it has been! At times I felt buried under a tonnage of stress: taking care of my mum; giving her shots twice a day (yuck!); witnessing her pain and despondency; dealing with my own health concerns; coping with my fears of the future, of failure, and of impotence; and, sadly, having to observe emotional callousness, too close to home and out in the world.

It has been arduous.

It has been maddening.

It has been heartbreaking.

It has been enough to make this woman almost take to the streets and start S-C-R-E-A-M-I-N-G!

The constancy of real love is our salvation.

When we are at our lowest, we all need to know that those who profess to love us, consider our lives NOT separate from them, but tightly intertwined—and that we are an actively included in their daily circle of concern and love for their sake, as well as our own.

Real love is never too busy and does not make excuses and is not callous. Real love gets up and shows up regardless and especially when it is inconvenient. And its constancy is our salvation.

Call to action: Let us choose to love better.

Pray, Pray, Pray

man sitting in a church

Dear Reader!

This weekend my mum and I have been caught up in the maelstrom that passes for “health”care in this country.



Poor communications of critical information…

Waiting, waiting, waiting…

Inadequate to downright poor quality of care…

God complexes…


Did I mention the waiting, waiting waiting—for just a measly few minutes of a doctor’s time?!

Call to action: Starting now, do every thing and any thing you can to maintain a high quality of health so that you can stay the he!! out of the way of the “health”care system! It’s no guarantee, but do it!

More Than “Breath and Britches”

Honey, every woman deserves a man who is more than "breath and britches."

Dear Reader!

As I mentioned in my last post, Michael came to see me last weekend. Yeah! It was fun and too short.

And since he was coming, I wanted to look my best, of course, so on the Thursday before his arrival I went to the barbershop to get my hair cut so that I would look fresh and feel pretty.

And this is the absurd exchange that ensued from the moment I hit the door:

CB, the barber: Don’t you return phone calls?

[Picture me with a stupefying look on my face.]

Me: You have the nerve to say that to me! On three separate occasions I have called you and/or texted you to find out when you would be in the shop and I have yet to receive a call or a text back! Not only will I not be returning your calls, I will not ever call or text you again! I am not a chump!

CB: Well, I was calling to ask you to dinner.

Me: What?! You got bored and had no one else to call, so you decided to pick up the phone and call me!

CB: Why can’t you just let the past go?

Me: I am NOT a chump!

CB:  You are judging me based on what others have done.

Me: No. I am judging you based on your past and present bad behavior and indifference. Were you raised in a barn?!

CB: Well, can’t you just learn to accept idiosyncrasies?

[What an arseclown!]

Me: No! (I am actually thinking that would be a hell, hell no!) This is not an idiosyncrasy. This is rudeness and indifference. I place a very high, high value on myself and I will not tolerate this!

Ladies, too many of us are settling for just “breath and britches.”

CB: Well, what do you want?

[Seriously! Can he really be asking this silly question?!]

Me: Actually, I am not looking for anything. And I have never led you to believe otherwise. What we have and have always had is a professional [I should have said unprofessional] relationship. But if I were looking, I am certainly not interested in a man who is a lazy, rude, trifling arseclown who does not return phone calls! I would much rather be reading a book! I want so much more than “breath and britches!”

[As if…]

And then he uttered a simple string of sad and confounding words…

CB: Truth is, you scare me.

Me: Really?! Why?

CB: You’re a lady. I’ve never met a woman like you… (He’s 50!)


Call-to-action: Ladies, are you settling for just “breath and britches?” Guys, what do you think about this ridiculous exchange? Share your thoughts in the comment section below.

Check out my other related posts: Yes, I Am Queen of Sheba and Priced Above Rubies.

A Supersize Arse to Die For

Statue of woman's arse


Oh, my, God. Becky, look at her butt. It is so big… I mean, her butt, is just so big
I can’t believe it’s just so round, it’s like out there… ~ “Baby Got Back”

On June 3, 2015, it is reported that a young woman dies in a NYC basement — a NYC basement — after allegedly getting illegal butt injections.

On March 11, 2014, a young mother and a college student dies at a Meatpacking Hotel in Queens from a botched butt lift. Yep, you read right, a Meatpacking  Hotel.

On June 14, 2103, a 28-year old, Miami mother dies after getting $2,300 butt implants, in effect, abandoning her two little girls.

And on February 8, 2011, another woman came all the way from London for a supersize arse to die for, and then does precisely that — die — in a Philadelphia hotel.

(SIGH.) And on it goes…

I am peeved — and I wanna know…

What is the current and continually expanding preoccupation with the part of our anatomy whose fundamental function is to power us through an active life and house the orifice that evacuates waste matter of digestion — that is, excrement, feces… OK, sh*t?!

I mean, I appreciate that a shapely arse is an attractive “accessory” and that some of us are more or less “accessorized” than others, BUT…

Ladies, free your mind from the tether of yet another physical deception — and instead embrace what has always been your birthright: The knowledge that you are enough — and so much more than the size of your curvy bits.

Regardless of how insecure or how vain, how can any woman or girl believe it is a good idea to get questionable “sh*t” injected in her arse, especially by  low-life, quick buck, unlicensed predators?! How?!

Why are so many grown women and young girls constantly sharing their “butties” on social media — and, apparently, willing to die in strip malls, meatpacking hotels, makeshift basements, wherever, for supersize butties?! Why?!

This is absurd, ridiculous, outrageous. I cannot be the only one who thinks this! You, dear reader, you’ve got to feel that this is downright senseless too!

And how come we don’t hear stories of men and boys dying in the pursuit of supersizing their arses?! How come?!

What’s more, why and how has the “backdoor,” this upstart, dethroned the vagina, the conduit of life and the once upon a time quintessence of all that was/is female?!


Actually, I don’t wanna know! I just want the asinine glorification to stop, please! Really, is it too much to ask that we, men and women, stop over glorifying this curve or that curve and instead lift our eyes up and see the integrated, whole woman before us?! Is it?!

Besides, you should also consider that an over-sized anything on the human body turns that person into prey,  an animal that can be hunted and captured for mealtime, whether the landscape is a savanna grassland in Africa, a mean street anywhere else in the world, … or in the mind of a insecure, vain woman or girl in the West.

Call to action: Is a supersize arse worth dying for? Is a woman’s worth directly related to the size of her curvy bits? Tell me in the comment section below.

Check out my previous, related post: Are You a Cheap Value Meal?!

So “Connected,” So Alone

picture of lighted candles


Pam Crenshaw was a bright light in the lives of all those she loved and who loved her. She always made me feel worthy and beautiful in countless ways. And even when I couldn’t, she embraced with love and understanding the unique details that make me, me. She was sweet like caramel brownies topped with a swirl of caramel cream cheese frosting. She was lovely. And she was my true friend.

It has been years now since breast cancer sneaked in like a stinking thief in the dark of night, ravaged her body, and then absconded with her spirit and her light. On Thursday, we had talked at great length and she was still fighting for her life. She was hospitalized on Friday. And by that Saturday, she was taken.

I remember clearly that Saturday evening when I got the call that she had died. My reaction was stunningly immediate. Even after all these years, I can still, to this day, feel how my heart broke: As I dropped to the floor in a heap and curled up tightly into the fetal position, it felt like a very large, angry man had kicked me swiftly and violently in the very center of my being, with all the force his large body could muster.

Within a year of her death, her brother brought together about four of her closest friends. Most of us were unacquainted with each other, but it was clear that some of us had loved her dearly.

As the years have gone by and my memories have softened and faded, I now only vividly remember two things about that gathering:

  1. How angry and shocked we all were to lose the bright light that was Pam; AND
  2. That woman, who by her own proclamation called herself a close “friend” of Pam, BUT had only learned of my friend’s death SIX months after the fact when she finally decided to pick up a freaking phone and call Pam to check in AND, get this, how she wanted me to drive with her six hours to visit Pam’s grave

Huh! Wait… Did I forget to mention: Pam had been battling breast cancer? Cancer! The Big C!

OK! Let me pause to take a moment to inhale and exhale deeply… because… because this r-i-d-i-c-u-l-o-u-s-n-e-s-s still makes my scalp itch and my armpits very hot and sweaty. Yes, I am still disgusted by that woman, and I am sadden by the drought of real, meaningful connections then and now.

picture of a smartphone

Like androids in a Sci-Fi movie, our smartphones are now a tightly integrated extension of our physical self. In the west, the modern person cannot even take a shit without the damn thing tightly clutched in one hand or perched precariously close by. (Eww) And still too many of us cry we cannot find time to call those that should matter.

It seems that while our phones were getting smarter, we got dumber and dumber!

We have an exhausting number of social media platforms today. Exhausting! We collect meaningless “friends” on one. We pin like a mad person things we will never cook or make, places we will never visit, and things we will never buy on another. We chat unintelligibly in 140 characters or less on the next. We snap and over share photos on the go of the minutiae of our lives and, regrettably, our scantily-clad or naked bodies on all of them — Hey, another selfie, anyone?! How about a butt shot?!

And while everybody is following everyone and no one, our relationships are as shallow as a puddle on a busy street with very good drainage after a light rain. Instead of connected, we are starved for true friendship, unable to converse with any depth in our first language, and without any true concept of shame.

Today, there are many lines of “communications” open, but we are distracted, unable to connect in any real, genuine way. All that can be heard on both ends is frantic tapping noises or the sound of neglect, nada.

We live in an age where we humans have amassed an impressive amount of knowledge about everything and nothing. BUT we are, sorrowfully, still incapable of working our way to world peace; stopping ourselves from creating and/or living in our own personal, and often secret, worlds of hell; or showing up and staying for those we claim we love.

Read my poem I Wonder Why.

Call to action: Share in the comments below how you feel about the current state of disconnect in our world day? Or, if you are one of the few who is blessed with real connections, then share how being connected adds value to your life?

Oh, and when you’re done, how about picking up the phone and CALLING — not texting or updating your status — someone who matters!

Are You a Cheap Value Meal?!

If a guy wants you for your breasts, thighs, and legs, send him to KFC. You're a lady, not a cheap value meal.

Happy Thursday!


This week is a rough one for me, and today… Let’s not even go there.

But I just came across this pin on Pinterest. And for the first time today, I smiled BIG and against my will. So, of course, how could I deny you this.

However, I would like to add: I’m also not my hair or a shade of skin colour or a colouring book or a backdoor or a piece of arse. In other words, I am a soul with a heart, not a damn fetish supply.

Have a happy weekend!



What’s in a name?


Happy Monday!

OK. I have few posts under my belt now. And, hopefully, by now you are getting a sense of who I am if you’ve read them. You have read them, right?! If not, I’ll wait right here until you come back. Take your time.

Back already?! Good. Now, let me be frank.

I’m no rose, so my name mispronounced ain’t sweet. Outside of my immediate family, one or two aunts, one uncle, and my true friends (a very small circle), no one pronounces my name correctly!

Yes, that means that Every. Single. Day. of my life since I have been old enough to understand the sound of my name I cringe inwardly when others address me. Multiple. Times. Every. Single. Day. And for me, it is like Raptor claws on a chalk board. That’s a lot of psychic pain.

There are two particularly memorable instances where my simple two syllable first name created “drama.” One manager told me, “Go back to your country if you want your name pronounced correctly!” and another person asked me, “What would you like your name to be if you could choose any name?” Well, my answer to the first was the cold retort, “I will no longer respond to you as long as you continue to mispronounce my name” and to the second, “My name pronounced correctly.”

In my little corner of the ‘net, I am hoping to make real connections, so I thought I would take this time early on to share this huge peeve of mine with you: My name is J.A.N.I.N.E. It consists of just two syllables.

If you can pronounce JAN or JANET or JANICE, then you have the correct sound for the first three letters and the first syllable of my name. Oh, and please, say it softly — no unnecessary harsh enunciation. All together now: Jan-neen. Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?!

Call to action: Taking the time to address someone by their name and pronounce it correctly is a sign of respect and caring. Do you agree or disagree?

P.S. And no, you may NOT call me Jan or Miss J.