testosterone pageant

It was the testosterone equivalent of a beauty pageant.

They flaunt their machismo.

Before there were really musical instruments, men would sing and dance to show their strength and sex appeal to attract the ladies.

Their peacock tail feathers in full display.

Who was the fairest of them all?!?!?

Now we've got men in panties, flexing their muscles, along with their mouths.

Flaunting their machismo, winning the hearts of boys and girls all over the world.

They have different levels of belts, so they work their way up to the tiara and catwalk strut with roses.

Walking down the aisle to the ring with their fashion advisory's suggestion for costumes, you know they practised their own 'walk' in front of the mirror, just like the pageant contestants.

I saw a man in panties with a t-shirt that was provocatively covering his man bits.

At first glance, I thought he was wearing no pants, and thought I might be triggered.

I guess it's the equivalent of the high side slit with low cleavage.

Where the women stand with their duck faces in a form line, these guys flip around their hair, furrow their brows and throw their fists in the air for the most ultimate of bravado possible.

It's really no different.

Testosterone pageant.

So, when I look at it that way, it was a little easier to watch the 'show' of wrestling with Papi when I'd finished my practise for the day.

The production was brilliant for it's purpose.

They have quite the choreography.

I'm sure there's a lot of man stink up in that ring, even though there is NO body hair to be found.

I wonder how many are actually gay?

I'd love to know.  They stuff their heads in men's crotches on a regular basis.

Just like when the women lose their outfits and don their swim suits, they strip down from their cloaks and bare their skin, pointing their sinewy breasts toward the camera.

There's even a panel like judges.

They are there to give commentary, perfectly groomed to be sure that when the camera is on them, they are just as primed as the contestants.

They definitely are contestants.

Who's going to win the crown?!?!

Just like working your way up to Miss 'enter your city here', you get your banner with 1st, 2nd, 3rd Princess and of course, Miss Congeniality.

Which I'm sure are the announcers.

"He is very upset."

Thank you for clearing that up for me.

I was a little confused, because they were beating each other.

Are you sure they're upset?

"The 400 pounder, like a junkyard dog."

Yup.  The guy is big and he won his belt.

Banner.  Tiara and roses.

Oh, then there were the 7 on 7 women.

I don't have to much to say about that, because I was too busy watching them.

I remember a few Vancouver nights with my 'rough around the edges friends' that looked something like that.

How many times do some of these girls pop their silicone?!?!!

At least these girls eat and take care of their bodies.

It's much nicer to see than the anorexia fueled ritual.

It gave me permission to eat more last night.

This battle with the Anorexia Monster is heavy on my mind.

From now on, when someone from this country tells me I am fat, I'll just put on my SuperGirl Panties and tell them I'm a wrestler.

It's kinda true, only I wrestle The 6-Pack.

And sometimes Papi.

i build lean muscle and i burn fat

only happy when it rains

Everything is in Dominican Time here.

Including my healing.

But my steps are getting stronger, and yesterday, I made my first home cooked meal in 3 months.

Nothing special.

Canned diced tomatoes stewed with onions, garlic and red pepper, over top quinoa.

These past few months of the Papi diet, aka: eating wheat and sugar every day, have taken a toll on Bubble Girl.

My food allergies definitely add to my chemical imbalance.

My obsessing and anxiety are out of control.

Non-stop.

A lovely Blogger Friend, and amazing writer at Lesbians In My Soup!, really got the essence of what I was trying to say yesterday.

I'm only happy when I have something to bitch about.

I bitch about anything.

Everything.

So, when I'm happy about something, you really know it's genuine.

I'm generally a happy person, and on a regular basis, I catch myself off guard thinking to myself, "I really love my life," but I was brought up to bitch and complain.

It's the way I remember my family as a child.

I think the reason the waves have made me crazy, is because I haven't had enough of anything else to focus on.

Lying around like a bloated manatee will do that to me.

I'm not very good at staying still.

I'm also not very sane when you take music away from me.

It's my meditation.

I also need regular exercise to release the endorphins that help me stay on top of my mood swings and eating disorder.

All of a sudden, as I was making healthy food yesterday, followed by playing my piano, I realized I didn't hear those waves all too often.

The white noise disappeared with the crackle of onions and garlic sauteing in my cast iron pan.

The action of cooking drowned out the drone.

Playing my piano, doing my best to memorize lyrics to the 3 Spanish songs I know, really took me away from everything.

Hell, I didn't even hear The 6-pack barking.

And I know THAT never ceases.

So, moral of my story is, this has been a tortuous 3 months with this ankle from hell.

But I'm making healthier meals as of yesterday.

I'm playing my piano as of this week.

I'm taking baby steps without my crutches.

I even started teaching as of Friday that just passed.

No, I am NOT good at sitting still.

This I know.

Maybe now that I'm literally getting back up on my feet and eating healthier I'll stop obsessing as well.

That would be nice.

I can only handle one obsession at a time.

It's time to search for my SuperGirl Panties again.

I know they're in here somewhere.

I suppose I'll have to do the laundry to find them.

I also need a little more music, healthy foods and some gentle, seated yoga.

That should bring me closer to them.

developing healthy eating habits becomes easier every day

just a weed

The other night, when I went against doctor's orders and went out for dinner, I spoke to the DJ.

We'd become friends with him on a night that Papi had 'a tad' to drink and the DJ put Papi on bell duty to keep his drunk ass busy.

His job was to ring the bell when something good happened in the pay-per-view fight that evening.

Anyway, the other night, he sat with us and I asked him if he'd like to listen to my music.

Papi gets so damn embarrassed when I self-promote, but if I don't do it, who will?

I suppose my last CD could sit up in a drawer forever, never to be shared with anyone, but that just doesn't seem right.

So, Papi begged me not to do it and I had to ask, with all honesty, "Is it because it's not good enough?"

I would hate to embarrass myself by asking someone to listen to my music if it sucked.

He was adamant that this was not the case.  That it was that my music isn't Dominican.

Ummm ... the DJ plays Bon Jovi and Eagles.

Not sure what that is about people being uncomfortable with me self-promoting.

I'm sure if I had someone promoting me like Britney Spears, I would be on top of the music chain as well.  It's all about promotion.

If I'm not doing it, it won't get done.

Years ago, in another life, I had a best friend that was a big support of my music, but she, too, was embarrassed when I would self-promote.

Once, I put on my SuperGirl Panties and gave my music to Jann Arden.  It went really well chatting with her, and afterward my ex-bestie said, "OK.  I won't ever say not to do that again."

Well, the other night, after the DJ listened to it, he had every person who worked there listening to it, including the manager, who said, "Can you play here live?"

Of course I can, but I don't have Drummer Boy with me.

He's back in Canada.

So, now I'll have to find someone here to be his surrogate.

That kinda sucks, because Drummer Boy was the meat to my potatoes.

Anyway, people liked it and I've been asked to bring by CDs.  Of course, a lot will be given for free, because people in this country just can't afford to buy music.

I'll buy theirs though.  Or swap my CD for their CD.

I know how hard it is to get money out of people for your art.

Kinda the same as, I always tip well, because I know what it's like to be a waitress, work really hard to please the customer, then get a buck outta some cheap asshole who had a $50 meal.

Whole point is, there's that saying from Susan Jeffers, 'Feel the fear and do it anyway' that I adopted after my motorcycle accident.

Somewhere along the way, I forgot that we only have a short time on this planet.

That we better fucking be happy and take those chances, because someone can come along in a little red Toyota and wipe us off the planet with one bang to our motorcycle.

When did I lose that feeling of living without fear?

Perhaps I got insecure from the change of moving here and fell back to old ways.

Fear.

A lovely Blogger Friend reminded me the other day, that those who dumped me didn't win.

He reminded me that I am better than that thought.

They were just weeded out of my veggie garden so that they didn't squish out the other healthy plants that are meant to be there.

It's time to plant some new seeds.

i show compassion in helping my loved ones understand my dreams