Post from: Toy With Me

Boobie Wednesday Trading Cards

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1. Breast Cancer Survivor Gives Back! With Pleasure ;)

A million billion years ago, back when I was just graduating high school (or was I just in college? It’s all a little blurry, thanks to a wee bit of excessive, um, well, vodka usage), I was involved in my first serious relationship. Going on two years, we were finally showing the cracks in our united front, and I didn’t know what to do. So I did the only thing I could think to do at age nineteen when you’re relationship is failing and you’re not entirely sure how to fix it, only that you don’t want to be without each other because that’s all, like, sad and shit: I bought lingerie and body glitter.

Oh yes, Toy With Me-ers. I was one step shy of cutting all my hair off and dying my scalp pink just because, you know, that’s how to handle shit (rather than like, actually handle it, and shit). I figured the best course of action was More Sex and More Glitter. Which is, shockingly, not a bad way to handle problems, I suppose, now that I think about it.

But I was in the process of planning a romantic (read: sex-filled night of sexcapades) night composed of glitter and my new lingerie when my boyfriend “accidentally” found himself caught red-handed screwing around with the patchouli-smelling hippie friend I’d dragged to Victoria’s Secret to buy the lingerie with.

Whoops! Looks like I’d spent fifty bucks on some quality lingerie for fuck-nothing. And um, even worse than that, no fucking. It was a shame, too, I thought to myself as I sadly looked at the white ruffly baby-doll top and matching boy shorts. Because I’d really liked that outfit. It was classy stuff. And I didn’t even get to wear it.

(I’ve used the glitter all up)(duh)

I stuffed it in my sock drawer and turned on some emo song like, Cat Stevens ‘Wild World’ or anything by the Spice Girls and cried a lot. Like a lot. He was my first real boyfriend and it was shitty to have it end that way.

Eventually I threw away all of the stuff I’d gotten from him when I moved away to college. I kept the lingerie. Not in a sentimental, “I’m holding onto this because it is a link to you!” way. Just because I still liked it and thought it was pretty and cute and ruffly and I kinda wanted to prance around in it, smacking my ass in time to ‘Baby Got Back’ while my NEW boyfriend told me how awesome I was.

Oddly, it never happened. That’s probably better for all parties involved, now that I think about it.

I got married and moved to a condo in the city, then a house in the suburbs. The lingerie packed up and moved with me. My husband, The Daver, and I began trying for Baby Number Two (in that space, I’d accidentally popped out Baby Number One) which meant Baby Makin’ Sex. Apparently, in Aunt Becky Land that does not involve frilly lingerie.

At long last, that elusive second line appeared. I’d finally gotten knocked up. As the pee dried on that pregnancy test, I immediately looked five months pregnant. Time to bust out the jeans with the elastic waistband.

So, I packed up all my normal underwear and frilly lingerie in favor of underwear that could double as a bed sheet or the sail of a ship. I mocked the pregnancy lingerie I saw in catalogs because I resembled a daddy longlegs spider or a tomato. That cried. All the time. A crying, barfing daddy longlegs pregnant lady. I was the anthesis of sexy. No lingerie for me.

Then came the baby and nursing bras to hold up my gigantic melons and another baby and more nursing bras. The very idea of slipping into “something more comfortable” was laughable. Because, well, nothing was comfortable. I had a BABY kicking my ribcage and punching my vagina from the inside. Then the outside.

So, that same frilly negligee stayed in my wooden chest for four years. Untouched, my lingerie sat there, along with my string bikini and some misplaced socks, until last week, when I cracked open the trunk to see what was inside. I’d been cleaning out my closets, reorganizing my life, and this was yet another step in that direction.

There it was. My old lingerie. Nestled in with some mismatched socks and a pair of workout shorts, it sat there happily. I pulled it loose and held it up to the light. The first real piece of lingerie I’d ever bought, a solid reminder of old times; old bad times. But beautiful, still, even now. I threw it into the laundry because I couldn’t figure out what to do with it.

As I did my laundry this week, I thought a bit about that one piece of lingerie (never, though, about the mismatched socks). I still find it beautiful and it’s not like it’s part of some shrine I have composed of my ex made up of his fingernails and pictures of him or anything. I mean, I’m way over the whole thing. It’s been ten years. But I don’t know. Is lingerie like underwear? Does it have a shelf life? Am I supposed to buy new lingerie for a new lover? Is it creepy to still own it? I can’t tell.

I’ll figure it out, I guess, once I get my freshly laundered lingerie back into my grubby hands. Or maybe I’ll just shove it back into my sock drawer and figure it out later. I mean, by this point, it’s kinda tradition…right?

So what do you think, Toy With Me? Would you keep it or toss it? Is lingerie something that’s intended for one pair of lovers or is it something you can safely hold onto? Oh brilliant wise ones, impart your wisdom upon me!

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Post from: Toy With Me

My Ass Deserves New Lingerie

My vagina has been feeling really stressed out lately, you guys.

Maybe it’s the crush of the holiday season, maybe it’s the two periods a month it’s forced to endure, maybe it’s worried about global warming, I have no idea, but I know it’s really sad and upset and just like everybody else, it could use a little pampering.

Like, a nice steam bath perhaps.

According to a story in the L.A. Times, some Southern Californian spas are now offering a service called chai-yok—an age-old Korean practice involving sitting on a bottomless stool over  a bowl of steaming hot herbs and giving the ol’ hey-nanny-nanny a nice sauna.  It’s thought to reduce stress, fight infection, clear up hemorrhoids, fight infertility and regulate periods.

Well, sign my shit up!  I’m just dying to get rid of these roids regulate my periods and reduce stress!  I will totally go steam my clam if that’s what it takes!

It’s…beavers in the mist!

There are 14 different herbs in the pot, but mainly it’s made of wormwood and mugwort.

Mugwort has been used for ages to balance female hormones.  It is said to contain natural antibiotics and antifungal agents.  It is also supposed to stimulate the production of hormones that help maintain uterine health by preventing ulcers and tumors as well as a whole bunch of other health stuff like ease headache pain and  some other crap I’m too lazy to list.

Wormwood has been used to induce uterine contractions, treat bladder infections, fevers, sores, digestive troubles, eczema and all sorts of other annoying health issues.  I also heard it tastes like ass, but I guess if it cures your diarrhea then it’s a small price to pay.  Plus taking something that tastes like ass to cure an ass problem just seems poetic.

In this application, though, it’s not orally administered–it’s crotchally administered via vapors!  The hot steam helps circulation by bringing warmth to your twidget which stimulates circulation to the area which brings more healing, nourishing blood there.  I’m no doctor, but it’s not totally nuts to think this might work and do, well, something. When a part of my body gets hot, like when I’m sitting by a fire, or taking a hot shower, or getting spanked, it gets all red and flushed and tingly and there’s obviously a lot more blood closer to the skin.  Herbs or no herbs, this part seems totally legit.

The treatments at a spa last anywhere from 30-45 minutes and cost anywhere from $20 to $75.  I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t want to sit anywhere for that long, never mind squatting naked over a pot of soup at some spa while the people behind the curtain laugh at me for paying them $75 for the privilege, but maybe that’s just me.

I’m more of a do-it-yourself kind of girl and so I’d rather do my squatting in the privacy of my own home where the only ones judging me are my dog and possibly my cat but I suspect he really doesn’t give a shit what I do as long as the meow mix keeps on meowing.  I’m in luck, too because an at-home kit that’s supposedly available here is at bargain at only $330!!!!  Why couldn’t I have heard about this sooner?  It totally would have made my list for Santa this year!  Knowing my depraved open-minded husband he would be VERY encouraging of an activity that consists of me squatting over a bowl with no pants on.

From what I’ve read, many women in Korea do the chai-yok after their periods on a regular basis.  It’s like a whole ritual they do.  Shit, I usually just stuff my period panties back into the far reaches of my underwear drawer and bust out my sexy toys, but you know, to each her own.  It’s a cultural thing!

Some people might look at this service being offered at fancy spas as yet another way to get women to believe that their girl parts are “dirty” and that they need to dump $75 for a good cleanse, but I don’t know.  Honestly, I think “why not?”  It can’t hurt and actually, I bet it feels pretty good and kind of soothing. If there are health benefits to it beyond that, GREAT!  People blow $75 on far stupider things that are actually BAD for your health.

When I try to envision myself doing this, though, I’m pretty sure I’d feel really stupid sitting on a pot of tea and praying those roids my period leaves me be for a while.  Still, like most things, I’d try it at least once.

If you’re a dude, you need not be jealous of us ladies!  Fellas can get their chai-yok on too!  There is an identical treatment for the taint!  I totally should have gotten a gift certificate for my dad instead of the socks with little Schnauzers on them I gave him for Christmas.  “Merry Christmas dad! Go poach your bells!”

I’ve actually heard that if a dude sits with his balls in a pot of hot water, he can render himself temporarily sterile.  I don’t know if the steaming is supposed to do anything like that for guys, but I bet it feels nice and makes their nads smell like a nice cuppa tea.   Who wouldn’t want that?

Nobody wouldn’t, that’s who.

So are you guys skeptical?  Would you ever do it?  Is this right up there with labia dye, vajazzling, or any of the other things you can do to “improve” your vajeen?  Is it just another way for a patriarchal capitalistic society to cash in on women’s insecurities about their girly parts being dirty or ugly or in need of repair?  Sound off, bitches (and bastards)!

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Post from: Toy With Me

Why My Vagina Is Steaming

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According to the popular story, Lady Godiva took pity on the people of Coventry, who were suffering grievously under her husband’s oppressive taxation. Lady Godiva appealed again and again to her husband, who obstinately refused to remit the tolls. At last, weary of her entreaties, he said he would grant her request if she would strip naked and ride through the streets of the town. Lady Godiva took him at his word and, after issuing a proclamation that all persons should stay indoors and shut their windows, she rode through the town, clothed only in her long hair.

Lady Godiva had stood up for people less fortunate than her and bared all in the hope that they might find some relief of their suffering.

I had just caught a glimpse of the chicken breast out of the corner of my eye as it hurtled towards me at what seemed like a gazillion miles an hour. I was able to move oh so slightly in my best Ninja style so that it just missed me and splattered against the wall behind me. (Picture the scene from The Matrix when Keanu Reeves is dodging the bullets in slow ‘mo)

“I’M NOT FUCKING EATING IT! ARE YOU FUCKING DEAF? I AM NOT EATING ANYTHING!!”

My daughter was screaming at the top of her lungs, throwing her dinner at both my husband and myself.

In as calm a voice as I could muster I said:

“We love you and we care about you more than anything in the world. This isn’t up for negotiation. We are all going to sit at the table until you have eaten everything.”

With that she picked up her plate and overturned the contents on to the floor, put her head in her hands and began sobbing.  My husband got up for the third time that evening and prepared a fresh meal to put in front of her. I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. I had to keep calm. Meals at our house could literally go on for hours, with all three of us remaining at the table until she finally cleared her plate.

This wasn’t the first time that anorexia had paid a visit to our home.  A close friend of my daughter had begun to lose weight at a frightening pace and had begun an out patient program at the local hospital. She came by the house to visit, as she often did, and it was shocking to see this beautiful athletic girl deteriorating before us. Her eyes where sunken, her clothes hung off scrawny frame. Her hair was brittle.

She was slowly dying.

Eventually, she was admitted to the hospital where she spent more than two months. My daughter was her true friend and champion during this hellish time. She had made herself familiar with the disease, reading online about the very real dangers of anorexia.  She was practically an expert, and so were my husband I as we listened to her speak of the challenges her friend faced in getting healthy again.

As a result, we were well aware of the danger when when we started to notice small changes in our daughters eating habits. It started slowly, with slightly smaller portions. Snacks then became non existent. She started to exercise. She would read food labels relentlessly. My husband and I were absolutely terrified, and thus  began a journey of many months that I would not wish on anyone.

It was an all encompassing hell.

Nothing can prepare you for the fear that comes with having a loved one that is battling an eating disorder. It is the first thing that you think about when you wake up, and it is the last thing that you think about when you lay your reeling head upon your pillow at night for what is sure to be a restless sleep. Without a doubt, it was the most difficult thing I have ever had to experience in my life.

I can only imagine what it was like for my daughter.

After many nights of dodging plates of food that were hurled my way, and after all of the tears and the hurt and the pain and the hugs, my sweet gorgeous daughter is OK. We may have been battered and scarred, but we all came out the other side intact. Through facing the monster that is anorexia together, we have become well aware of the pain, fear and despair that accompanies an eating disorder.

And this my friends is the reason I am posing naked. On a horse, like Lady Godiva.

An amazing, brave group of bloggers have come together to bare all in a calender in order to raise money and awareness for the National Eating Disorders Association. I am thrilled to be participating along with Jenny Lawson (The Bloggess), Tanis Miller (Attack of The Redneck Mommy), Mary McCarthy (Pajamas and Coffee) and many more.

Guys, this is a great cause, so please head over to Blogger Body Calender for a sneak peek and purchase one today.

Love,

Sandy

Post from: Toy With Me

Why I’m Posing Naked. On A Horse

I found it ironic to be sitting in my plastic surgeon’s office, outraged by the Marie Claire article that had the rest of the  blog world in a tizzy last week. As I explained last week, I was at the surgeon’s office for reasons that were probably more socially acceptable than those of the of the stereotypical spray-tanned, vain, bleached-blond plastic housewife, but still, it was there that I sat, jaw dropped down to the tasteful Oriental Rug when I read the article published by some incredibly thoughtless blogger over at Marie Claire. The title alone was enough to send me over the top: “Should Fatties Get A Room? (Even on TV?)”

Now, I’m not going to address the article itself, except to say that it was written by a vapid, shallow bully of a girl who should have considered for three seconds that her words – misspelled and poorly written as they were – could be considered hurtful. Marie Claire, you will never see a dime of my money again for allowing such a trite and disgusting piece of garbage to go to press. And as for the blogger, girl best be watching her back because she’s going to have an army of people hunt her ass down and pelt her with donuts. And bacon. While making out. Who wants to join me?

Anyway. That’s not what I’m interested in addressing because the writer will reap just what she’s sown without any help from Your Aunt Becky and Marie Claire magazine is run by a bunch of morons looking for page views to make up for lackluster magazine sales. Instead, I’d like to talk about body image. In her infamous article, Maura Kelly states:

…I think I’d be grossed out if I had to watch two characters with rolls and rolls of fat kissing each other … because I’d be grossed out if I had to watch them doing anything. To be brutally honest, even in real life, I find it aesthetically displeasing to watch a very, very fat person simply walk across a room — just like I’d find it distressing if I saw a very drunk person stumbling across a bar or a heroine [sic] addict slumping in a chair.

Three times in my life, I have become hideously overweight. These time have neatly coincided with the three times I’ve gestated my crotch parasites. There’s something about the presence of hCG (human chorionic gonadotropin) in my body that makes my metabolism believe that we’ve suddenly hit a famine. I could probably eliminate the middle-man entirely and shove whatever I’m eating onto my ass, because it’ll end up there anyway. It’s unfortunate, because whether or not I’m overeating, it appears as though I’ve sat down and become the very bestest of friends with Little Debbie.

What makes this even harder is that I cannot lose an ounce until at least year after I’ve expelled the baby from my body. It’s not a simple matter of “eating more fiber” or “working out more frequently” because trust me, I’ve tried. I’m completely aware how one goes about losing weight. I’ve tried every fad diet during that year that I can think of, and still, with the maximum effort put forth, the scale barely budges. I just can’t begin to properly lose weight until my kid turns a year old. My body seems to be on the lookout for any roaming fetuses that might need an extra couple of calories. Off my ass.

As flip as I can be about it now, for that whole year, I live my life in someone else’s skin. I cannot even begin to explain how grossly uncomfortable it is to be me. Every single moment – every single moment – of that whole year, I spend thinking about how much I hate how I look. How gross I feel. How much I hate being fat.

Buying clothes, something I normally consider full of the awesome, I refuse to do, because really, who wants to buy clothes in a size you won’t remain? Or worse, who wants to admit what size you really are? So I don’t buy clothes at all. Instead, I sit around in ugly clothes that I’ve worn out. Clothes that I hate. Clothes that make me feel ugly. It’s like I’m torturing myself for being overweight.

Going out in public is a unique sort of masochism, because you know what happens when you’re fat? People treat you differently. Ask anyone who has ever been fat and I’m certain that they will tell you the same thing. After gaining and losing the same-ish amount of weight three times now, I can tell you with absolute certainty that people are far kinder to thin people. They’ll hold doors for you, greet you hello, and meet your eyes, and smile kindly at you…if you’re thin.

When you’re fat, you’re mostly ignored. People won’t meet your eye, smile hello or hold the door for you. You’re ignored when you’re large…unless you’re at the grocery store, when watchful eyes of strangers ogle your cart, checking to see if maybe the reason you’re so fat lies there. Maybe you’re fat because you’re filling your cart with butter and cupcakes and bacon and Twinkies. When they never found my cart filled with that sort of crap, I simply went back to being ignored. Which was worse: I was the invisible fat woman.

I’m nearing the end of my weight loss now. I’m no longer very overweight. I have fifteen-ish pounds to lose before I’ll hit the “I’m Content Zone” and if I lose more than that, well, fuck to the yeah. If I don’t, I’ll still be happy. My daughter is a year and a half and until I have my Love Child, I’m done with babies, which means that I won’t gain such a large amount of weight again.

I’m sorry that the writer of that hateful article doesn’t know that true beauty, the stuff that really matters, that’s not on the outside. I wish that I’d remembered to be kinder to myself while I struggled to lose the baby weight. If anything, I can see that it’s made me a better, more compassionate person. While I may have been initially outraged by the article, I’m saddened that Maura Kelly cannot see what I do: we are all beautiful as we are. Rolls and all.

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Post from: Toy With Me

When You’re Fat, You’re Mostly Ignored

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“So anyway, yes, I think I’d be grossed out if I had to watch two characters with rolls and rolls of fat kissing each other … because I’d be grossed out if I had to watch them doing anything. To be brutally honest, even in real life, I find it aesthetically displeasing to watch a very, very fat person simply walk across a room — just like I’d find it distressing if I saw a very drunk person stumbling across a bar or a heroine addict slumping in a chair. “

Where do you think that this came from? A forum for teens where the posting got out of hand? A backwater redneck blog with no sense of shame?

Nope. It was written by Maura Kelly on the popular Marie Claire magazine site. The writer was opining that she shouldn’t have to have the displeasure of watching overweight people show affection to each other on TV. Some of her commentary is so outrageous that I have to think that this is just a manufactured bit of drama designed to attract attention and links from throughout the blogosphere. Twitter is absolutely abuzz with Tweets ripping the editors at Marie Claire, a new one.

As someone who has witnessed the devastation of an eating disorder firsthand,  I am disgusted that Marie Claire would stoop so low as to perpetuate body shaming  for the sake of a spike in traffic.  Comparing a fat person with a drunk person stumbling around a bar?  Comparing them to a heroin addict?  Were the editors three sheets to the wind drunk when they posted this shit?

Let’s try this. Let’s replace any reference to fat people in the above paragraph with black and see how it reads shall we?

“So anyway, yes, I think I’d be grossed out if I had to watch two black people kissing each other … because I’d be grossed out if I had to watch them doing anything. To be brutally honest, even in real life, I find it aesthetically displeasing to watch any black person simply walk across a room — just like I’d find it distressing if I saw a very drunk person stumbling across a bar or a heroine addict slumping in a chair. “

Listen up Maura. If you don’t like the sight of two fat people kissing other, change the fucking channel to Americas Next Top Model or Dancing With The Stars. While you roll around in that cesspool of popular culture you can be sure you will be spared the horror of  fat people gracing your screen.

Oh, and Maura? Kiss my fat ass.

**UPDATE**

Since the posting of this article the author of  Marie Claire’s post today, Maura Kelly, has responded to the outrage with a formal apology.

“I would really like to apologize for the insensitive things I’ve said in this post. Believe it or not, I never wanted anyone to feel bullied or ashamed after reading this, and I sorely regret that it upset people so much. A lot of what I said was unnecessary; it wasn’t productive, either.

I know a lot of people truly struggle to lose weight— for medical and psychological reasons—and that many people have an incredibly difficult time getting to a healthy size. I feel for those people and I’m truly sorry I added to the unhappiness and pain they feel with my post.”

Fellow blogger Jamie Varon also posted a response to Marie Claire’s article.

The As You Are Campaign – Be Better.  Be The Change, Not The Problem!

Post from: Toy With Me

Marie Claire Magazine And The “Fatties”

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As I sat at the wedding for one of my oldest male friends last night, surrounded by old friends, and talking to a former exotic dancer, I realized all of the things that I’ve learned from strippers over the years. Which is probably not the weirdest thing that I’ve ever typed, but close.

I’ve been casual friends with a number of strippers for years. Before I was Your Aunt Becky, I was Student Nurse Becky, and as Student Nurse Becky, I had to pay the bills somehow. My chosen profession was serving food and slinging drinks, both professions that also have a high percentage of exotic dancers as employees as well.

Almost immediately after I’d popped Crotch Parasite Number One out of my vagina, I waddled back to work a single mother so that I could pay for diapers and assorted baby things and it was there that I met my first exotic dancer, who I will call Susie, because I think it was her name. Susie wasn’t an overly bright girl, but one of the first things she said to me after we’d met was that I should consider ditching the crappy pizza place where we both worked on weekends and coming to work with her over at the strip club down the road.

Now some of you may be nodding your heads vigorously and saying, ‘GOOD IDEA, SUSIE,’ but you have to remember that at this particular juncture, I looked approximately like the Michelin Man in both size and shape. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, because you live under a rock and haven’t seen the commercials of the Stay Puft Marshmallow tire guy, picture Grimace. Or an Oompa Loompa. I’d just birthed a baby, was a newly single mother and pregnancy doesn’t tend to leave me in a resplendent glowing state of post-partum beauty. I felt as attractive as a rancid sack of turkey giblets.

Plus, I’m the very same person who broke a door while carrying a Diet Coke (it WAS a 32 ouncer, but still) and a toe while making a sandwich, so the complex moves required to slide myself up and down a pole would leave me paralyzed for life. Hell, I couldn’t even participate in a step aerobics class without thoroughly embarrassing myself because I’m always the asshole in the back that’s at least thirty moves behind the rest of the class. Or still doing Jazzercize.

So the very notion that I could shake my wobbly, gibblity money-maker on a stage and not make people vomit or howl with laughter was something that brought me no end of amusement. But Susie was persistent, which endeared her to me tremendously. Every time her boss from the strip joint came in to visit her, she made a point to introduce me to him as, “this is the girl I was TELLING you about!” And every time I shook his hand and tried to indicate that I wasn’t interested, thank you very much, but thanks anyway, as he eyed me up and down, appraising my stripper value.

Soon, Susie quit or got fired for being a lousy waitress, but I never forgot her and her absolute certainty that at my grossest and heaviest I, too, could get men to pay me to take off my clothes. In a world that there really is a fetish for everything, that girl was probably right. Learning to be comfortable in our own skin is probably the most important lesson that any exotic dancer can teach the rest of us, and I’ll always be grateful for Susie for reminding me that even though I felt like a stuffed sausage, I was beautiful. Just as I was.

I should never forget that I am beautiful. We are all beautiful. Thank you, Susie. My therapist may even laughingly describe me as “brash” but in this I am being entirely honest: we should all remember that we are beautiful just as we are, not as we think we should be. I’m a master of saying to myself, “Oh, I’ll be happier with myself when I’m X amount of pounds thinner,” but really, Susie is right: we’re all beautiful just as we are. We should flaunt the shit out of it, hold our heads tall and proud and remember that. Strippers do. Why the hell don’t you?

Last night, at the wedding, over drinks, I met another exotic dancer whom I adored instantly. There’s a confidence about a stripper that’s always exuded because that’s part of having sex appeal: being completely confident. Walking confidently, acting confidently, and knowing that how you use your eyes to get what you want. You’re certainly not going to make any money by standing on the sidelines and letting all of the other girls do the work, and really, that’s the way life works, too. Opportunities don’t always just present themselves to you in a neatly wrapped package. Sometimes, you have to go out and hustle your ass off to make even the most marginal opportunity appear.

That’s another one of those lessons I picked up awhile ago. Confidence is beyond sexy. Even if you have to fake it until you make it, the dancers know that there’s something about a confidant sexy woman that gets your engine going every time. Because even when you start out faking it, eventually, you’ll start to feel it. Exuding confidence will get you everywhere in life.

I don’t see myself ever taking up Susie’s offer to become an exotic dancer anywhere. Not because I wouldn’t get a kick out of it for a week or two, but because I seriously doubt I’d ever be able to learn any of the moves. Or if I did, I’d end up in traction somewhere, and while I do love pain meds, I don’t particularly want to crap in a diaper for the rest of my life. But it’s a job that takes balls and confidence, and it’s a job that I respect. Thanks, Susie, wherever you are, for reminding me way back when that I was beautiful. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear it until later.

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Post from: Toy With Me

Life Lessons From Strippers

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I stopped reading beauty magazines a couple of years ago when I realized a couple of things. First, I always walked away from them feeling kind of bad about myself. I mean, I’m not a size zero and while I have been described as “hauntingly beautiful,” it’s usually as a joke. Secondly, I can never afford anything they’re advertising inside, so if I happen to fixate on something, which, trust me Toy-With-Me-ers, happens pretty much any time I do anything, ever, I get all misty-eyed and despondent, because, no, actually, I cannot afford a six-thousand dollar purse and next to it, the two-hundred dollar knock-off looks cheap and crappy. My hopes of somehow become an heiress at age thirty are rather dismal, and while I’m still hoping to be swooped up by some millionaire, it’s probably not going to happen. PROBABLY. MUCH. MAYBE. I DON’T KNOW.

Let’s just say, if you’re a multi-millionaire and you’re reading this and you find me charming, GO AHEAD AND EMAIL ME. bats eyelashes

Part C, the nail in the coffin for these “magazines for women” is that they’re really all about “pleasing your man.” Which, okay, I mean sometimes it’s helpful to get some blow job advice, but frankly, any man I’m with should be so lucky to be with me that he should be figuring out how to please ME. I don’t need advice month after ever-loving month about how I am supposed to give him a better orgasm. Because, hi, what about MY fucking orgasm? And what if I’m gay and don’t have a man to please?

Anyway. I’ll stop myself now before my head explodes into a pulpy mass onto my computer screen.

In my whole “stomping away from beauty magazines because they’re blatantly sexist” thing, I’d forgotten the one key thing that the beauty magazines I’d read when I was a teenager taught me: when you look good, you feel good.

See, Toy With Me-ers, it’s been a long time since I had to bother trying to look good. In the past couple of years, I’ve popped out two crotch parasites and now I stay home with them. Maternity chic gave way to nursing mother chic (if I never see another v-neck shirt, I will be happy) which gave way to *sniff sniff, is this clean? chic. And what I do for work can be done butt-naked, wearing a sarong, or a gorilla suit in any location, anywhere, providing that I have internet access at some point, so dressing nicely has never, ever mattered. The three people who see me on a regular basis don’t even care if I have legs, let alone if I’m wearing a full face of makeup.

So I let myself go.

Not in the I-dove-headfirst-into-a-box-of-Little-Debbie’s, because that’s not my thing, but while I’ve been sloooooowly removing the baby weight, I really haven’t bothered to do the things that make me feel good about being, well, me. Where my children have always had shiny new clothes, I’ve made do with the ratty-ass things I had in my closet, not because I don’t love clothes—I do—but because I didn’t want to spend money on buying anything in a size I didn’t want to be. That’s a vicious cycle right there. You look bad, so you feel bad, rinse repeat.

Like half of the internet, including Toy With Me (woohoo!), Your Aunt Becky is going to that great big conference, BlogHer, in New York City on Thursday. I’m even speaking there, if you can believe it (everyone say it with me now, “poor, POOR, BlogHer”). When I realized that I’d be not only meeting friends who’d lived entirely in the computer before but in front of people who would probably snort at the gigantic holes in my clothes, I realized that something had to be done. Something…drastic.

I had to start taking care of myself, even if I wasn’t precisely the same level of dead sexiness I’d wanted to be. So I did. I went shopping, didn’t actually gasp when I saw the numbers on the pants (!!) and began to try on some clothes. While I may have been aghast at the resurgence of 80′s fashions, a funny thing happened as I swiped my credit card again and again (besides the credit card companies rubbing their hands together greedily): I began to feel…good.

Certainly, many of the things I would have liked to have bought didn’t fit properly (but when DOES it, really, now?), but as I walked from store to store, I wasn’t…weeping. In fact, I felt better than I had in months. With every sparkly thing I acquired, I felt, well, PRETTIER. Could the beauty magazines that I had forsaken been right? I almost didn’t believe it until I went home and twirled in front of the mirror in my new duds. I wasn’t exactly singing, “I Feel Preeetttyy!” but it would probably take a frontal lobotomy for that to occur. Thank God.

It dawned on me, as I’ve been trying to make sure that The Good People of the Internet do not think that I merely crawled out of a hole in the ground like a mole person, that all of those times I picked up an extra SOMETHING for my kid, I could have been doing something nice for myself instead. I’d appreciate it a hell of a lot more than they do. And from now on, I’ll be doing just that, because as soon as I realized how much better I felt when I didn’t dress like a hobo, I went through my closet and threw away everything that either didn’t fit, made me look like an ugly misshapen lump of oatmeal, or was holey (and not like a priest).

I’ll probably never be one of those people in the grocery store at eight in the morning with a full face of makeup mostly because I’d rather chew off my own toenails than go to the grocery store at eight in the morning, but from now on, I’ve got to remember that occasionally, beauty magazines might have something to offer me. Besides how to tantalize my man in bed. Because trust me, Cosmo could learn a thing or two from me.

So what do you think, Toy With Me-ers? Are you good about taking care of yourself? Am I an ignorant slut for ignoring myself for so long, or, you know, just an ignorant slut? Have you noticed that you feel better when you look better?

Post from: Toy With Me

When You Look Good, You Feel Great

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From now on Toy with Mes, I would prefer to be known as Crissy, Sparkly Crotch, Queen of Everything because, yes.  Yes indeed.

1) Because I look excellent in glitter.

B) I feel so plain and ugly after all the stuff I’ve been reading about vaginal improvement lately.  I’d like to gentrify my vagina, please!

Seriously, there’s a ton of stuff you can do to turn your plain old everyday crotchals into a glory to behold!  And I’m not talking about the usual stuff like shaving, dying your pubes, waxing, etc.  I’m not even talking about Vajazzling.

Which I tried, by the way.

It’s okay, I guess. I did mine at home with a sheet of stick on earrings I bought for $1 because I’m thrifty like that.  (Side note: you wouldn’t believe the number of hits I get on that picture!)

But now I see that Vajazzling is for amateurs and college co-eds looking to seduce innocent young men into their beds (seriously, follow that link. It’s fucked up) because now there’s CLITTER! That’s right peoples, it’s glitter for your clit.

Say it: Clitter! It’s fun to say, right?

I have many, many concerns about this (itching, scratchyness, glitter sticking to the boy’s face during, ahem, you-know-what, etc.) but first, I have a joke to tell you. Skim through it if you’ve heard this one:

A busy mom is rushing through her morning when she remembers that she has a gynecologist appointment that day. Caught at the last minute and un-cleansed, she runs to the bathroom and grabs a facecloth that was sitting on the vanity. She mops off, pulls her pants back up, runs to the gyney, and assumes the position. The doctor comes in, takes one look at her crotch and says “my, we’ve certainly put our best foot forward this morning, haven’t we?” The woman thought this was a little weird, but she takes the complement because it’s not every day an expert is all like “hey, nice cunt!”, and she moves on with her day.

Later that evening, her daughter shouts to her from the bathroom “where’s the facecloth that was here?” She replies, “it’s in the hamper! Why?” to which the daughter answers “because it has all my sparkles and glitter in it.”

UGH!

Sparklycrotch.

I need this in my life! But if I try it, I’m totally not taking a picture and showing it to you because I have rules about showing my goodies on the Internets. No matter how much you beg, I’m not gonna do it.  Believe me, my husband’s photography hobby insures I get a lot of requests but I ain’t budgin’.

All kidding aside though, there’s some really sad stuff people are doing to their lady business and I think we need to become activists to stop it. Vagina Activists. Vagactivists.

While many of us ladies get to be nasty whores with disco crotches, there are some poor girls out there who still live in the dark ages where a woman’s virginity is pretty much her greatest asset when it comes to attracting a husband.  Sure, the boys will have sex with them, but they won’t marry them because they’re not virgins!

These poor ladies are so worried about the status of their hymens, even if they don’t have one due to using tampons or riding a tricycle when they’re three, that they undergo a hymenoplasty , also called revirgination.   They actually either reconstruct the existing hymen, or they sew some fake shit on there.  They call it “biomaterial” but I bet it’s dead guy skin.  EW!  EW! EW!  Also, OW.  I’ve had my lady business sewed up twice now after having babies, and I’m here to tell you, it fucking hurts.

Poor girls.

And then of course there’s the equally horrifying Vaginal Rejuvenation, which we’ve all heard about.  I’ve never actually spent time studying the aesthetics of my twidget because I don’t really care. Also, the mirror angle is awkward and I’m just too lazy.  Besides,  I have never met a guy who would turn down a girl because her labia were floppy or whatever. They’d possibly go and snicker about it to their friends later: “dude, you should have seen the wizard cuffs on that chick! I think her real name is Gandolf! Hahahahaha!” but most guys I know are so happy to be granted access in the first place they don’t care! So it’s just one more thing for us gals to be all in a kerfuffle about.

I’ll admit it–after reading about how surgery like this is on the rise, I went insane for about thirty seconds and I took a look at my parts in the mirror and wondered if maybe they were substandard in some way.  I blame porn, mostly because I like to blame confused sluts for all kinds of things, but also because they makeup, airbrush, photoshop, etc. all the pussy pictures just like they do for the pictures in any magazine, and so everyone thinks that’s what a hot twat is supposed to look like.  Realism isn’t high on the list of priorities.

I’d also like to blame the surgeons who perform the surgery for going along with it. I mean, I guess I can see doing it if there’s a medical reason for it, like if you’re having back problems or if you’re tripping over your labia or accidentally sucking in small animals and children or something, but that’s it.

For most of us, this surgery is silly and unnecessary and VAIN AS THE DAY IS LONG.

So I guess my Vagina Gentrification Project will be limited to stuff I can find in my daughter’s craft basket; it’s cheaper and a whole lot less painful than a full-on pussylift.

Now where did she put that tube of glitter…?

Post from: Toy With Me

The Vagina Gentrification Project

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I’m a 37-year-old Caucasian female with mild asthma and breast implants. “Sedentary” isn’t a word that comes to mind when I describe my lifestyle. My adventures have taken me around the world and to over 19,000 feet above sea level via my own two feet. I’m a track and road cyclist, rock/ice/alpine climber, trail runner and a former competitive bodybuilder. As the owner of my own small yet rapidly growing business, I carry my own health insurance and have since 2007.

If I applied for new health coverage today, I’d be uninsurable. This, I know – because I tried.

Back in July of 2009, a simple accident resulted in a shattered tibia/fibula in my left ankle, netting me eight screws, one plate and six excruciating weeks on a pair of crutches. Apparently, this is a “major surgery” and the Percocet they prescribed me for pain management following surgery is “serious medication.” I slipped, fell and now…I’m uninsurable as a result of these two things as well “asthma.” Mind you, the asthma was disclosed on my initial health care application and they still insured me (with an approximate 20% upcharge for associated risk).

Denial based on breast implants, major surgery, serious medication and asthma.

As we’re approaching an era where a national health care option for the United States is possible, I’m stepping back this week to say I’m sick and tired of the bickering. I bust my ass to grow my business and the reward I get for making a go of it on my own is a health care and self-employment tax penalty.

And I think it’s horse shit.

Before I share my list of requests from the government in this country I’m proud to call home, here’s a preemptive strike: I understand there are those who do not have health insurance. I get it that “I should be thankful for what I have” and all that jazz. For all that’s holy, I’m not asking for sexual favors as part of my health care plan. What I’m asking for is for my government to start acting like a business and less like a collective bunch of Yes Men and listen to the American public.

If you’re a regular reader of Dear Redhead (and I thank you), you may find some of my views surprising considering I’m a supporter of same-sex marriage, the abolition of DADT and the right to choose. I think it’s pathetic that we can raise millions of dollars for earthquake relief in third world countries yet if asked to donate the same amount of money to lessen the federal deficit we’d roll our eyes and offer a staunch “hell no.” These are odd times in which we live and I feel our priorities as a nation have skewed so that we can’t see the forest for the trees.

Enough of the New Coke Healthcare Campaign

Remember back in the mid-80s when Coca-Cola decided that it wasn’t good enough? It released New Coke. They slammed the campaign through, kinda like Pepsi Clear. That’s what my government is doing with healthcare reform. You’re slamming a campaign through to fix something that people say needs fixing. I’m not arguing with the need for a “fix.” But what I don’t need is a syrupy-sweet placebo that’s going to be rushed and ill conceived because you have people screaming for answers. Sit down. Map a course. Think like a corporation. Understand the costs, ramifications and disclose your plan to your shareholders: the American public. I an still unclear as to what’s going to come down the pipe funded by my tax dollars if this reform bill should pass. I’m terrified that what’s coming is another AdWeek headline about a failed advertising campaign instead of an actual operable and sound solution set for the health care issues that my friends and I face. Lord knows, it took years upon years for the health care industry to become as corrupt and exclusive as it is today – how do you dare tell the American public that it’s something to be remedied in the first 18 months of a new Presidential administration?

Put the Human Back in Health Care

I go to see doctors for care, not an automated underwriting system. I am a healthy, childless female with great cholesterol results, CBC testing that gives no pause and athletic ability that allows me to aggressively pursue whatever I determine is my adventure-du-jour. I do not have asthma attacks and my boobs – saline-filled though they may be – are not a health risk. When I apply for a life insurance policy, I have to undertake a physical exam to qualify. If a doctor were to examine ME and not a computer-generated application, I’d be the ideal health insurance candidate. Active, low-risk, healthy diet, low to no risk factors.

But what a computer looks at is “triggers.”

Stop looking at me as an excuse to deny coverage and put the “human” back in health care. The message you’re sending me (and many other Americans) is that by forging our own way in our nation’s economy, we’re less worthy of care than those protected by a corporate umbrella where risk can be shared. You’re telling me that the life I’ve chosen for myself, one that’s active and healthy, is less insurable than the morbidly obese corporate lackey by nature of association. I don’t buy it. I understand that insurance companies are not charities and pre-existing conditions all have an associated risk. I want options for health care that allow for me to be considered as a person, not an application to be flagged by computer for probable denial.

Treat My Business Like Big Business

My entire life has been a collection of work, trials, successes and tribulations, culminating in the incredible place I exist in today as a small business owner. Where others are struggling, I’m breaking down walls and seeking alliances in order to expand my business. Yet I am a company of ONE. If I walked into an ad agency today and accepted a position as a W2 employee, my health care concerns would be silenced as I’d have the entire company to absorb whatever risk I pose with my saltwater boobs and asthma that lets me train to race bicycles and climb Mt. Kilimanjaro without the use of an inhaler.

I want my government to begin rewarding small business owners with the greatest gift possible: equal opportunity. Stop hitting me with a self-employment tax and telling me my “group of one” poses too much risk for me to get better healthcare. Especially if I’m willing to pay for it. I find it astonishing that my current insurance provider, Kaiser Perm, will continue to insure me (and raise my rates) on my current plan but will not allow me to pay $50-$75/month for a better plan because I had crap luck and took a fall down a few stairs. And no – my breast implants did not cause me to be “top heavy” and cause the fall and I was breathing fine at the time, I’m confident.

Offer Me Options, Not Ultimatums

As it currently stands, the healthcare reform bill is a pass/fail measure. Back to my point of running healthcare reforms like a slick (headed for failure) ad campaign, stop trying to shove the entire Thanksgiving turkey down your throat in one bite. Or rather, down MY throat.

If you offered the American public and their Congressional affiliates bite-sized options instead of a “take all you want but eat all you take” approach, we might offer you a bit more buy in. The current dictatorial healthcare buffet does one thing and one thing only: divides this nation – the nation that elected you. Take steps. Healthcare was broken before Obama landed in office. It’s likely to be broken for a fair time to come. Those in Canada, the UK and Cuba (nations with socialized or subsidized medicine) still have those who attest their health care is broken in places. We’ll never have a plan that pleases everyone, so stop acting like Yes Men and put on your strategic marketing hats. Think in healthcare morsels.

Who is the target beneficiary? What will it provide them? Who will it NOT serve? What are the pros and cons?

Tell us. We’re listening. We’re not idiots. We want explanations. We’re smart enough to determine if those explanations are answers for our particular situations.

So, there you have it: four simple demands from a demanding redhead in Denver, Colorado. My health insurance premiums are paid-up and I just had a voluntary follow-up with my orthopedic surgeon who was astounded at my strength, activity level and range of motion in my left ankle. And I’ll also add that he was appalled when I told him Kaiser denied my insurance application for a better plan citing “major surgery” and “serious medication.” I believe his exact quote was, “It was an accident!”

Yes. Yes, it was. And if we’re not careful, we’re headed for an even bigger accident with healthcare in this country. But it won’t be an accident. It will be very deliberate.

Post from: Toy With Me

The Redhead Healthcare Manifesto

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