Unapologetically Amy: Amy Schumer's Sexy Twitter Photo Is Everything

Only 6 hours after Amy Schumer tweeted an untouched photograph of herself, it received 22,000 likes and was retweeted 7,000 times. So what's all the fuss? Why so much love for comedy's current It Girl?

Her simultaneously self ingratiating and self deprecating comments may hold the key to the photo's viral appeal. The not so subtle subtext of the tweet disempowers social media trolls and presents to the Twittersphere a self possessed portrait of success.

The photograph appears almost candid, which is probably its intent. The visible lighting fixtures and marking tape, Schumer's coy caught of guard semi-smile- all highlight the idea that finished photos fail to provide viewers with the whole picture.

Amy Schumer unapologetically embodies the adjectives, "beautiful, gross, strong, thin, fat, pretty, ugly, sexy, disgusting, flawless" and appears fully aware of the paradox that such an amalgamation creates. She shows viewers that laying claim to only one of those adjectives is to also present an incomplete picture.Such is the life of a woman. Look at her face... does she looked concerned? So why should the rest of us be?

Schumer isn't shy about sharing her views on beauty standards and the toll those standards have taken on her. While promoting Trainwreck, a film she wrote and starred in, she gave an emotional account of her struggle with body image in the entertainment industry (Entertainment Weekly). But she is anything but a crybaby. She is anything but a victim. In fact, her painful struggles foster some of her funniest material.

She famously mocked her curvaceous physique on Ellen, joking about everything from the confusion her arms cause in L.A. to the pitfalls of sitting courtside at a Lakers game. If you have a few minutes, give yourself the gift of laughter by watching a clip from her appearance here:

If you haven't seen her 12 Angry Men parody on Inside Amy Schumer (season 3), you have yet to experience her full genius. The 12 men must determine if Schumer is "hot enough" to be on television. Her "potato face" remains under scrutiny for the entirety of the episode, pointing to industry double standards and the absurdity of measuring an entertainers value, or anyone's value for that matter, by her looks. You can purchase the video for $1.99 here. It may be the best $2 you ever spend.

Inside Amy Schumer, Season 3 drew attention to many ridiculous elements of being a woman in the entertainment industry, including age double standards. With the help of comedy dynamos Tina Fey and Julia Louis Dreyfus, she satirizes the fate of women over 50 in television and movies. You can watch the UNCENSORED skit here:

Amy Schumer is just what stand-up, television, film, and social media need. Not only is she unafraid to call out an industry fixed on promoting a myriad of damaging double gender based standards, but she is also unafraid to share with the world her entire self. So what if she veils the pain with laughter? So what if her "crass" humor is "unlady like"?

More people are finally recognizing the stupidity of the entire affair. Shouldn't we all be able to laugh at our flaws and at the perception of our flaws? Shouldn't we all evaluate why we gauge certain physical or personality attributes as flawed in the first place?

I admire Amy Schumer for putting herself out to the world for scrutiny. Not many are willing to use themselves or their fame to address social injustice. More than that, though, I love her for showing girls and women that being comfortable in your own skin, no matter its approval rating, is the sexiest, most intriguing quality of all.

Don't forget to share you opinion by answering the poll question in the upper right hand corner. I'd love to hear your thoughts, too, so feel free to share your insights or questions in the comment section.

The Walking Dead Season 6: 6 Universal Truths, Part 1- The Value Of Plans

Season 6, Part 1 of The Walking Dead reinforced 6 universal, sometimes ugly, truths that I will explore over the course of 6 articles. The Walking Dead Season 6 Midseason Finale left a number of conflicts in limbo until February. Luckily, the show gave fans plenty to digest as they pine away for its 2/14/16 return.

Truth Number 1: Life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans (John Lennon)

This truth dates back further than Lennon’s 20^th century song and Robert Burn’s 18^th century epiphany, “The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men Gang Aft Agley.” And so it goes. Here it is the shiny new 21^st century, and the Grimes Gang still hasn’t learned its lesson.

Rick and his group thought they found the Promised Land once they stumbled from the darkness of Terminus into the light of Alexandria. They were willing to do whatever it takes to fight for this new home. As always, Rick has a plan… many, many plans. But he isn’t the only one.

The first half of The Walking Dead’s Season 6 begs the question, is a plan’s value, contingent on its success, or is it measured by the comfort it provides along with its other residual effects despite some form of its eminent failure?

Plan #1:  Lead the herd away from the Alexandria community – failed.

Rick's plan to leave Alexandria with a large team left the community vulnerable to a Wolf attack. The unforeseen attack spurred a series of life altering events, beginning with a simple blast of a horn. Just like that, it is clear control is an illusion.

Daryl splits from the group, endangering himself, Sasha, and Abraham. It costs him his trusty bow and motorcycle. The three ultimately reunite, but now the trio must confront the likes of Negan and his heinous Saviors. This bodes well for no one. It would not be surprising if only two of them survive the initial encounter. The question is, who will die first at the hands of Negan?

The horn lures the herd to the walls of Alexandria, which eventually collapse under its weight, fostering a second round of destruction for the safe zone.  But Rick’s got a plan for that, too… that is after he somehow slips unscathed from a camper surrounded by walkers. No wonder he has illusions of grandeur.

Is it possible that the herd could have been rerouted by some other random distraction and Rick's plan to lead it away, ironically, is the very thing that drew it to Alexandria?

Plan #2: Operation Walker Guts—failure imminent.

Rick has the survivors in his care cover themselves in walker guts, meander through the herd invasion (reminiscent of Carol masquerading as a Wolf in the first Alexandria attack), and get to the armory.

Sam’s panic, I mean what child WOULDN’T panic under these circumstances, point to another failed plan, compliments of Rick Grimes. He's done it before with Glenn, the luckiest Walking Dead character in show history. That plan failed when it began to rain, ruining Rick's disguise, which nearly cost him and Glenn their lives.

He refuses to surrender, an admirable trait, but how long will it take for him to learn that it’s impossible to control everything? How many people have to die before he realizes that he can’t fix everything? Is it vanity or determination that pushes Rick's plans?

Plan # 3: Maintain the status quo at all costs- failed

For months, Deanna and her Alexandrians managed to continue life as usual during the zombie apocalypse. Residence were naïve to human and undead dangers that lingered just outside their walls.

The walls they built were strong and would presumably keep the ugly reality at bay, allowing the Alexandrians to restore civilization. Life in Alexandria was business as usual—school, work, entertainment, traditional family.

But the universe had other plans, so the walls came tumbling down. Maintaining the status quo instead of training for worst case scenarios left the Alexandrians open for defeat. They had no idea how to defend themselves—Deanna didn’t even know a head wound was necessary to kill a zombie.

Even as the herd infiltrates Alexandria, Sam munches on cookies and sandwiches, listening to old 45s. And his mom, Jesse, makes survival a game of make-believe. How is this kid supposed to stand a chance in the new world?

Don’t worry, Deanna bequeathed new plans to Michonne before her samurai style death scene. Michonne seemed softened by Deanna’s vision, something that may be a detriment to her safety.

Goals are good, so long as she doesn’t lose sight of the inevitable outcome. Everyone needs something to live for beyond survival; otherwise, what’s the point. But it seems plans are a means of temporarily avoiding madness and defeat in the post-apocalyptic world.

Plan #4: Burn, Baby Burn- failed

Glenn, the group’s moral compass, sees Rick’s plan falling apart, so he concocts one of his own. His plan is to burn a nearby building to attract the walker herd away from its course to Alexandria.

Glenn splits from the small band of survivors and allows Nicholas some redemption by bringing him along on his mission. Part of Glenn’s plan requires him to mend fences and rehabilitate a coward.

Before the two can see their mission through, they are surrounded by walkers. The two climb to safety while the hungry herd claws at the stranded duo, gnashes its decayed chops. Fear overwhelms Nicholas, who plans to unburden Glenn by shooting himself in the head. It seems Plan #4 has a sub failure—Nicholas corpse crashes into Nick and the two plunge into the herd. He’s a burden even in death.

Luckily, Glenn has 9 lives and manages to skirt danger by pulling himself under a dumpster. Lazy walkers can’t be bothered to pursue him.

Should Glenn have stayed with the group as it made its way back to Alexandria, or did his plan put him at an unexpected advantage of being on the other side of the wall when the herds crashed into Alexandria? Does that advantage alone give Glenn’s original plan merit?

Plan #5: Get Glenn- failed

Maggie and Glenn have been down this harrowing path before and both refuse to give up on each other. Maggie, pregnant and determined, packs a bag and with the help of Eric, sets out to find the love of her post-apocalyptic life.

It isn’t long before Maggie’s plan fails. Deep in the sewers of Alexandria she and Eric are attacked by mushy zombies. Strange that their flesh slides from their bones as she pushes them away, yet their choppers remain strong enough to pose a threat.

She realizes her plan isn’t worth sacrificing Eric’s safety. She realizes her plan may make the rest of Alexandria vulnerable. Better to accept the circumstances, regroup, and maintain hope than to pursue the matter.

Maggie realizes the false comfort and illusion of control a plan fosters. She sees through the farce and ultimately, the Glenn returns to Alexandria. It’s just the circumstances of his homecoming that disappoint. Does this prove that nothing is guaranteed? People are not necessarily rewarded or punished for their efforts to plan and control their circumstances? Does it prove life is a series of random events?

Plan # 6: Pay It Forward/ Every Life Matters- failed

Morgan found his way back from madness thanks to a chance encounter with a forensic psychologist. Once rehabilitated, Morgan so fears returning to his old ways that he refuses to kill under any circumstances-- post-apocalyptic Darwinian code be damned.

When Alexandria is under siege by the Wolves, Morgan takes no prisoners and allows a pack of Wolves to flee. This same pack goes on to attack Rick, leaving him stranded and surrounded by walkers, unable to execute the rest of his plan to redirect the herd of walkers.

Morgan even goes as far as imprisoning one of the remaining Wolves and procuring the Wolf secret medical attention. Morgan is desperate to change the Wolf’s heart, no matter how he resists or taunts Morgan.

Morgan knows his plan will be controversial, so he was determined to wait for the right time…perhaps to unveil a rehabilitated Wolf during an I- told- you -so moment. Too bad Carol discovers his secrets and the plan goes to pot.

Now, the Wolf is free and Denise, Alexandria's only "doctor," is in danger. Denise and Tara share a budding romance, which doesn’t bode well for her given Tara’s track record.

Morgan was so blinded by his mission that he lost sight of endangering his community. But at least it made him feel good… for a little while anyway. Was Morgan wrong to involve Denise? Was he wrong to try to change the Wolf and Rick's hearts?

What's The Point?

So what’s the lesson in the six failed plans of The Walking Dead’s sixth season? Clearly, the only thing people can bank on is no amount of planning guarantees an outcome. Should viewers conclude that plans are dangerous and pointless, or should they appreciate the temporary elixir they provide?

Would the survivors do well to abandon plans and just go with the proverbial flow? What failed plan did you observe?

You can share your insights and questions in the comment section. I invite you to also stay tuned for the next installment of The Walking Dead Season 6: 6 Universal Truths.

Originally published on News For Shoppers

To Cheat, Or Not To Cheat That Is The Question

Chutes and Ladders. Candy Land. Games that rely on the luck of the draw-- players either end up in gliding through Gumdrop Mountains or sulking in the Molasses Swamp . Hungry, Hungry Hippo. The fastest, most aggressive hippo gets to gulp the most marbles and win. Perfection. Players have to race a ticking timer to solve a 3D puzzle before all the neatly placed pieces explode from their  places. 

Simon. The coolest game of all- players memorize and mimic light and sound patterns. It is a game best played in dim light; if a player sits at the right angle, the red, blue, yellow, and green lights could dance on the ceiling... take note, Lionel Richie. 

The game's electronic tones reminded me of the final sequence in Close Encounters of The First Kind, one of the first movies I remember seeing. My mom and uncle, the finest of Trekkies, loved the movie, but the praying mantis like alien gave me nightmares. If I could master the game, though, maybe I could master her language, too.

Little did I know, sitting in the dark, studying patterns, responding in kind the best I could, Simon (along with my other favorite games) was preparing me for adulthood. But was I learning the right message? Should we teach our children that following the rules yields success? 

Movies like Close Encounters showed me that even the most elite in their fields could be flummoxed and had to be adaptable -- the smartest people existed in a constant state of learning, not a state of certainty. Just when they think they've solved a problem, a new variable is introduced and it's back to the drawing board.

photo credit: museumofplay.org

The older I get, the more it becomes clear that adults are figuring out each challenge as they go. The rule sheet is long lost and players do their best to figure out, make up, and reinterpret the instructions with each move. Children and adults alike are just feeling around in the dark, following, for right or wrong, the examples other, presumably more experienced, adults provide. Experts emerge with theories to guide us, but they can't factor every variable, their truth is often subjective. 

We're all just trying to figure things out before they blow up in our faces, doing our best to avoid the task of picking up the pieces and starting again. Try as we may, our success often depends on the luck of the draw-- sometimes we climb, sometimes we tumble. Adults claim they have no time for games, but play may be the key to better living.

photo credit: memegenerator.net

There are nearly ten years separating me and my kid sister, so I got to play a bit longer than other people my age. Games of Operation and Perfection seemed endless, my sister masterfully making new rules to pave her way to victory...cheating sums it up.

But she didn't know she was cheating. She was clever enough to know there was more than one means to an end-- she simply wouldn't be forced into an ill suited means. She knew there was a problem and she needed to solve it. She also understood there would be a winner and a loser... who likes to lose?

photo credit: seinfeldlessons.tumblr.com

If the tiny tweezers touched the patient's metallic funny bone incision, my sister declared that it didn't count. The red nose flickered and the board vibrated with each buzz as she dug into the cavity and removed the pesky plastic pieces. I rarely got a turn-- she cured the patient her way, so my services were unnecessary. I was there simply to observe the historic moment in medicine.

Against my sister, time became irrelevant in Perfection. If the clicking clock came close to a conclusion, she not so subtly turned the dial back a few seconds to give herself more time. She'd solve the problem in her time and my whining and shoving never changed it. Rules be damned-- she redefined the pathway to Perfection.

It has taken me years to appreciate my sister's rejection of the rules. The only thing her solutions hurt were my ego... I, too, didn't like to lose. Granted, life is more nuanced, more complex, but who is to say that conforming to established expectations and boundaries is a means to success or progress? 

Is it more noble to draw an unlucky card and accept the consequence, or to keep drawing cards until you find something you can live with? Is it better to relinquish your turn when you can't complete a task the way others want you to...to pass the buck and let someone else solve the problem in the name of tradition?

photo credit: www.moorebenefits.com

Now my kid sister is a mom and we sit and play the same games with her children. My niece takes up the torch of defying the rules...my sister does her best now to teach her to follow them. Time is funny like that. 

Teaching new players the rules is more about keeping the peace... no one wants to upset the silent agreement. For now, and in instances like those of game play, I chose to call what some call cheating- innovating; I acknowledge, however, there are no absolutes in the contexts of choosing to conform or innovate. But what do I know anyway? I'm just another fumbling adult.

What do you think? Is it better to teach children to follow the rules or to give them an avenue of innovative problem solving? You can leave your insight in the comment section. I'd love to read your point of view.

All The World Is A Stage

As a child of the 80s, Wham was one of the coolest duos to hit pop scene. With their bubble gum beats, bright day-glow getups, and life's a party attitude, how was a girl to resist? It was sonic joy.

Photo credit: giphy.com

By this time, I'd have figured out that vocalists weren't directly addressing me; otherwise, lyrics like "...now you tell me that you're having a baby, I'll tell you that I'm happy if you want me to," would have been mightily confusing. A few years earlier I had a meltdown when Barry Manilow crooned, "Sweet Melissa...come into my arms." In my mind, there could be only one Melissa. That's the power of voice, though.

1984 was a time of awakening- Prince released Purple Rain; Jersey's own Bon Jovi urged me to runaway; Kenny Loggins helped me cut loose, footloose. If Prince could be a self-made icon, Bon Jovi a Jersey kid made good, and Loggins a reminder of rebellious spirit, I could be anything. Naturally, I, too, would be a pop star, inspiring listeners with nothing but my voice. But where to begin?

Photo credit: buzzfeed.com

My best friend's first floor bedroom window seemed the best place to stage our act. Her sheer blue drapes, our stage curtain; the kids riding bikes and the adults coming home from work in the parking lot, our captive audience. We loaded her red tape recorder with a mix of songs to sing for Hensyn Village.

Sometimes, in preparation, we'd have to sit listening to the radio for what seemed like hours, waiting to press record at just the right time. Every now and again, you could hear our families in the background of these tracks, "What the hell are you listening to..." Columbia House fixed all that-- we could order 11 tapes for a penny. What a steal!

photo credit: 91x.com

Showtimes would vary, but for a while- we gave it our all. Propping that red recorder, parting the curtain, and putting on our best radio voices for a proper introduction, all the world was our stage. We were sure it was just a matter of time until we were discovered. With our faces pressed to the dark screen, we'd sing out our eight year old hearts- certain we were radio ready, the perfect mimics. 

I'm not sure why we stopped. I imagine the adults trudging home, tired from a long day at work, asked our parents to have us pipe down. The window remained a stage, but the set changed. For a while it was a bank teller window...because what kid didn't want to play bank? Later, it was a fast food window. Every now and again, though, we'd make it a DJ booth- instead of singing, we'd announce songs like MTV VJs and Morning Zoo DJs. When Barbie and the Rockers were released, we tried to rekindle our singing career, but our efforts were short lived and half hearted. But the power of voice stayed with me.

photo credit: collectorsweekly.com

I'm still learning new ways to use my voice. I'm still trying to help others find theirs...why else would I be an English teacher? I decided to write for an audience instead of for myself, but there is something distant in writing's reach, something controlled in its release. About a year ago, I decided to take up singing lessons- a challenge to my comfort zone, trying to find a fuller version of my voice. It remains one of the most unnerving endeavors of my adult life.

I'm still, strangely, embarrassed to sing in front of my teacher. Maybe it has something to do with the 5 x 5 lesson space- there's nowhere to hide. As I child, I belted with reckless abandon; now I'm terrified of making a mistake or sounding foolish, which only adds to my frustration. I know I need to let go; I know mistakes are part of learning; I know the futility of perfectionism, but I still find myself insecure and embarrassed. Fear inhibits my progress and ultimately my voice. It's funny how these things never occurred to me as a kid-- singing was a way of letting go, how strange as an adult it's a means of learning to let go. I miss the innate wisdom of childhood.

A few nights ago, Lynn Noble, new author and professional artist, offered me a kind of affirmation. At the age of 50, she debuted her first photograph exhibit and poetry collection, Let The Spirit Move You. Her positive vibrations buzzed through the the downtown art gallery as she shared her poetry.

photo credit: Lynn Noble (book cover)

Her meditative reflections address the freedom born of stillness of mind, but it was one of her last readings, "Morning Song," that gave me goose bumps: "The birds wake up singing.../ happy to be alive./ Even before the light of day shines through,/ they know it is coming. It reminded me that our voices are a source of joy, a source of hope. It reminded me that my journey has value, value worth singing about. Her voice inspired me and so I'm inclined to replenish that which the universe served me, excited where it leads us. 

Thank You, Parker Posey

In fifth grade, twenty years old seemed ancient. The adult world with its freedoms and noise appeared an unreachable golden ring. I'd stare at distant airplanes, imagining the faraway adventures adults everywhere else but here  seemed to enjoy. I'd been as far as the Jersey shore, but I couldn't wait to see all the world held on the other side of the murky Atlantic. 

By sixth grade I started to feel a bit like Allison Reynolds (thank you, Ally Sheedy. Thank you, most of all, John Hughes). There's a beautifully sad scene in the Breakfast Club where the group mocks her desire to run away and she argues, mostly to convince herself of the possibilities: "I can run away and I can go to the ocean, I can go to the country, I can go to the mountains. I could go to Israel, Africa, Afghanistan."  

photo credit: picslist.com

At the time, Afghanistan wasn't even on my radar... how exocitc. How exciting. Her overwhelming urge to break free and break into the wide world was palpable. My youth anchored me to the mundane, my every move predetermined by the adults dictating my day. I wanted to fast forward to womanhood, to sail into vast sea of possibilities. 

Like a prisoner, I was willing to tunnel my way out of my caged existence. Armed with nothing but one of my mom's flimsy silver spoons, I crouched at the base of our communal mailboxes with my best friend and her spoon. We dug through the mulch and rocky soil, chatting about the adventures we'd have when we arrived at whatever place was on the other side of our tunnel, China we supposed. We dug into the late hours of the afternoon, our progress halted by unforeseen circumstances.

We had no formal tunnel training and knew nothing of engineering a proper international passageway. We were oblivious to everyone and everything else- we had total focus, which probably explains why we didn't notice the lilting mailbox. About two feet into our efforts, the mailbox collapsed- 10 tenant's bills and BMG music offers crashed around us. Just like that, we were no longer adventurers-- we were vandals. Vandals in very deep trouble. But trouble, like childhood, does not last forever.

On the cusp of forty, I still long for travel adventures. I boarded an airplane for the first time at twenty-five and basked in Florida sunshine. I've since laughed through a road trip to Vermont, cruised Royal Caribbean with dear friends, honeymooned in the Riviera Maya, and stood in awe at Niagara Falls. At least once a year we travel to New Orleans, my soulmate-- there I imagine that I'm as close to Europe as a person can be without crossing the pond. 

I daydream about island hopping in Greece, sipping sangria in Madrid, and falling in love with Michelangelo as I marvel at the fruit of his misery in Vatican City. Turns out the freedom of the adult world that I fantasized about as a kid exists only for those who can afford it, a reality I embrace and accept in the spirit of Parker Posey's character, Liz, featured on Louie. 

Photo credit: Reddit.com

After Liz, who nearly died as a child, and Louie, a hilarious hard luck case, frantically frolic through a magically Manhattan moment, the two share their dreams. Liz, like me, yearns to travel to a far off place. Louie tells her she should just do it- just go pursue her dream. In a moment of beautifully poignant wisdom and writing, she answers that she will never go. For her the desire and longing have become a thing of beauty. It's the want of it that fills some deep internal crack.

Maybe one day I'll get to live the itinerary etched under my skin. Maybe I won't. The adventure that I now seek is within. Freedom doesn't come from external travel- that would be too easy. The more I journey inward, the more liberated and excited I become. 

A Maniac Flashes Back

Three businesses proliferate in Bethlehem: tattoo shops, pizza places, and beauty salons. From the looks of it, vape joints will soon join their ranks and litter local street corners and strip malls. Salons, though, dominate the landscape. It's a case of quantity trumping quality.

I'm loyal, sometimes to a fault, so when I find a stylist that can maneuver my cowlicks, inconsistent curls, and pension for change- I stick with her. It took a while, but I finally found my temple of beauty. Beautique is my salon of choice, but whenever I go, I feel more like I'm visiting a group of girlfriends.

The small shop swells with heat and laughter-- there's a real sense of community and camaraderie, a refreshing change of pace from austere or cosmopolitan alternatives. It doesn't hurt that two of the women are sisters and the rest are life long friends. Recently, they've started carrying accessories from a local artist and client. The menagerie of shiny baubles never fails to lure me like a barracuda. Hunting through the sparkling wares, I found a relic.

"Are those leg warmers?!" Leg warmers! Tubular sweaters for chilly shins. The small black bunches were slouched over cardboard booties, accented with shimmering hearts. I was swept away in a current of nostalgia with no life jacket, dangerously close to an impulse purchase that was sure to collect dust. My mind was swimming with 80s splendor.

One look at Jennifer Beals, circa 1983, and there was no denying the power of legwarmers. Flashdance was everything. At the age of 8, I wanted to live my life in a black leotard and matching leg warmers.

photo credit: chud.com

What could possibly be cooler than a beautiful welder by day, exotic dancer by night wowing elitist dance snobs with her jaw dropping Pittsburgh Conservatory of Dance and Repertory audition, a blend of modern dance, ballet, and breakdancing. Alex Owens (Jennifer Beals) was independent, tough, talented, sexy, and vulnerable. Lord, the woman taught me to take off my bra without removing my shirt. She was magic! My sweatshirt necklines never stood a chance.

photo credit: lyriquediscorde.com

I became a maniac on the grassy field, apartment adjacent, blaring Irene Cara from my from my taperecorder, twirling in the crisp light, leaping through the air, finally landing on the high voltage green machine. Danger be damned.

photo credit: cracked.com

Once on my electric stage, I'd stamp my feet, point at imaginary judges, and sing, "I can have it all/ Now I'm dancing for my life..." Fuchsia legwarmers over my white double laced LA Gears were an apt substitute for Alex's ensemble in the cold autumn months. I was the dancing queen of my little world.

photo credit: tinypic.com

Standing lost in thought at Beautique's register, I didn't realize I had picked up the bedazzled black legwarmers. I guess I was clutching the free-me. Fearless me- dancing on the green machine me. I'm still here, though, dancing through my life. I just decided to leave the black legwarmers in the 80s... where they belong. 

A Piggy Runs Through It

Picture day- I dreaded it as a student; I dread it more as teacher. I imagine students crowded around crisp yearbooks, carefully inking out my front teeth, scribbling devil horns on my carefully styled hair, the glossy page squeaking beneath the crude sharpie as it adds some adult acne to my airbrushed face. Soon, my new found gappy smile would find its way to some social media site I never heard of-- Snapchat was just about over by the time I caught wind, so I'm sure some brave new website hosts the same old online antics. Ignorance is bliss.

Besides the imminent defacement, sitting for the snapshot steals time better spent plowing through a pile of papers or researching a new angle on an old canon. But teaching is lousy with such trivialities. Standing over my cluttered desk, punching staples into a stack of vocabulary packets is one of those inconveniences-- this mindless moment brought to you by Sharp Copiers- Sharp, it will do half the job half of the time. This serendipitous occasion, though, prompted an unexpected epiphany- I have a very visible problem.

"Is purple your favorite color or something?" A student wandered into my classroom early for our 8th period English class. What a random question. Where did she get that idea? I stopped guessing as my curious eyes moved from the translucent purple stapler in my right hand to the stack of papers next to my cell phone, encased in purple, and finally rested on my very purple blouse.  How about that?

"You know what, Jodi? It just may be... I never realized it, but now it's hard to ignore." She twisted her grin and nodded at my filing cabinet, my keys dangling from a purple key ring-- below them sat my purple work bag and from my bag poked my purple polkadot umbrella. She suspected shenanigans- a big purple denial. In the fleeting seconds between this awakening and the first bell, I did a mental inventory of my purple possessions.

Kindle cover, purple; living room walls, purple; throw pillows, purple; my dog's squeaky toy, purple; the comically large pen I boosted from my dentist's office, purple. How could I never have seen this? How far back does it go? My guess, my profound purple addiction is rooted in childhood...when in doubt, dig through childhood. Then it hit me... damn you, Miss Piggy.

One of my first and absolute favorite childhood toys was a Miss Piggy puppet. She wore a strapless, sateen evening gown with long formal purple gloves and violet shadow coated her bulbous blue eyes. Whenever I worked my purple Piggy puppet, I would flail her arms and mimic her signature, "hiya!" I'm sure my mother never regretted mall hopping at the peak of holiday shopping madness to find my plastic playmate. Never once could she have possibly longed to launch the menace from our second story window while I batted her calves, "Hiiiiyah! Hiyah! Hiyah!"

Piggy was practically family! My sister even claimed possession of her when I was too old and cool for this now vintage doll.Piggy even made it to the family photo album the day my then three year old sister giggled, "Mommy!" as she swung the doll by its hair. In 1988, bold shadow with a thick liner was a smash on magazine covers. Combine my mom's makeup with my her then frosted wavy hair and in my sister's baby brain, voila- Piggy = mommy. We took a family photo using Piggy as a stand in for Mom. Poor Mom- no matter how beautiful, no woman wants to be compared to a pig. No good deed goes unpunished.Luckily Mom has a good sense of humor.

She has a sharp wit and isn't afraid to get silly. While other kids were learning campfire songs, we were singing, "It was a one eyed, one horned, flyin' purple people eater..." Another source of the purple problem surfaces! All in all, I suppose my love of all things purple is akin to my affection for my childhood memories. Somewhere in my subconscious I was inspired to plant beautifully subtle reminders of happy days gone by in my daily adult life.

The bell rings and brings me back to Jodi and the rest of my kids. They begrudging plop last night's writing assignment, sure to be peppered with purple prose, on my desk as they shuffle to their seats. Looks like I've built myself a sort of purple paradise.

The Wonder Of The Woman

Three things mattered to me in 1979- my mom, my blankie, and my New Adventures of Wonder Woman. My mom and I lived alone in a two bedroom apartment and there weren’t other kids in the complex; luckily I had a cast of imaginary playmates: Marsha Brady,Cookie Monster-- pretty much the entire Sesame Street cast--, Sandy-- Sandy from Grease, not Sandy the dog from Little Orphan Annie. None of them, though, held a candle to Wonder Woman. Linda Carter as Diana Prince was equal parts stunning and strong. With her bulletproof bangles, lasso of truth, and invisible jet, no villain stood a chance, but I didn’t want to play with Diana. No, that wasn’t enough --  I wanted to be Diana.

You have to dress for the job you want, which is why Underoos were the best invention, ever. Wearing them beneath my pink T-shirt and brown corduroys felt like a delicious secret. On the surface I may have looked like an average 3 year old with a blanket, but underneath it all, I was an Amazon princess with a cloak of justice. In my Wonder Woman Underoos, I could face the forces of evil. The idea of helping others, seeking no credit, and standing up for myself without decimating my foes was firmly embedded in my subconscious. 

As each episode began, thunder crashed, horns flitted as soulful sopranos rose to a spasmodic crescendo, “Wonder Woman, Wonder Woman…” That was our cue.Together, Diana Prince and I would spin, arms outstretched, eyes locked on our target with each rotation-- transformed. All that remained was our patriotic, crime-fighting underwear. Of course, my spin may have lacked a certain grace. It wasn’t easy springing from the comfort of a calico couch, hitting my mark- livingroom center, vigorously pulling off my shirt, pants, and shoes, pausing briefly for a power pose, and finally chasing an imaginary assailant all in time with the screen. Plus, I had the added task of singing my own transformation anthem, so all things considered- I pretty much nailed it.

Photo Credit: http://pulptastic.com/15-things-know-dating-low-maintenance-girl/

For the next hour or so, I would mime every action sequence, zooming around the apartment in hot pursuit of some mad scientist or criminal mastermind. Now and again I enlisted the support of my mother on my crime fighting missions. No matter what she was doing, Mom would drop everything to climb aboard my invisible jet. Thinking of my then 26 year old mother straddling air and galloping around the living room with me still makes me chuckle. Together, we were unstoppable. If I couldn't be Wonder Woman, I wanted to be like my mom. Time proved, though, that I already lived with the real hero and I was struck with wonder. When I told my mother that she looked like Wonder Woman, I meant it as a supreme compliment. 

Looking back, I would be hard pressed to recap a single episode-- that's probably because I never sat through one in its entirety. I was so busy participating that I didn't have time to study the plot. All I knew was in each episode, there was danger, there was Diana, there was hope. Diana's transformation- her bravery, her beauty, her selflessness- those details I remember well. Those traits I do my best to internalize. As a child, that show empowered me. It, along with my mother, showed me women could be an unstoppable force. As a woman, it reminds me of the power of imagination and the necessity of heros. In 1979, for fifty minutes every Tuesday, I could make a difference in the world… and look stunning in the process. Today, I still fight the good fight, replacing the lasso of truth with lesson plans to share truth.