Beautiful Sentiments: A Year of Cat Selfies

To get into the mindset and be able to relate even deeper to the experience I will be describing, you may want to check out this article, "Dont Call Me Beautiful" by Erin Tatum, a writer for Everyday Feminism, because I connected with what she was pointing out, and I happened upon it just as I was about to document this story below. It also gives you some insight as to how to compliment someone positively without using the subject of their appearance. Warning, this post is lengthy.

A very familiar feeling to me and many of my friends, is the struggle of feeling beautiful, because we all feel pressure that we need to be, simply because we are female. I want to hear from my significant other that he not only loves me for me but also finds me beautiful, inside and out. And yet, for basically my entire life I have been uncomfortable receiving compliments on my beauty. They are always compliments based on my appearance, and I am always frustrated instead of thankful, and I usually associate that uncomfortable response with the fact that I disagree. In the past I've responded with my own truthful objection or issue with the compliment, as in "You're just saying that to make me feel better," "I cant look ok, I feel horrible," , "so the other parts of me don't deserve any recognition? like my work?" or even the simplest, with a smile: "Thanks but I just don't think so."

These responses do not go over well. I have even been told they are rude and that if they are the truth, I should just say "Thanks for the compliment," knowing they meant to share a positive notion. But I feel even less beautiful just saying thanks and not speaking the truth.

The compliment given wasn't to find out how I feel, it was to let me know how someone else has viewed me. That their judgement concluded my hair or eyes or appearance has met societies standards through their eyes. So, they become defensive if I disagree because they believe what they've said, but I become defensive because they don't think about what I'd like to be noticed for. -Sometimes there is context in which I do genuinely appreciate compliments, but the set up for these scenarios are so complex and are so rare I can't recall one right now to describe. The fact that I was picked on by bullies who literally called me ugly is just such example of how society expects females to want others to see them as pretty. And I admit, it hurt to be so bluntly rejected by society's standards at the time, even if it was only a verbal attack.
Another less obvious example is that when people have been offended when I don't thank them for compliments, they are reinforcing the idea that I should want to appear beautiful to them.

So, it has been my experience that if I'd say anything but "thanks", they defend their opinion as valid, and then try to convince me of so, because they think it's not just important that I think I am beautiful, but that I am in general viewed as beautiful by others.  Which yes, I would strive to be, but I wish to do so by my own merit, by the deeds I've done, by my kindness, by efforts and values, my individuality, the things that make up who I am, and yet have nothing to do with needing to be feminine or female, those traits make me feel more confident and beautiful as a whole person, and I prefer that to minimizing the word describe a physical appearance.

Of course I want to be beautiful in my own mind and to my sig. other, and he has made me feel that he does cherish me inside and out. I believe he values my personality and identity as much as I value his, and that it will keep us together, loving not only for appearance but for who they are.
And yes it is hard for me to separate the feeling of internal beauty and feeling smart, valued and important. I just think beauty should not be an inseparable aspect of femininity to our world.


A recent example of finding self worth, and positive self image began with a couple of happenings in my life. One of which was when on [facebook] my relatives and girl friends were sending each other the instructions to post five photos of yourself that make you feel beautiful. (No one sent it to any males, at least on my timeline.)

Scrolling through everyone's 5 picks, I smiled catching glimpses of my aunts and sisters declaring their love and approval of themselves. A rare happening from today's women. On the surface this was a beautiful effort to make everyone reflect on themselves, but I thought deeper, seeing older women posting only photos of them when they were younger-more physically appealing to the standards society told them to hold against themselves. And my younger friends, attempting to use makeup and lighting to show how they are learning to judge their own attractiveness.

So I chose pictures of myself doing things that made me remember how independent, carefree, loving, smart, and unique I can be. Most were when I was younger, I think because I remember not caring as much how I looked or what others thought of me. Back then I cherished my weird, and I was encouraged to do so. (My Pipi Longstocking Halloween Costume...my brother and I covered head to toe in mud from a rainy mud-pie-fight... myself seated on a mountain of books in my messy room with my head stuck in the story I was reading. )
The others were of my with loved ones at special times in life, more recently. Although I still knowingly chose photos where I deemed myself to look "okay" and "presentable", instead of 'bad' pictures. A moment later a relative commented, "Interesting choices."

---

The other happening that helped me find a self worth, began with a huge challenge. The challenge to my perception of my own physical beauty, while watching from a far, my mom dealing with breast cancer. The cancer affected many aspects of life, only one of which am I covering with this topic of physical beauty. But this topic was one which she was often talking with me about, and one I could only try to empathize with.  She had experienced such negativity about her self and such radical physical changes it affected how she viewed herself, and how she perceived others to view her.

It was hard for me to argue against the despair. I too had lived a life full of identifying with the 'beautiful' aspects of my appearance. The ones that our society has placed importance on. The pieces of anatomy which despite their biological functions, are deemed beautiful by our culture, or 'visually appealing'. A woman's hair, breasts, cleavage, sillouette... all things I mainly focused on at or after puberty, when I also felt the peak of pressure to look good for others. Although... my hair had been something I had been complimented on and told made me pretty, and girly, my entire life. Since I could talk I was hearing and describing myself as 'blonde and blue eyed.'  So the thought of losing something like that, something that I had been expressing my personality with, by choosing how to wear it, how to grow it, unlike my genetics, which remained unchangeable... The control over my own hair gave me the idea that my hair helped define who I was, how pretty I was, and it still does.
The thought of loosing that being so crushing was only a tiny part of coming to understand the hurt and mental stress my mother was going through.

I didn't know what to tell her, especially while I was thousands of miles away in another city, in another state. All I wanted to do was be there for her and I couldn't. But I found a way to reach out anyway, through photos. (Picture texts.)

Just like my 5 pix I had chosen for facebook, I wanted to send her pics that sent her the beautiful feeling of love, I wanted her to wake up strong and happy and proud of her daughter for waking up, smiling and thinking of her. She always taught us to love animals, and she always loved to see pictures of what I was up to.  I wanted to send her proof that she created an important, beautiful daughter, who is proud of and misses her mom.

So, I sent her some pics of me and my cat, named Kitty, as we were waking up. The first glimpses of morning light, before I worried about my hair, or my face in a mirror. In that moment when my family and a new day is the only thing on my mind.

She told me how much the photos meant to her, how she looked forward to our daily morning selfie. She said it made her smile, so I kept taking more. I sent her morning cat selfies for months, some months being more regular and daily than others. I only really stopped lately because she came to visit me and shortly after, my camera broke. But it allowed me this break to analyze what had happened. I ended up feeling more beautiful, more confident, I felt I had spent more time reaching out to loved ones, and I had a constant response of love and approval and smiles.

I now have photographic proof that I cared for my cat and about my family, more than my makeup.
And now looking back, on the collection of photos, the memories i feel from my family make me feel wonderful. I think I look prettier in some of my morning cat selfies with no make up, than in some of my dressed up pictures of me where I am in make up, trying to highlight parts of my face we conventionally celebrate as pretty.

The candid morning tiredness that flooded me with warm memories and makes me miss my mom and cherish my cat make me more confident in many respects. I can see a change in myself. I still struggle with compliments and my own idea of my self beauty, but I am happier each time I feel that childlike part of me-inside. When I'm doing something I think is important, and not caring about how I look to others, I feel even more like my self.
Here below are some of the year's worth of cat selfies. See if you can see in the photos proof of me behaving more confident as I find some beautiful sentiments in what my mother created -me.

Starting one year ago, November 2013

December 2013, it was cold:

January, 2014. cuddley and cold.

February, (Mom's Bday month)

March:

April 2014

May:

June... this picture was a morning when I was worried about my mom.

I couldn't bring myself to send it to her, or to hold my cat for a photo that day.
After collecting myself, I tried to take a selfie (on the right)
 showing how calm one can look with the huge amount of turmoil inside

July... the cat she raised along side me and my brother,
Basil, the greatest family pet of my life is put down
I attempt to continue positive photos.

August

September

October

November 2014

And here's a special flashback:
Mom and Kitty <3~ !

A Grand Garden

Full Moon Jam

     I don't remember walking to Full Moon Records that night.  Even though I know we did. It's a record store only a few blocks from our house, on the other side of the park.   I can just see the entire walk there, even at night, when the gardens and houses are shrouded in grey and pitch darkness. I can imagine watching the honeycomb sidewalk with all its moss and weeds peeking through, all passing beneath my feet as we round the park. But I don't remember walking that night.

   
     It was a few years ago, and we had piled into our friend Lynlee's old silver van, headed to a gastro-pub in the next town over, where a certain band was playing. Well, making a small stop on their tour, more like. It wasn't a huge band. It was a few musicians centered around a famous guy from a well known  80's band, who my boyfriend had been fully informing us about since he heard where they were stopping on tour. Which I didn't mind, I loved his musical knowledge. Even more so if it comes out enthusiastically... about a band he knew growing up.

     Well-informed and ready for music, we arrived and sat at a table near the bar. We ordered three beers, and noticed the distinct lack of crowd at this pub. I remember feeling like a gnome in a giant's house, everything felt too large for me, and my friends. Ironwork lanterns give a 'ye olde' feeling to the whole place. Big chairs. The thick heavy tables were stained to match the rest of the wood in the pub, a deep mahogany. Our sweating, golden beer glasses created puddles on the dark mirrored surface.

     The musicians were setting up and they had our attention. You could already tell who was here for the music and whose quiet drinking night just got rudely interrupted. They got all plugged in and sound checked and most of the people near the front window had their eyes on Greg.

     They began playing, somewhat quietly tucked in the corner. But in no time their echoes were ringing out to the back tables. The entire bar was at a privet concert. They flowed excellently together and I remember being impressed that despite the burden of fame trailing these musicians, they were strumming out psychedelic vibes and amazing moods. With swells and trills, we drank to their songs.

     Before too many beverages were consumed, they had finished up and were ready to go. They thanked us and bantered and packed up quietly and quickly.  Drums in cases, breaking down gear, cables, familiarity. Watching someone else do what you and your friends do, and thinking to yourself- and he's famous.

     You'd think he was a huge rock star or something the way these handful of people were clamoring around, as if this was their one lifelong chance to meet an ex-member of their teenage-favorite group. I knew he was famous, but I had to get a history lesson in order to not embarrass myself. I don't remember doing so, I think I stayed fairly quiet and observational. I could see clearly he is more musician than rock-star, since he was playing new music with new people and being himself, and maybe even downplaying any hint of his fans excitement. Cool, calm and quiet, I could dig that.

     I'm not sure when we met Ted, the owner of the record store we ended up at, but he and my boyfriend were talking to the musicians outside for a while. The two biggest fans there they couldn't shake. I think that's when they came up with a plan to meet at Full Moon the next night.

        I know we walked, but I can't remember that part. I know we brought Lynlee again, because she was my variable. I was the control who reacted well with her in this experiment. I remember the night, the record store interior, a glowing yellow over a square room filled with bins of records. I remember being led through a door in the back wall, which was shut behind us as we entered. It seemed like a nook or a hallway, but in this alcove were instruments, musicians, amps, a couch, a desk, a drumset, an organ, tambourines, posters, trinkets, and anything else the modern hobbit, Ted, could fit into his music-hole.
      They were probably already making music when we arrived, but I remember promptly finding my way to a couch through the smoky, crowded space. Greg sat next to me playing bass the whole night. When you're famous for an instrument, the other musicians let you play what you want. I sat there feeling his bass vibrate the whole couch, through my bones all night the music literally flowed through me without me ever needing to play. He thumped away for hours, puffing out smoke and nodding his head to the fingers he walked.

     His guitar player and Ted's guitar player were playing back and fourth, talking. Lynlee played small things like shakers and tambourine. My boyfriend jumped around on instruments, he was on drums (which were in a small loft above us, enhancing the underground effect), he played organ and probably other things I can't recall. We went for hours in that cramped corner, getting familiar with the sounds of each other and the rhythms and vibes and waves of the music. Ethereally etched into my memory are the sounds of a one night only ensemble. The jamming together of each others moods and styles were swirling around our heads, dancing its way past time. The energy we held stopped the outside world from existing and the sharps and flats and chords flew by spinning the clock hands like time travel. Hours were contained in one musical phrase in the blur of a second, like breathing we let the minutes pass without thought or effort.

Luckily the entire affair was recorded and saved. Later we could relive the night we spent hidden away together, slapping strings and cymbals, the organ, the guitars, the songs are spun with magic in our memories. A collective fondness grew in that session, in that room. A dimly lit couch and a small crowd of vagrant bards.
      The musical memory is so strong its overpowering the details pre- and post- jam. I don't remember walking home, either. We got word from the guitar player a few months later that they loved that jam, and that it was their favorite session of after party music-ing on their tour.
 Years later online, he sent us the recording.
No one has forgotten the night at Full Moon.

A Parental Memory

This is one of those childhood memories that get preserved in grey matter for some reason.

---

I am a young child, just waking up. The light was shining it's morning mood into my bedroom of the trailer. The faintest sounds of birds chirping beautifully breached my windowpanes. I climbed down the handmade wooden ladder from the top bunk of my 'bunk' bed. Underneath my top bunk wasn't another bed- just an alcove, fit for my height, where all my toys and books and clothes laid in a huge tangled mess. The whole bed was handmade by our dad, and my brother's one, just like it. I would always forget that, until the wooden planks felt smoothly sanded, and the high gloss stain stuck to the sweat of your palms clinging to the ladder. 

I don't remember being aware of it then, but it is a clear fact in my memory that we were alone that day. From the hall down the center of the small trailer I could see him cooking in the kitchen. Builder of beds, and now cook of the kitchen. I crossed the open living room and walked up to him. I remember trying to see what he was cooking, but being so short all I could tell was that he had a wok over medium heat. Yuck. I thought. I don't like food from a wok. Strange smells suddenly woke up my senses, like opening the front door on a freezing day.

  I coyly asked him if he would make me breakfast. And, I was thinking cereal.

"Hah! Nope!" He laughed at me. 

My heart sank, and maybe my mouth too. My own parent just laughed at the idea of helping their child eat breakfast! What?! I thought. 

"You missed it," he said, "breakfast is over. If you wanted breakfast, you should have been awake for it!" He continues cooking. 

Maybe I suddenly felt very spoiled by my mother, who would have woke me gently with breakfast waiting. I wished she was in the kitchen with me instead. I couldn't believe he just ordered me to be aware of something before I was awake. I stood there, somewhat shocked. 

He said if I was hungry, I'd have to make it for myself. 

Frustration, and helplessness. Never before do I remember being so easily laughed off by a parent when I asked for help. I thought about how to reach the cabinets. How the bowls were in one of the highest places, even if I stood on the counter on my tip-toes...I wasn't sure I could reach them without falling.

With a wordless defeat, I quietly retreated to my brother's room. Under his bunk, his toys put away...more space to crouch on the floor near the basket of books. 

I don't know how long I played alone. 

And I don't remember feeling hungry, I just remember being over-all sad. My brother wasn't around to make the dumber, boyish toys fun. My mom wasn't around to be sweet to us. I must have known where they were, though I can't recall now. It may have been one of the first times I was bored of being alone. 

I must have been being very good and quiet, because I think he forgot I was in here... Maybe he then remembered me, because I remember him-asking what I wanted for lunch. 

 I agreed to 'macaroni'. 

Smiling, now, I kept playing. Enthralled in the world of miniature plastic cars, dolls, wooden trinkets and crayon-enhanced books... I found something... Among the books were hiding a handful of cassette tapes. I look through their titles, one I recognize. It's from Mary Poppin's, so I pop it in. The tape player is small, one made especially for children. The music began flowing out, chiming the happy lyrics out from under a bed. 

Next I remember the smile that came to my face as I dug my fork into the big curved noodles, packing their buttery, bland bodies into my mouth. He watched me attack that pasta.

 I remember his next remark. 

"Wow, if I'd only known some noodles and butter would appease... "

As my mouth smiled, and slurped in the buttered macaroni, Mary Poppin's kept singing, "I got a blue bird on my shoulder..." 

Quick Quesadilla Snack

I make these quesadillas after we've used up the normal burrito ingredients, or just when I get home from work, it's a quick delish snack.

Today I had quite a day at work, and it's getting chilly outside- I needed a warm, spicy pick-me-up! 

Africa Fashion Week, day 4, Sat. Finale.

Waking up. Strangely quiet.

Check phone. Message from model, already at store waiting for hair and make up. Not even awake yet. Five minutes to get ready. What happened to the alarm? Not even enough time to find out. 

Brush teeth pick outfit and leave. Texting and walking. Walk/rushing.

...

Arrive at store, no model. This was the same model no one actually asked to do this show, and no one denied her either. Apparently. Check phone. Message, " went to my car cause its cold". Ok. 

...

Open the store and set up for the make up artist to do hair and make up on a few  before call time. The model came back, rather annoyingly toting a large project she's working on actively. Suddenly the make up artist arrived and took orders from people, "are you hungry what do you need?". She left. Came back an hour later. My heart pounds, she pours me a mimosa, and slides me a chocolate bar. 

Melt into a calm. What it feels like to let things roll, while they're rollin'. 

...

Everyone red lipped and tipped, and onward to the show! The museum expected us, we think we are running slightly behind but then we arrived and it felt like we were early.

A strange contentedness and comfort eased through the room as a murmur of models and make up and hair mixed with  clangs of chairs and accessories. Shoes scuffle and people shuffle and the beat of it pulses you in all directions fluidly. Checking this that its chaotic but everything was moving along. Progress kept coming in odd tides. For hours we planned jewelry, fixed hair, found models, dressed them, explained all we knew and  learned it all over again- along with the additions and changes. The strange curve of the "green"room held more than the usual number of people than the  green room of a theatre show in a small town. This was a large group to fuse creativity so graciously. Several times when in the way, 'sweetie' and 'honey' come after 'excuse me'. Only in the south.

...

Someone shouts "45minutes till show!"

And pace picked up as if no one had been doing anything before. Bobby pins flew. Assistants ran, squeezed, jumped.  Our designer wanted coffee. Ran. Saw the gift bags sitting in the VIP rows. Our flyers hiding inside. Coffee bar closed, redirected, no coffee. Fine. Bottled water. Paid with a $5. Got three different coins back. Designer neither noticed nor minded.

...

Models looked more frantic and beautiful than ever. It became easier to point out our models as they donned our garments. 

The accessories were so African, we needed to add an edge to our girls. Gold cuffs and hammered necklace, each one had an accented spark of yellow gleaming off their black and red get-ups.

Our designer who was worried about it distracting from our pieces, turned around. Delighted, she coo'd until we were sending models down a runway. 

After they each turned and walked up and down, had taken enough snap pics to represent our line. Then she walked with her line down and back. Except for a moment I thought she wasn't  coming back. 

...

Stuck for a long moment in time, felt like perhaps someone asked time to freeze. She stood, backed by eight, six foot tall women, in front of a line of flashing photographers. Eventually the model ushered her back to earth, and they walked back. I saw her soaking in the limelight, the walk back she looked like she had just been named queen. She waved, arms outstretched and waving, the way presidents do; people grabbing her hands as she walked. I snapped more pictures. 

...

Some extra mid show chaos hit me like a big wave from behind- the kind that knocks your glasses off, and for the first time on vacation, it feels like you've lost hope and replaced it with confusion and eagerness to regain control, organization? Understanding. There was beautiful creations and visions trying to be presented perfectly, and overall it was ok. What is a green room without the mess. It's Upstairs, Downstairs- revisited. Instead of social order, it's still all about grand presentation and form and etiquette, but it's about art, and line and form. And style. 

...

 I grabbed a model for a photographer, he asked not to let her change. She was in the best dress, the one people were trying to buy, models vying to wear. She earned herself a solo photo shoot at a huge museum for running with me. Thank that model too. 

...

At the end we had waited an extra hour just to send two looks back down the runway at the flood walk, which was chaotic but quick once it happened. Then things looked again reminiscent of a theater green room. People packing their costumes and accessories, just ready o go. We had all been there hours no food, no drinks but a water fountain.

The designer wanted to leave, dismissed interns. And stuck around just long enough to hug and thank the Doctor, and some smiling thank you's rang out as we rolled our clothing to the elevator at the parking garage. Floor 3, breakdown rack into trunk. Drive. Home. Exhausted. 

The designer thanked me and dropped me at home. We would both have to be at work in the morning. The runway may end but the show must go on!

...

 

I'm so happy I got to style these ladies, and make hairpieces for the runway!
Eat, breathe, sleep, create.

Africa Fashion Week, day 3, Friday.

Sore, tired, not able to react to the alarm, and sleeping in. Wake up with 20 minutes to leave for work. Stayed up too late talking out our money problem the night before mixed with the fact that it had gotten much colder had kept all the restful dreams away. Feels like dozing off 30 times in a row. But in the middle I fighting the start of the day, the day texted me again, not out of bed yet.

...

This time a work issue, outside of the fashion show. But directly effecting the money issues, from the stolen rent case, and this bothered me. Because it was laced with subtexts that read of- or I read them to be- disrespect, and selfishness or  naïvety ?   Misunderstandings. Unhappiness, annoyed-ness, now filled more than one employee of the store, with two more bigger events hours away.

This is now everyone's problem, who works there as far as weekly shifts. Sigh, can't we all be on the same team? Work where your leader sees you as helping the most? Not everyone sees life the same way, try to focus. Fashion media mixer tonight, what to wear?

...

The intern came in to work a little after myself. Phone call from the designer, making plans. Prepare two pieces to be shown and be ready to mix and mingle with press, cameras, and the like minded fashionistas that'll be throughout the room. 

...

The designer steps into the store, she goes over the plan several times. Who's driving who, where is the bar. Her and I agree to meet the intern there. Walked to the designer'a car, put the clothes in the trunk. See the other manager and catch up receiving momentos of good wishes.

We drive. Pick up my boyfriend and head out, about a 45 minute drive north, plus 15 minutes of traffic and still perfectly on time, we park and settle in. Headache sets in as the designer begs for attention there isn't energy left to give. Boyfriend orders a gin and tonic, and a glass of wine. Cheers. Sip. Chardonnay. Better.

Smile. Finally, a drink at the event while working. Only we are actually early. The original email from the head honcho said be there at 6. But surrounded by models and only having one out of the two we were expecting, everyone waits. Models get made up, the host shows up.

...

This man is wonderful, he infused both earlier days with some much needed casual smiles and laughing as much as instruction and speeches. He is head of fashion- basically- at the Art Institute. I gave him our card and flyer, he gave me his card. I loved him, and if he liked anything, he'd say with some southern eccentricity, "Oh, I Loove it," Usually punctuated with, "Honey!"

He had earned the title of Doctor, and now proudly wore that doctorate all up in his signature bow tie. Best dressed man in Atlanta. Honey. 

...

The showcase of our two pre-view pieces was about to start. Let the frazzled intern find my glass of Chardonnay, with two sips in the bottom. 

Order myself another. 

Our model asks around for extra models but none are found. The music blares as the Doctor announces our lines one by one, and as the first girl gets back, beg her to jump into the extra dress. She flings her zipper down and the next two models assist in dressing her. Send her out in time. She saved the first model from having to change and go out of sequence. Saved our preview show. 

...

Pictures snapped on phones all night until in the car driving away. Proof of the party. The drive home was a buzz of conversation, needing to vamp up the line before the next nights show. Fears of being shown up in the designer, not held by all. A calm confidence rose over the rest of us. Maybe we wanted to hear her that engulfed in this fashion week. Maybe we were too close to turn, too fast to stop and too excited to sleep. Because upon arriving home, again bedtime was around 3 am. The finale in the morning. Hair for the finale, early. Before being able to rest the mind reviews the next day, the plan. The extra things that will happen and all the bumps in the road to look out for.

...

Before crashing, post a couple photos. Send a couple thanks. 

Set alarm for 10 am. 

...