So...What's It Like Down There?

I consider myself a fairly reasonable gal when it comes to fashion. I won't part with an obscene amount of money for the "perfect" pair of jeans. I refuse to freeze my ass off for sake of looking cute. I'm older and wiser now. But there is a part of me that simply cannot conform when it comes to shoes. In my humble opinion there is nothing flattering about flats. I hate them. To put it bluntly: I was born in heels. This Bug happens to have a mean shoe game. I'm not sure when it happened exactly but it's been the case for some time. I am deceptively short. But I walk around in 4 inch heels 70% of the time. So much so- that when I am seen in sneakers or Tims, most people who think they really know me often marvel at my actual height.


I do just about everything in heels. 3 and 1/2 inches or better. To the right is an actual photo of me changing a fuse for my niece quite comfortably in a pair of my signature stilettos.

Well lately I've been reconsidering flats for practical reasons. I stood for the better part of five hours in my trademark stilts the other day and was cursing the day I ever put them on. Why I was standing for that long is another entry. Anyway, I started kicking the idea of flats around. But there's only one problem. They suck. My friend suggested I take baby steps. A kitten heel. A kitten heel? Are you fuckin' kidding me? Unsexy.



How hideous is that shit? What is the point? I just can't do it. So I might as well step all the way down to those ballet slippery thingees. But when I looked into those I was only turned off more. There is something about heels that compliments my ankles, my calves and my runway walk that I can't resist breaking into when I'm faced with a long corridor. It's not entirely my fault, either. This Bug happens to have a considerable arch in her foot. My feet need to be on an incline. Where most people would be pained wearing heels, flat shoes tend to bother my instep after a while. And they just look plain awful. I'm sure there are some women out there that can make a flat shoe look fabulous. I'm just not one of them. When I made this point to her she then asked me a very valid question. "You want hip replacement surgery like Prince?" It gave me pause. I vaguely recall the Purple One needing an operation some time back- but I always charged that to the endless splits he did during his electrifying performances. The fact that he rocked heels for the past 20 plus years contributing to the problem never occurred to me. I don't want no damn hip surgery. Ever. So this weekend I'm going shopping for some more (gulp) pragmatic albeit matronly footwear. Pray for me. I may need a chaperone. You know, just to make sure I don't come back home with these...

Hair We Go Again

It's no secret that I'm what you would consider a Low Maintenance Girl. I don't like having my nails and feet done. I have never once tweezed, threaded or waxed my eyebrows. I detest sitting in hair salons because it feels more like a chore than pampering. That being said- my time is running out. Part of the convenience of not being in the corporate world for almost one year was that I didn't have to fuss over my hair. I could leave the house with the wildest, untamed mane and no one would bat an eye. Well, the winds of change are blowing. I recently interviewed with a company that clearly values a neat and polished appearance...and I think the job is all but mine. (Stay tuned and I'll give the update as soon as I get the verdict.) Anyway, this leads to a new dilemma. I've gotten way too used to my freewheeling, natural style. Hair maintenance is work! I don't want to work! Not on my hair, anyway. I'm just beginning to return to my natural texture without any sort of heat or processing and now I may have to go back to the neat look that I recently discarded. I've mentioned before that I feel more like myself when my hair is wild and curly- and it's true. In the past year I've transformed into what I can only describe as a free-spirited 70's woman in style and mentality. I just want to create. Books, families, ideas, meals, poetry, etc. And I don't care what I look like while doing it. Well, that's not entirely true. I just don't care to look all "put together" while doing it. Contrary to what my dear friend believes- I do not collect antique curling irons from Ebay. I hate rollers, blow dryers, hot combs and flat irons. Those instruments now resemble Medieval torture devices to me. So here I am on the brink of a new beginning career wise- and the crux lies before me. To perm or not to perm. To curl or not to curl. I don't have the energy. I just want to show up and let my work speak for itself- not my hair. One thing is for sure; part of the reason my sister said she hardly recognizes me of late is because I've elected to go natural. This from the girl who visits the Dominicans for the bone straight blow-out at least thrice a month. Later for that! I haven't decided just yet what I'm going to do with all this hair, but I can tell you what won't be happening. There will be no half bald missions À la Cassie any time soon. Wish me luck!

"Love" Lockdown

In the blogosphere, it's all about sharing. This Bug is going to talk about something I promised to share earlier last week. My self-imposed celibacy. I was in my early twenties and just ended a long term relationship. It was an amicable decision and I was looking forward to being by myself for a while. Everything was going well. I really wasn't interested in meeting anyone new. Casual dating was never really my thing, much less casual sex. So there I was, going about my business- finally reconnecting with myself without the distraction of a relationship. I read more books, saw a ton of films alone and starting writing what I consider some of my better work at the time. It was really going well until...I started to get that itch.

All of sudden, I began to think deeply about sex and how much it meant to me. Since I was no longer in a steady relationship, the pickings looked slim. My train of thought was this: I will not back peddle to a previous partner, as easy as that seemed- and there was no way I was going to meet someone brand new and just give it up. I know it might sound prudish- but This Bug cannot just freak off with any ole person. I have to feel a connection more strongly than just pure attraction. Sharing my body with another was never something I took lightly. So what was I to do? Well, "self love" was definitely an option. I have a friend who always said, "When you ain't got a man- you got a hand." Funny, because I always thought in response to this, "But...a man has a hand and it feels so much better than my own." But I began to ruminate on the purpose of sex outside of how good it felt. I'm not a religious person by any means- but the idea of an act to procreate was always in the back of my mind. I thought about my last relationship and how much that person was not "Baby Daddy" material. (I say this because at 22, marriage was not at all on my to-do list.) Then it dawned on me. The person I sleep with could potentially be linked to me for life if we were to have a child. Did I want that? My internal answer was a clamoring HELL NO. But shit happens. In the heat of the moment, your body might scream out HELL YES instead, or the condom breaks. Why would I want to risk any of that with some random dude I met at the club?



Anyway, my No Sex thing went on for roughly ten months. The first six were a breeze. By the last four however, even the broomstick looked good. I began to really understand how a man could look at some random woman and instantly think of tappin' that ass. Men were like nicely fleshed out mannequins to my eyes. I thought about warm breath against my neck. The powerful feeling of a torso between my thighs...it was agony. I missed breaking a sweat with someone besides myself. But it was never far from my mind that I could give in any time I wanted. It's general knowledge that it's easier for a woman to get down than it is for man. It's the Vagina Rule- I have the vagina, so I make the rules. We need little more than opportunity- which can be created out of thin air. We go through dry spells that can easily become monsoons with one phone call. When I finally did give in- it was after I found a sense of peace within. I was ready to share myself again because I understood how much I had to offer beyond a pound of flesh. I would recommend this to anyone, male or female- regardless of orientation, since it gives you time to reexamine what matters most to you.



In case anyone is wondering, that first session after ten months was like the first time all over again. They don't call it Born Again Virgin for nothing...and the magnitude of that Big O was a 9.9 on the Richter Scale- believe that!

Argh..Not again.

This Bug wants to know...has anyone out there ever had a friend who possessed a quality or likeness you wish you could borrow from time to time? I'm not talking about looks or lifestyle. I mean something like a discipline they have for certain tasks. I have a friend who loves to do laundry. Got that? Loves it. How in the world anyone could love this banal chore is beyond my comprehension. I hate it. If I remember correctly, she likes the ritual of folding because it's relaxing. The scent of fresh laundry also does her good. April Fresh is cool but I simply cannot relate.

I tend to wait until the eleventh hour to wash clothes. Don't get it twisted. I don't walk around in dingy garments or funky drawers. I'm not going to say I have the most extensive wardrobe; I just have a lot of the staples to last me a good three week run. Then it gets down to the ugly panties. They're not full of holes or anything, just not as cute as the stock 'fun & sexy' ones I keep in the arsenal. In my younger days, it even came down to wearing bikini bottoms to work. Hey, they function as panties when the time is right. Don't judge.

So, I'm typing this in a very matronly, sky blue 18 hour brassiere and full booty coverage knickers- which means it's time to pay the piper. This sucks. Sorting, loading, drying, folding, putting away...it all sucks. It's times like these I wish I could covet that Fluff and Fold gene that mi amiga must have in her DNA. If you're reading this, can I borrow a strand?




Photo Courtesy: Corbis

Surviving the Dystopian Times

There's a huge difference between a job and a career. A job pays the bills. A career is (hopefully) your life's work in which you're successful. I'm going share something with everyone. Right now, either one will do. It's no secret that This Bug has been hit hard by these economic times. I managed to survive two rounds of downsizing at an international firm before my number was up. Where the hell was my bailout? I went from being a Woman of Leisure back in 2008 to Hustle Woman of 2009. I won't front. I lost my job in Human Resources some months back and viewed it as a blessing in disguise. It gave me time to travel, spend quality time with my family and an open space to get my writing going. Needless to say, I was not going hard with the jobhunt when every other day consisted of going to the beach and chillaxin'. I had a good amount of savings as a foundation to still live independently. I am woman enough to admit that I foolishly rested on my laurels.

Then reality started to sink in. I began harassing my ING agent. I started going over bank statements with an eagle eye. I even bought America's Choice brand Grated Parmesan cheese. Now, if you know what a foodie This Bug is- you'd know that is something that would only occur during catastrophic economic times. Oh yes, I splurge on the finest recipe ingredients (and the occasional shoe) when the paper is stacked. But it hasn't been stacked for some time. At first I was only singling out jobs that were in line with my writing career. The way I saw it- if I annoyed enough publishing companies and magazines, someone would eventually just give me a job so I would leave them alone. No such thing happened.

So I'm back to square one. In about 12 hours I will be interviewing with someone in the medical field- something I never thought would happen. It's not that I have anything against it, I just didn't see it in the cards for me. It was between that or the local Car Wash- they need an Armor All® girl...Kidding! Hopefully it goes well. Either way, I am not my profession. At this point, the dream job may have to take a backseat while the bill paying gig takes the wheel. That doesn't mean that I've lost hope. Nor does it mean that this blog will suffer my absence once I am gainfully employed. Now... be vewwy, vewwy quiet. I'm hunting pantyhose. No seriously. I'm sitting here writing this and have no idea if I have so much as a thigh-high for tomorrow. Gotta run. (Let's hope there's none in the stockings.) Wish me luck!



Photo Courtesy: Corbis

A Predicament of Sorts

The weekend approaches. I am not, nor have I ever claimed to be the social butterfly. So how in the world did I find myself in this dilemma? Behind door number one is a good friend we’ll call “B” for now. She’s everything you could want in an amiga. When she listens, she truly listens instead of just waiting for her turn to speak. She’s vivacious, attentive and trustworthy. She also happens to be a devout vegetarian. The girl loves her tofu like a cowboy loves his whiskey.
Behind door number two is a good friend we’ll call “V”. He is hands-down the most hilarious person I have the pleasure of knowing. Our conversations are littered with side-splitting laughter. He is witty, well-read and to the best of my knowledge, an absolute foodie. I should note that nothing makes him happier than bacon, which he considers a condiment. It's part of his charm.

Now…the crux. Both are celebrating birthdays this coming Saturday. I have been invited to spend an evening out with "B" and several of her vegan friends at a no doubt organically acceptable restaurant. This would be a good time to mention that I can only take pretentious folks in limited doses. It has been my experience that strict vegetarians can hardly offer an opinion or state a fact without prefacing it with, “Well, before I went vegan…” or “After I became a vegetarian…” And mind you, we could be talking about some random item in the news or one’s last trip to the dentist. The very thought of it is an exercise in tolerance. On the other hand is a night out with my meat-loving buddy "V" and a few his friends. He loves a good porterhouse, fine cheese and a bottle of Bordeaux to wash it all down. He is also never quite sure of when to call it a night. There have been many misadventures that wouldn't be so funny had we not been three sheets to the wind. Luckily cops were never called, the consequences being only a severe hangover. More on that some other time.

I don’t want to make this sound as simple as differing food preferences. She’s a militant 80's Baby who is strong in her convictions. He loves Reaganomics and all that it did for this wonderful country. (His words, not mine) You’d be hard pressed to find two people more opposite in views, tastes and dislikes. But they both are a joy to be around. I can only imagine the carnage that would ensue if these two were left alone for more than five minutes. I simply cannot decide. I just wish there were a happy medium. With all the stem-cell research going on, perhaps I can clone myself by Saturday night. Maybe I’ll just hide out until Sunday. Argh! The quagmire…