Ingredients
1 1/2 pounds lean ground beef
1 green bell pepper, chopped
1 onion, chopped
2 (29 ounce) cans tomato sauce
1 (16 ounce) package macaroni
Directions
Cook pasta according to package directions. Drain.
In a Dutch oven, brown ground beef over medium heat. Add chopped onion, and cook until onion is soft. Add green pepper and tomato sauce; cook until pepper is soft.
Serve sauce over pasta.
Showing posts with label chef jaide. Show all posts
Showing posts with label chef jaide. Show all posts
Monday, October 17, 2011
Beef & Onion Cheese Ball
Ingredients
Serves: 24
3 - 8 ounce packages of cream cheese, softened(reduced fat is fine)
1.5 teaspoons garlic powder (not garlic salt!)
1.5 teaspoons Accent(R) Seasoning
3 green onions, sliced finely or chopped.
1 jar dried beef, chopped and rinsed to remove salt.
Preparation method
Prep: 2 hours 15 mins
1.
Mix cream cheese, garlic powder, accent, green onions and 1/2 of the chopped beef. Form into one or two cheese balls. Roll in remaining dried beef to coat. Refrigerate at least 2 hours before serving.
Serves: 24
3 - 8 ounce packages of cream cheese, softened(reduced fat is fine)
1.5 teaspoons garlic powder (not garlic salt!)
1.5 teaspoons Accent(R) Seasoning
3 green onions, sliced finely or chopped.
1 jar dried beef, chopped and rinsed to remove salt.
Preparation method
Prep: 2 hours 15 mins
1.
Mix cream cheese, garlic powder, accent, green onions and 1/2 of the chopped beef. Form into one or two cheese balls. Roll in remaining dried beef to coat. Refrigerate at least 2 hours before serving.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
The Long Goodbye
Nothing prepared me for the loss of my mother. Even knowing that she would die did not prepare me. A mother, after all, is your entry into the world. She is the shell in which you divide & become a life. Waking up in a world without her is like waking up in a world without sky: unimaginable. And because my mother was relatively young -64- I feel robbed of 20 years with her I'd always imagined having.
In the months that followed my mother's death, I managed to look like a normal person. But I was not ok. I was in grief. Nothing seemed important. Daily tasks were exhausting. At one point, I did not wash my hair for 10 days. I felt that I had abruptly arrived at a terrible, insistent truth about the impermanence of the everyday. Why had I not known that this was what life really amounted to?
I was not entirely surprised to find that being a mourner was lonely. But I was surprised to discover that I felt lost. In the days following my mother's death, I did not know what I was supposed to do, nor, it seemed, did my friends & family, especially those who had never suffered a similar loss. And I found no relief in that worn-out refrain that at least my mother was "no longer suffering".
Mainly, I thought one thing: My mother is dead & I want her back.
When we talk about love, we go back to the start. But this is the story of an ending, of death, & it has no beginning. That's what makes her a mother: you cannot start the story.
There is my mother, & then, suddenly, there is her cancer. It begins with a phone call, a scan, a shock. Disbelief reigns. There would be no surgery. The disease had spread too far.
If the condition of grief is nearly universal, it's transactions are exquisitely personal. My grief, I know, has been shaped by the particular person my mother was to me, and by the fact that she died at 64 (the same age my father was when he died). Then, too, I was bound up with her in ways that strecthed beyond our relationship. I now live in the house where I grew up. I always see things that remind me of her.
As I write this, I am hit by a feeling of error, a sense that during my early twenties, when I thought my mother never quiter understood me, it was I who saw her incompletely. I took for granted so many of her seemingly casual qualities.
So much of dealing with a disease is waiting. Except in the waiting you keep forgetting that "it" will really happen - it's more like a threat, an anxiety. Other people got used to my mother dying of cancer. But I did not. Each day, sunlight came like a knife to a wound that was not healed.
Those were strange, delirious days.They'd give her morphine for the pain, but the moment they got it under control, it would intensify, & she'd begin moaning again. When she did wake she was irritable. I kept asking the nurses to give her more morphine. And the nurse said "If she's in hospice, they'll give her more drugs, they'll minimize her pain, but she might die."
I heard a lot about the idea of dying "with dignity" while my mother was sick. It was only near her very end that I gave much thought to what this idea meant. I didn't actually feel it was undignified for my mother's body to fail - that was the human condition. Having to help my mother on & off the toilet was difficult, but it was natural. The real indignity, it seemed, was dying where no one cared for you the way your family should, dying where it was hard for your family to be with you & where excessive measures might be taken to keep you alive past a moment that called for letting go. I didn't want that for my mother. I didn't want to pretend she wasn't going to die.
"Hey baby!"
These are the last words I hear her say. Then she closes her eyes again. Instead of words there comes a horrible pain - pain of a kind I have never witnessed, a shuddering, bone-deep pain that swallows her up whenever the hospice nurse moves her or washes her or when we roll her on her side to change her & get her blood circulating.
In the last few days, she begins to look very young. Her face has lost so much weight, the bones show through like a child's. I hold her hand. I smooth her face. Her skin has begun to feel waxy; my fingers slide dully over it.
As she dies, she opens her eyes, looks at us, & takes one final rattling breath. She has chosen to look at us, to say "Goodbye, I love you, goodbye".
I think she had the most beautiful smile in the world. And she was very warm to lie next to, soft, like a blanket.
And so we sat with my mother's body, holding her hands. I kept touching her face, which was rubbery but still hers, feeling morbid as I did it, but feeling, too, that it was strange that I should think so. This was my mother. For 20 minutes she was warm & she didn't look dead. She didn't look alive either. But she didn't have the glazed, absent expression I had expected. Her being seemed present. I could feel it hovering at the ceiling of the room, changing, but not gone. In a daze, I said goodbye. I kissed my mother's forehaed - waxy, the way it had been for days now. I said, "You were very brave, & I love you".
What had actually happened still seemed implausible: A person was present your entire life, & then one day she disappeared & never came back. It resisted belief. Even when a death is foreseen, I was surprised to find, it still feels sudden - an instant that could have gone differently.
A death from a long illness is different from a sudden death. I have experienced both of those with each of my parents. It gives you time to say goodbye & time to adjust to the idea that the beloved will not be with you anymore. A friend said that my mother's death had surely been easier to bear because I had known it was coming. I almost bit her head off! Easier to bear compared to what?
It is human to want our friends & family to recover from pain, to look for a silver lining - or so I reminded myself. But when people stop mentioning the dead person's name to you, the silence can seem worse than the pain of hearing those familiar, beloved syllables. After a loss, you have to learn to believe the dead one is dead. It doesn't come naturally.
In the weeks after my mother's death, I experienced an acute nostalgia. This longing for a lost time was so intense I thought it might split me in two. I was consukmed by memories of seemingly trivial things.
She is gone, & I will be, too, one day. There is nothing "fixed" about my grief. I don't have the same sense that I'm sinking into the ground with every step I take. But there aren't any "conclusions" I can come to, other than personal ones. I'm more at peace because that old false sense of the continuity of life has returned.
I think about my mother every day, but not as concertedly as I used to. She crosses my mind like a spring cardinal that flies past the edge of your eye. I think about all the things I never said along the way, about how much her example meant to me. The bond between a mother & a child is so unlike any other that it is categorically irreplaceable.
In the months that followed my mother's death, I managed to look like a normal person. But I was not ok. I was in grief. Nothing seemed important. Daily tasks were exhausting. At one point, I did not wash my hair for 10 days. I felt that I had abruptly arrived at a terrible, insistent truth about the impermanence of the everyday. Why had I not known that this was what life really amounted to?
I was not entirely surprised to find that being a mourner was lonely. But I was surprised to discover that I felt lost. In the days following my mother's death, I did not know what I was supposed to do, nor, it seemed, did my friends & family, especially those who had never suffered a similar loss. And I found no relief in that worn-out refrain that at least my mother was "no longer suffering".
Mainly, I thought one thing: My mother is dead & I want her back.
When we talk about love, we go back to the start. But this is the story of an ending, of death, & it has no beginning. That's what makes her a mother: you cannot start the story.
There is my mother, & then, suddenly, there is her cancer. It begins with a phone call, a scan, a shock. Disbelief reigns. There would be no surgery. The disease had spread too far.
If the condition of grief is nearly universal, it's transactions are exquisitely personal. My grief, I know, has been shaped by the particular person my mother was to me, and by the fact that she died at 64 (the same age my father was when he died). Then, too, I was bound up with her in ways that strecthed beyond our relationship. I now live in the house where I grew up. I always see things that remind me of her.
As I write this, I am hit by a feeling of error, a sense that during my early twenties, when I thought my mother never quiter understood me, it was I who saw her incompletely. I took for granted so many of her seemingly casual qualities.
So much of dealing with a disease is waiting. Except in the waiting you keep forgetting that "it" will really happen - it's more like a threat, an anxiety. Other people got used to my mother dying of cancer. But I did not. Each day, sunlight came like a knife to a wound that was not healed.
Those were strange, delirious days.They'd give her morphine for the pain, but the moment they got it under control, it would intensify, & she'd begin moaning again. When she did wake she was irritable. I kept asking the nurses to give her more morphine. And the nurse said "If she's in hospice, they'll give her more drugs, they'll minimize her pain, but she might die."
I heard a lot about the idea of dying "with dignity" while my mother was sick. It was only near her very end that I gave much thought to what this idea meant. I didn't actually feel it was undignified for my mother's body to fail - that was the human condition. Having to help my mother on & off the toilet was difficult, but it was natural. The real indignity, it seemed, was dying where no one cared for you the way your family should, dying where it was hard for your family to be with you & where excessive measures might be taken to keep you alive past a moment that called for letting go. I didn't want that for my mother. I didn't want to pretend she wasn't going to die.
"Hey baby!"
These are the last words I hear her say. Then she closes her eyes again. Instead of words there comes a horrible pain - pain of a kind I have never witnessed, a shuddering, bone-deep pain that swallows her up whenever the hospice nurse moves her or washes her or when we roll her on her side to change her & get her blood circulating.
In the last few days, she begins to look very young. Her face has lost so much weight, the bones show through like a child's. I hold her hand. I smooth her face. Her skin has begun to feel waxy; my fingers slide dully over it.
As she dies, she opens her eyes, looks at us, & takes one final rattling breath. She has chosen to look at us, to say "Goodbye, I love you, goodbye".
I think she had the most beautiful smile in the world. And she was very warm to lie next to, soft, like a blanket.
And so we sat with my mother's body, holding her hands. I kept touching her face, which was rubbery but still hers, feeling morbid as I did it, but feeling, too, that it was strange that I should think so. This was my mother. For 20 minutes she was warm & she didn't look dead. She didn't look alive either. But she didn't have the glazed, absent expression I had expected. Her being seemed present. I could feel it hovering at the ceiling of the room, changing, but not gone. In a daze, I said goodbye. I kissed my mother's forehaed - waxy, the way it had been for days now. I said, "You were very brave, & I love you".
What had actually happened still seemed implausible: A person was present your entire life, & then one day she disappeared & never came back. It resisted belief. Even when a death is foreseen, I was surprised to find, it still feels sudden - an instant that could have gone differently.
A death from a long illness is different from a sudden death. I have experienced both of those with each of my parents. It gives you time to say goodbye & time to adjust to the idea that the beloved will not be with you anymore. A friend said that my mother's death had surely been easier to bear because I had known it was coming. I almost bit her head off! Easier to bear compared to what?
It is human to want our friends & family to recover from pain, to look for a silver lining - or so I reminded myself. But when people stop mentioning the dead person's name to you, the silence can seem worse than the pain of hearing those familiar, beloved syllables. After a loss, you have to learn to believe the dead one is dead. It doesn't come naturally.
In the weeks after my mother's death, I experienced an acute nostalgia. This longing for a lost time was so intense I thought it might split me in two. I was consukmed by memories of seemingly trivial things.
She is gone, & I will be, too, one day. There is nothing "fixed" about my grief. I don't have the same sense that I'm sinking into the ground with every step I take. But there aren't any "conclusions" I can come to, other than personal ones. I'm more at peace because that old false sense of the continuity of life has returned.
I think about my mother every day, but not as concertedly as I used to. She crosses my mind like a spring cardinal that flies past the edge of your eye. I think about all the things I never said along the way, about how much her example meant to me. The bond between a mother & a child is so unlike any other that it is categorically irreplaceable.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Deviled Crab
Ingredients
1 3/4 pounds crabmeat
1/8 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
3/4 teaspoon hot pepper sauce
1 cup dry bread crumbs
4 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 tablespoon butter
1 cup all-purpose flour
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 cups clam juice
1/2 cup white wine
1/8 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1/8 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
1/2 cup heavy cream
1 1/2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1/4 cup fresh parsley, minced
1 1/2 tablespoons fresh basil, minced
Directions
In a mixing bowl, place the crabmeat, salt, Worcestershire sauce, and hot pepper sauce. Mix thoroughly.
Shape the crab mixture into cakes and roll in bread crumbs.
In a medium skillet, heat 4 tablespoons of oil over medium heat. Saute the cakes about 5 minutes. Turn, then cook for another 5 minutes or until golden brown.
For the sauce: In a 1.5 quart saucepan, heat the 1 tablespoon of oil and 1 tablespoon of butter. slowly add the flour to the oil, stirring constantly. Cook for 5 minutes.
Slowly add the clam juice, whisking constantly and vigorously. Pour in white wine, black pepper, and crushed red pepper flakes. Bring to a simmer. Then add cream, parsley, and basil. Simmer, but do not boil. Mixture is done when thick enough to evenly coat the back of a spoon.
Serve the sauce over the crab cakes.
1 3/4 pounds crabmeat
1/8 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
3/4 teaspoon hot pepper sauce
1 cup dry bread crumbs
4 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 tablespoon butter
1 cup all-purpose flour
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 cups clam juice
1/2 cup white wine
1/8 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1/8 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
1/2 cup heavy cream
1 1/2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1/4 cup fresh parsley, minced
1 1/2 tablespoons fresh basil, minced
Directions
In a mixing bowl, place the crabmeat, salt, Worcestershire sauce, and hot pepper sauce. Mix thoroughly.
Shape the crab mixture into cakes and roll in bread crumbs.
In a medium skillet, heat 4 tablespoons of oil over medium heat. Saute the cakes about 5 minutes. Turn, then cook for another 5 minutes or until golden brown.
For the sauce: In a 1.5 quart saucepan, heat the 1 tablespoon of oil and 1 tablespoon of butter. slowly add the flour to the oil, stirring constantly. Cook for 5 minutes.
Slowly add the clam juice, whisking constantly and vigorously. Pour in white wine, black pepper, and crushed red pepper flakes. Bring to a simmer. Then add cream, parsley, and basil. Simmer, but do not boil. Mixture is done when thick enough to evenly coat the back of a spoon.
Serve the sauce over the crab cakes.
Chicken Milano
Ingredients
1 tablespoon butter
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 cup sun-dried tomatoes, chopped
1 cup chicken broth, divided
1 cup heavy cream
1 pound skinless, boneless chicken breast halves
salt and pepper to taste
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
2 tablespoons chopped fresh basil
8 ounces dry fettuccini pasta
Directions
In a large saucepan over low heat, melt butter; add garlic and cook for 30 seconds. Add the tomatoes and 3/4 cup of the chicken broth; increase to medium heat and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer, uncovered, for about 10 minutes or until the tomatoes are tender. Add the cream and bring to a boil; stirring. Simmer over medium heat until the sauce is thick enough to coat the back of a spoon.
Sprinkle the chicken with salt and pepper on both sides. In a large skillet over medium heat, warm oil and saute chicken. Press on chicken occasionally with a slotted spatula. Cook for about 4 minutes per side or until the meat feels springy and is no longer pink inside. Transfer to a board; cover and keep warm. Discard the fat from the skillet.
In the same skillet, over medium heat, bring 1/4 cup chicken broth to a boil; stirring the pan juices. Reduce slightly and add to the cream sauce; stir in basil and adjust seasonings to taste.
Meanwhile, bring a large pot of lightly salted water to a boil. Add fettuccine and cook for 8 to 10 minutes or until al dente; drain, transfer to a bowl and toss with 3 to 4 tablespoons of the sauce.
Cut each chicken breast into 2 to 3 diagonal slices. Reheat the sauce gently if needed. Transfer the pasta to serving plates; top with chicken and coat with the cream sauce; serve.
1 tablespoon butter
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 cup sun-dried tomatoes, chopped
1 cup chicken broth, divided
1 cup heavy cream
1 pound skinless, boneless chicken breast halves
salt and pepper to taste
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
2 tablespoons chopped fresh basil
8 ounces dry fettuccini pasta
Directions
In a large saucepan over low heat, melt butter; add garlic and cook for 30 seconds. Add the tomatoes and 3/4 cup of the chicken broth; increase to medium heat and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer, uncovered, for about 10 minutes or until the tomatoes are tender. Add the cream and bring to a boil; stirring. Simmer over medium heat until the sauce is thick enough to coat the back of a spoon.
Sprinkle the chicken with salt and pepper on both sides. In a large skillet over medium heat, warm oil and saute chicken. Press on chicken occasionally with a slotted spatula. Cook for about 4 minutes per side or until the meat feels springy and is no longer pink inside. Transfer to a board; cover and keep warm. Discard the fat from the skillet.
In the same skillet, over medium heat, bring 1/4 cup chicken broth to a boil; stirring the pan juices. Reduce slightly and add to the cream sauce; stir in basil and adjust seasonings to taste.
Meanwhile, bring a large pot of lightly salted water to a boil. Add fettuccine and cook for 8 to 10 minutes or until al dente; drain, transfer to a bowl and toss with 3 to 4 tablespoons of the sauce.
Cut each chicken breast into 2 to 3 diagonal slices. Reheat the sauce gently if needed. Transfer the pasta to serving plates; top with chicken and coat with the cream sauce; serve.
Catfish Tuscany
Ingredients
4 (4 ounce) fillets catfish
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
2 tablespoons butter, softened
1 1/2 tablespoons mayonnaise
4 roma tomatoes or sun-dried tomatoes, sliced thin
Directions
Preheat broiler to 500 degrees. Coat a broiling pan with nonstick cooking spray. Brush both sides of fillets with lemon juice, and then sprinkle with salt and pepper. Place fillets flat side up on prepared pan.
In a small bowl, mix Parmesan cheese, butter, and mayonnaise.
Broil fish about 4 inches from heat for 6 minutes. Remove pan from oven, and turn fillets over. Spread the cheese mixture evenly over each fillet. Top with tomato slices. Broil an additional 4 to 6 minutes, or until fish flakes easily with a fork.
4 (4 ounce) fillets catfish
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
2 tablespoons butter, softened
1 1/2 tablespoons mayonnaise
4 roma tomatoes or sun-dried tomatoes, sliced thin
Directions
Preheat broiler to 500 degrees. Coat a broiling pan with nonstick cooking spray. Brush both sides of fillets with lemon juice, and then sprinkle with salt and pepper. Place fillets flat side up on prepared pan.
In a small bowl, mix Parmesan cheese, butter, and mayonnaise.
Broil fish about 4 inches from heat for 6 minutes. Remove pan from oven, and turn fillets over. Spread the cheese mixture evenly over each fillet. Top with tomato slices. Broil an additional 4 to 6 minutes, or until fish flakes easily with a fork.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Deviled Alaskan Halibut
Ingredients:
2 lbs of Alaskan Halibut, 1 inch pieces
1/4 cup Vegetable Oil or Olive Oil
1 Tbsp finely chopped Garlic
1 16 oz can Tomato Puree
1 Tbsp Curry Powder, mild to hot
4 Tbsp fresh Lemon Juice
2 Tbsp Soy Sauce
1 cup Chicken Stock
1 tsp Garlic, chopped fine
1 cup Bread Crumbs
1 cup sharp Cheddar Cheese, grated
Directions:
In a large glass or stainless steel bowl beat the oil, the garlic and a few grindings of pepper together with a whisk until the ingredients are thoroughly mixed. Add the halibut and turn until coated and marinate at least 2 hours up to 24 hours. In a small sauce pan make the sauce by combining the tomato puree, garlic, the curry powder, lemon juice, soy sauce and chicken stock. Heat to boiling, stir thoroughly and hold at a simmer. Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Combine the bread crumbs and cheese in a plastic bag and add the fish to coat a few pieces at a time. Place coated halibut pieces on a non-fat cooking sprayed flat dish. Arrange the fish side by side with one layer only. Bake the fish undisturbed in the oven for about 10 minutes. Meanwhile, set the pan of sauce over high heat and bring to a boil. Remove the pan from the heat and after the fish has baked for about 10 minutes, spoon about half the sauce evenly over the fish. Bake the halibut for about 5 minutes longer. Serve at once directly from the dish and present the remaining sauce in a dish.
2 lbs of Alaskan Halibut, 1 inch pieces
1/4 cup Vegetable Oil or Olive Oil
1 Tbsp finely chopped Garlic
1 16 oz can Tomato Puree
1 Tbsp Curry Powder, mild to hot
4 Tbsp fresh Lemon Juice
2 Tbsp Soy Sauce
1 cup Chicken Stock
1 tsp Garlic, chopped fine
1 cup Bread Crumbs
1 cup sharp Cheddar Cheese, grated
Directions:
In a large glass or stainless steel bowl beat the oil, the garlic and a few grindings of pepper together with a whisk until the ingredients are thoroughly mixed. Add the halibut and turn until coated and marinate at least 2 hours up to 24 hours. In a small sauce pan make the sauce by combining the tomato puree, garlic, the curry powder, lemon juice, soy sauce and chicken stock. Heat to boiling, stir thoroughly and hold at a simmer. Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Combine the bread crumbs and cheese in a plastic bag and add the fish to coat a few pieces at a time. Place coated halibut pieces on a non-fat cooking sprayed flat dish. Arrange the fish side by side with one layer only. Bake the fish undisturbed in the oven for about 10 minutes. Meanwhile, set the pan of sauce over high heat and bring to a boil. Remove the pan from the heat and after the fish has baked for about 10 minutes, spoon about half the sauce evenly over the fish. Bake the halibut for about 5 minutes longer. Serve at once directly from the dish and present the remaining sauce in a dish.
Jade Scallops
Ingredients:
1 lb of scallops, soaked in water, dried
1/2 cup canned Baby Corn 1/2 cup stringed Snow Peas 1/2 cup sliced Water Chestnuts 1 cup chunked Bok Choy 1 Carrot, very thinly sliced 2 Garlic cloves; chopped 1 sl Ginger; chopped 1 cup Chicken Broth 1 Tbsp Dry Sherry 1 Egg white 1 tsp Cornstarch 3 cups Oil Salt and Pepper, to taste | ||
Directions:
Marinate scallops for 1 hour in egg white, salt, pepper, cornstarch and 1-2 tsp. oil. Heat wok hot and dry. When hot, add 3 cups oil. When it's just beginning to smoke, add scallops, stirring so they separate. After 1-2 minutes, drain them through colander, reserving 2-3 Tbsp oil. Return reserved oil to wok, add all vegetables, stir-frying or flipping the wok 2-3 minutes. Drain again, reserving 1 Tbsp oil. Again, return reserved oil to wok. Stir-fry garlic and ginger several seconds and add chicken broth, dry sherry, salt, pepper and cornstarch mixture. When it thickens, return scallops and vegetables to wok and allow them to become hot. Serve. Note: Make sure all sand is removed from scallops so they are not gritty. Make certain cooking oil is fresh so scallops remain white. |
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Why Don't Designers Cater to Full Figured Women?
We've all grown accustomed to seeing super-skinny models on the runways, acting as hangers for designer clothing. But even off the runway, designers still don't seem interested in designing pieces for the average American woman.
A lack of fashion choices for the typical American woman, who wears a Size 14, can be attributed to a reluctance amongst major designers to expand their lines to suit larger women, according to an article by Emili Vesliind of the Los Angeles Times. "The relationship between the fashion industry and fuller-figure women is at a standoff, marked by suspicion, prejudice and low expectations on both sides," Vesliind writes, "The fear of fat is so ingrained in designers and retailers that even among those who've successfully tapped the market, talking plus-size often feels taboo."
The fashion industry's reluctance to design for the average woman has left many women with few options when it comes to stylish clothing; chain stores and online retailers provide some relief, but the frustration that many women feel when trying to find plus-sized clothing is only growing as the average woman finds herself surrounded by piles of fairly terrible clothing. "I don't want any more polyester, hip-hop gear, frumpy jeans and themed capris," one average-sized woman writes, "I want the designers not to assume that I am a frumpy 55-year-old, middle-management employee. . . . Is anyone listening to us?"
One designer bucking the trend, Rachel Pally, can't believe that more of her contemporaries don't provide designer options for all women: "Fashion-forward plus-size women have no options," she says. "They're so thirsty for the product. It's like, 'Hello? Don't you guys want to make money?'" Pally's design team was initially opposed to her plus-sized line, fearing that it would ruin her reputation, which appears to be a common theme amongst major designers. "There was a lot of resistance," Pally admits, "but I did it anyway. I used to say my brand was for everyone, but it really wasn't."
Many major designers feel that expanding their lines to accomodate the average woman will take away from the exclusivity of their products. As Vesliind notes, many top designers "worry that sallying into the market will dilute their brand's mystique and, ultimately, their sales. Prada designer Miuccia Prada may have had these concerns in mind when she stated that she would not sell clothes over a size 10."
Plus-sized supermodel Emme says these designers are to blame for the lack of fashionable options for most women: "Stores feel they don't want to give in to women with more flesh. There's this idea of slovenliness and all those stereotypes and myths that have been embraced since the '50s. It's ridiculous," she says, "It really does come from very few edicts from a few people," she said. "You have to ask yourself why they are [defending] against this. Seriously, there are issues there."
One wonders if the difficult economic times will cause some designers to reconsider their anti-plus-size stances and open their lines up to all consumers; there are millions of women who would love to drop a few dollars on a really great piece, providing someone is willing to give them the option.
A lack of fashion choices for the typical American woman, who wears a Size 14, can be attributed to a reluctance amongst major designers to expand their lines to suit larger women, according to an article by Emili Vesliind of the Los Angeles Times. "The relationship between the fashion industry and fuller-figure women is at a standoff, marked by suspicion, prejudice and low expectations on both sides," Vesliind writes, "The fear of fat is so ingrained in designers and retailers that even among those who've successfully tapped the market, talking plus-size often feels taboo."
The fashion industry's reluctance to design for the average woman has left many women with few options when it comes to stylish clothing; chain stores and online retailers provide some relief, but the frustration that many women feel when trying to find plus-sized clothing is only growing as the average woman finds herself surrounded by piles of fairly terrible clothing. "I don't want any more polyester, hip-hop gear, frumpy jeans and themed capris," one average-sized woman writes, "I want the designers not to assume that I am a frumpy 55-year-old, middle-management employee. . . . Is anyone listening to us?"
One designer bucking the trend, Rachel Pally, can't believe that more of her contemporaries don't provide designer options for all women: "Fashion-forward plus-size women have no options," she says. "They're so thirsty for the product. It's like, 'Hello? Don't you guys want to make money?'" Pally's design team was initially opposed to her plus-sized line, fearing that it would ruin her reputation, which appears to be a common theme amongst major designers. "There was a lot of resistance," Pally admits, "but I did it anyway. I used to say my brand was for everyone, but it really wasn't."
Many major designers feel that expanding their lines to accomodate the average woman will take away from the exclusivity of their products. As Vesliind notes, many top designers "worry that sallying into the market will dilute their brand's mystique and, ultimately, their sales. Prada designer Miuccia Prada may have had these concerns in mind when she stated that she would not sell clothes over a size 10."
Plus-sized supermodel Emme says these designers are to blame for the lack of fashionable options for most women: "Stores feel they don't want to give in to women with more flesh. There's this idea of slovenliness and all those stereotypes and myths that have been embraced since the '50s. It's ridiculous," she says, "It really does come from very few edicts from a few people," she said. "You have to ask yourself why they are [defending] against this. Seriously, there are issues there."
One wonders if the difficult economic times will cause some designers to reconsider their anti-plus-size stances and open their lines up to all consumers; there are millions of women who would love to drop a few dollars on a really great piece, providing someone is willing to give them the option.
My Father
Writing about my father is about as easy as wading through wet cement. My father was a complicated man, and my relationship with him was equally complex. To write about him, particularly to write about my relationship with him, brings back all the convolutions, all the contradictions, that I couldn’t reconcile during his life. The relationship was sometimes tortured, often peaceful, and full of love. I was my father’s baby, a “daddy’s girl” in many ways. I know that my image of my father has grown in complexity since he died. With his death, I have seen not only my own contradictory illusions, but also the human motives that can reconcile what I remember. I have begun to see a man who believed strongly in a particular code of ethics, a strict set of behaviors, which kept him on a particular track for good and ill throughout our family’s many misadventures. This must have been sorely tested when our brother died, but my father held to his principles. He kept what was left of our family together, he stayed with his grieving wife, and supported his surviving children as best he could. No wonder his patience sometimes wore thin with me, as the usual scrapes of childhood and adolescence grated on his stoic demeanor. No wonder he sometimes flared up for what at the time seemed like no reason. This ability to see him in full, however has come to me only in his absence and only with time, as my need and nostalgia for the false image of him fades. And as he becomes clearer to me in memory, so too does his influence over me. Looking back, I can begin to make out how he helped me grow in ways that continue beyond his lifespan. He was such a big figure in my life that only now, after his death, can I begin to see who I am beyond his shadow, what I am “after Daddy”. Before I move on, I must mourn and come to terms with my loss. That includes accepting the end of the possibility of reconciliation. I have always been my father’s daughter. What comes next is learning how to merge this role with that of the woman I may become. Writing about my father means reviving decades-old feelings of confusion and anger, of insecurities that reached so deep that I did not know how to trust myself with this life. It means writing about everything I would rather not face. I was his hope for the future and his ally. I was also his hostage; the one he was going to carry successfully through life. I don’t know if he ever tried to understand who I was, or who I was capable of becoming, as I progressed from his precocious little bookworm to a rebellious teen and then a young woman. Writing about him is often painful as each good memory either brings forth a bad one, or is followed swiftly by the saccharine aftertaste that lets me know that once again, as I did so often in my childhood, I am avoiding the unpleasant, the unhappy, and the true. Trying to decipher the influence of my father, of his legacy, I am once more a little girl, dependent and trusting, and sometimes betrayed. With all the pain and hesitation that I felt - that I still feel - about my father, about his illusions and his intelligence, his childlike and openhanded generosity and the harsh and unappeasable judgments he could bring down, I am only sure of this: He was my father and he is dead. And now that his active presence in my life is through, I can begin to see him as a complete and separate entity. I can begin to understand his continuing effect on me. This complex and contradictory man is very much a part of me. No matter how I approach the subject, I am still my father’s daughter. In retrospect, I see the loss of my father as a crucial factor in my growth, in my ability to finally walk away from childish ways that no longer serve me or my family. It’s a complicated intersection, the meeting of grief and growing, and at first glance the subjects seem so unrelated as to be impossible to match up. All I have to go on is the instinct that there is such an intersection and it will play a crucial role in my life. Self image is one of the primary gifts that daughters receive from their fathers, and self-esteem - or the lack of it - may perhaps be the major legacy left to us after we lose our fathers. After his funeral, when I was going through his papers, I was pleasantly surprised to find file folders full of my work from school. He had saved all my report cards. For me, what remains is both the love and the shock of betrayal as time and time again he brought me up short. I can clearly recall his great faith in me. And just as I lose myself in memories like these, I find myself interrupted by the other image that I tended to suppress during his life: the stern father whose word was law, who saw me as an unruly child in need of guidance, if not discipline. The moments when I miss my father most are not the ones I expected. Yes, I do wish he could walk me down the aisle at my wedding. I miss him more, I find, in the unexpected moments that remind me of how he was in day to day life. Going to sports collector’s shows & seeing items there he would love to have had, seeing his favorite teams play on television, the aging appearance of one of his favorite actors makes me - just for the moment - sad. These are the details that bring my father back to me, and also remind me of my loss. I find it hard to imagine what my life would be like, or what my loss would feel like, if I did not have these tangible memories. I regret not having my father here to witness more about my life but I know that I am lucky to have had the opportunity to know him, to have had his presence through my growing years. When something so painful happens, we want so desperately for it to not be true that we will ourselves to believe that it isn’t - that it hasn’t happened at all. The fact that in the natural order we are supposed to survive our parents does little to mitigate the depths of this loss or the intensity of our reaction. If anything, the assumption that such a loss is normal and natural, is at any rate preferable to the alternative of parents mourning their children, makes getting past our denial a little harder. We fear our pain; we fear being thought “childish” in the eyes of our friends. And so we suppress our reactions. No matter what our age, when our fathers die we are losing Daddy. You regress. I just never imagined my life without my father. And what bothered me the most was that there was this profound alteration in my view of the world after he died. In retrospect, I believe this is the way he would have wanted to go. He would have not tolerated illness or a slow decline. That sort of instantaneous departure leaves me with this hole, wondering where is he? What happened? I have the sadness and the disappointment of not having more of a relationship with my father. And I have the sadness of not being able to tell him how I felt and that he had been my hero as a child. I think, with time, he and I may have come to a closer relationship, but that time was not there. Being able to let go and take him and our relationship as it was, was very freeing. Life is precious, and it goes. The death of my father freed me from some of my old ways of life and inspired me to grow in others. What I do next is up to me. If we are being honest with ourselves, most of us will usually admit to some connection between the men we choose to love and the first man who loves us. These partners may be very different from our fathers, but our emotions toward them may be more about our fathers than about the mates we tell ourselves we have freely chosen. Freed by the absence of the imposing male presence of our fathers, we may finally be able to express our real needs and find mates or lifestyles that will fulfill us. I know how long I spent not seeing my father’s worst characteristic, the gap between his temper and his generosity, between his deep love and his inability to see me or my mother as we actually were. Sometimes, when I was with men who shared my father’s temper, I would simply refuse to acknowledge any problem at all. I sought out men who carried on the worst traits of my father, men who had short tempers and were quick to judgment. Men who left me feeling not only rejected but stupid as well. But when I was with them, for as long as I could, I would tell myself that their quick rage was only the flip side of their intelligence. When they cut me apart with cool, cruel observations, I would try to believe that I could reconcile their sharp words to the playful wit that I loved, as if by the sheer force of my belief I could turn their hurtful traits into endearing ones and could find emotional fulfillment in them. I was making believe I was happy. Yes, my father was a dear man and loving. But he was also capable of great cruelty. A grieving woman is a prickly person. Death isn’t catching but loneliness is, and if our partners withdraw into confusion and fear during this crisis, just when we need them so much, then we, already hindered by our troubles, experience a double abandonment. Sometimes, in our grief, we may cause disruptions where before they did not exist. Guilt, too, the hopeless guilt that comes with the knowledge that it’s too late to make amends, can twist us into pushing against love and sympathy, creating a chain reaction of thought. Death puts an end to all the possible scenarios, all the heroism we hoped for and what I lost may have been an equal, if uneasy, mix of real, protective Daddy and unrealized fantasy. But both disappeared with his death, forcing me to confront what I had wanted as well as what I had perhaps once had.
My Mother
Most women have struggled with their mothers at some point. But my fights with my mother weren’t just over unmade beds or broken curfews. They were personal, brutal, and about my dreams for a life that was far better than the one she could provide.
I wanted what most young women want: a cute apartment, a cool career, and the cash & freedom to travel. I wanted to run from the existence my mother had settled for: life in a noisy house in Louisiana that was filled with cigarette smoke & bitterness. My mother saw my ambition as a slap in her face. “You’re a snob,” she’d say when I told her about a book I was reading that I thought she’d like. Her antagonizing refrain was “Who do you think you are?” She’d punctuate it with a look of disgust & a drag on her cigarette.
As a teenager, I was jealous of friends who were close with their mothers. Some late nights, I’d take a chance & tell my mom about a crush I had. She’d be the best listener in the world. But when we fought the next day, she’d hurl my secrets back at me, reveling in the hurt look on my face. Finally, I decided I would never depend on her - or anyone else - for anything.
When I was 16, our brittle relationship reached a tipping point. It started innocently enough. Early one Sunday morning, I asked my mother to stop rummaging through my closet. She flew into a rage, screaming at me to pack up all my things & get out of her house, now. As I dragged my hot pink suitcase stuffed with all my possessions to the door, she told me never to come back. I never did.
During my early 20’s, I still called her occasionally but made certain not to tell her much about my life, even the good things - like meeting a man & building a career. As odd as it sounds, the less I revealed, the more we could talk - about the weather, what I was wearing that day, or other surface topics. I finally realized we were two very different people who wanted very different things. Or maybe we wanted the same things, but I was the one who’d figured out how to get them.
The space & time away from my mother gave me perspective on her own struggles. She was 60 when my father died, leaving her broke & alone. I’m sure she felt robbed of the life all her friends had enjoyed. I also learned that my parents didn’t have a good marriage - my father, the man I adored & always thought was a victim, wasn’t the best husband.
Now I realize that by taking her misfortunes out on me, my mother toughened me up. This person who was supposed to be my biggest ally was the very person I wound up fighting hardest against. But at least it taught me how to fight. In her own way, she pushed me to get everything I ever wanted.
I wanted what most young women want: a cute apartment, a cool career, and the cash & freedom to travel. I wanted to run from the existence my mother had settled for: life in a noisy house in Louisiana that was filled with cigarette smoke & bitterness. My mother saw my ambition as a slap in her face. “You’re a snob,” she’d say when I told her about a book I was reading that I thought she’d like. Her antagonizing refrain was “Who do you think you are?” She’d punctuate it with a look of disgust & a drag on her cigarette.
As a teenager, I was jealous of friends who were close with their mothers. Some late nights, I’d take a chance & tell my mom about a crush I had. She’d be the best listener in the world. But when we fought the next day, she’d hurl my secrets back at me, reveling in the hurt look on my face. Finally, I decided I would never depend on her - or anyone else - for anything.
When I was 16, our brittle relationship reached a tipping point. It started innocently enough. Early one Sunday morning, I asked my mother to stop rummaging through my closet. She flew into a rage, screaming at me to pack up all my things & get out of her house, now. As I dragged my hot pink suitcase stuffed with all my possessions to the door, she told me never to come back. I never did.
During my early 20’s, I still called her occasionally but made certain not to tell her much about my life, even the good things - like meeting a man & building a career. As odd as it sounds, the less I revealed, the more we could talk - about the weather, what I was wearing that day, or other surface topics. I finally realized we were two very different people who wanted very different things. Or maybe we wanted the same things, but I was the one who’d figured out how to get them.
The space & time away from my mother gave me perspective on her own struggles. She was 60 when my father died, leaving her broke & alone. I’m sure she felt robbed of the life all her friends had enjoyed. I also learned that my parents didn’t have a good marriage - my father, the man I adored & always thought was a victim, wasn’t the best husband.
Now I realize that by taking her misfortunes out on me, my mother toughened me up. This person who was supposed to be my biggest ally was the very person I wound up fighting hardest against. But at least it taught me how to fight. In her own way, she pushed me to get everything I ever wanted.
New Beginnings
In our lifetime we all choose our own roads to follow; sometimes we choose the right road and sometimes not. We all make mistakes along the way but it is the detours in life that sometimes end up strengthening us and fortifying us to be able to continue on our journey. You may journey alone or with others, at times you may even hear footsteps behind you; those are the footsteps of those that you have left behind or that have not continued to journey as far as you. Don’t look back! Keep the steady course as you walk the path of life. There is a reason that they are behind you and not in front of you, that reason is new beginnings.
As you walk through the fresh untouched earth remember that each new step is a new beginning, one that ends the one taken before it. Each and every time you take a new breath it is a fresh chance at a new beginning in life. No one can live focusing on their last breath.
I choose to walk boldly forward and forget the strife of the past. I wait with childlike anticipation each new moment and accepting every new beginning that is offered to me in this lifetime. I know that as long as I am walking my life’s path that I have eloquent surprises that I have yet to uncover along the way. I choose to forget the echoes of the past and instead I chose to live in my present where there is always the hope of the next new beginning.
So yes, I look forward with, much anticipation to new beginnings.
As you walk through the fresh untouched earth remember that each new step is a new beginning, one that ends the one taken before it. Each and every time you take a new breath it is a fresh chance at a new beginning in life. No one can live focusing on their last breath.
I choose to walk boldly forward and forget the strife of the past. I wait with childlike anticipation each new moment and accepting every new beginning that is offered to me in this lifetime. I know that as long as I am walking my life’s path that I have eloquent surprises that I have yet to uncover along the way. I choose to forget the echoes of the past and instead I chose to live in my present where there is always the hope of the next new beginning.
So yes, I look forward with, much anticipation to new beginnings.
I Love My Curves
I love the regal broadness of my shoulders going down past the swell of my breasts to the nip of my waist and then on to the expanse of my womanly hips. This is just the beginning of why I love my curves.
The fact that I can put on the same T-shirt as one of my friends and make it look completely different is fun! Even if you only see my shadow, there is no mistaking me for a man. I am all woman and I am more than all right with that.
I find pleasure in running my hand down my thigh and admiring how feminine yet powerful it feels. The smallness of my waist in my favorite pair of jeans is emphasized by the protrusion of my butt and the thickness of my thighs. No hard angles or straight lines here, only one delectable curve after another. In a photo shoot it's also fun to play with the lighting on my curves. They seem to make everything more dramatic.
It hasn't always been easy to embrace my body so figuratively and literally but I think that right now is one of the best times in recent history to be a voluptuous woman. There's no denying the sex appeal that an hourglass figure has over men. Some parts of society might still be pushing the mantra 'Thin is In' but I'll let the smile on my face and the sway in my walk speak for how happy I am being a curvy, sexy woman.
Why I Got Breast Implants
On Sept 13, 2007 I nervously walked into the plastic surgeon's office. The nurse calmly told me to change into a hospital gown, and then I sat on the bed anxiously as I waited to be brought into surgery. In only a few short hours I went through artificial puberty. I got breast implants! Of course, this decision was not taken lightly. I considered having the surgery for years but I was afraid of the procedure itself, the possible side effects, and even more importantly for me was the social stigma. I knew should I get breast augmentation I would encounter many mixed opinions, and as luck would have it I did and still do today which leads me to my frustration with peoples' reactions, (particularly women's reactions) to my body. The first time I encountered a critic was at a restaurant in the ladies restroom. A woman said, "I know what you did and I don't agree." I was taken aback. Who was she to comment on my life choices? I didn't tell her that I thought her outfit was lame. Not my place, right? Well, she kept going on about how I was a poor example to young women and that I was perpetuating the myth that every girl needs to look like a Barbie doll. I shook my head disagreeing with her logic. I don't represent every girl. I represent me. My reasons for getting implants are going to be different than the next woman. I didn't know what to say to my anti-silicone crusader except, "My body... my choice." She walked away clearly miffed. I, on the other hand, was hurt. I never wanted to be the walking billboard that read, "Get Boobs or Bust," or worse, "Conformist." I always took pride on having a healthy self-image yet I worried maybe now others would view me as a woman who was insecure, looking to mask that insecurity with a bigger chest. My fear was realized when I told the news to a male friend of mine. He said only girls who felt badly about themselves go under the knife. He didn't talk to me for a few days later saying he was disappointed in me. I never imagined my decision to get breast enhancement would rattle so many people. After all, I'm the one who did the countless hours of research finding the right doctor, paid for the procedure, and went through the surgery as well as the healing process. It was my journey. I did it for me; no one else. I decided to get implants for a pretty common reason. I was born with a 34 B-cup size and I wanted more volume. I had a difficult time filling certain outfits and bathing suits out, every bra I owned was padded to the max, and I take credit for introducing the phrase "chicken cutlets" to most of the women of southwest Louisiana. I simply wanted bigger boobs. Was I someone who looked at my body with dissatisfaction? No. If breast implants were never invented I would have happily gone about my life with a B-cup, but because there is such thing as cosmetic surgery it was an easy goal to accomplish. The moment I decided to get the surgery I was happy to let my family and friends know. Heck, I'll even tell strangers should they ask. Yet, I know plenty of women who opt for the surgery but never publicly admit it due to the fear of being judged as vain, vapid, superficial creatures. I'm here to say judge me if you will, make assumptions about my IQ, my occupation, or my self-confidence. With all the controversy and comments my breasts have garnered, might I say I've never felt happier and more comfortable in my skin than I do now. It was one of the best decisions of my life. The next time someone says, "Did you get implants?" I'll happily and non-defensively say, "Yes."
What is a Submissive?
This seems to be one of those things that doesn't have any one good answer. There are so many things that can define a submissive, so I'm going to see if I can narrow it down and make it a bit less confusing.
Generally speaking submissives are people who feel an inclination to surrender themselves to another either for a defined period of time or indefinitely depending on the circumstance and their relationship with that person. Anyone from any walk of life can be submissive or have submissive tendencies, and a submissive can be male or female.
From what I have seen, there are two types of submissives. The first is the bedroom sub, who generally only participates in scenes or submits in a sexual way either for a specified period of time or in the case of those in relationships they may be submissive in the bedroom at all times. The important thing about bedroom subs though is that they generally are not submissive at all outside of the bedroom.
Then there are 24/7 subs who surrender themselves to a dominant in a real time relationship. These submissives may submit in various areas of their lives, which may or may not include the bedroom. Some may only be in relationships where their dominant is in charge of the finances and the clothing they wear, but they are free to do what they want in other areas of their life. Then there are some who might be in Total Power Exchange relationships where they have submitted to their dominant in every aspect of their lives (these submissives often identify as consensual slaves).
Being submissive to another either during a scene or in a relationship requires knowledge about the lifestyle, honesty and trust, and a great deal of patience. Submitting to someone is not something an experienced submissive will do lightly. It's a lot more complicated than finding a dominant and jumping right into things. An experienced submissive will take the time to get to know a dominant first and get to know him before submitting to him.
Submissives should always understand what they are submitting to. If you are new to the lifestyle and identify as a submissive, it's in your best interest to learn as much as you can about the lifestyle before submitting to another... whether it's for a scene, or for an online or real life 24/7 relationship. The more you understand about the lifestyle, the better your chances of avoiding a potentially harmful situation.
Unfortunately there are a lot of misconceptions out there about what a submissive is and is not. This tends to lead to a lot of confusion and people do end up getting hurt both physically and emotionally. So let's dispel some of these myths:
Myth #1: Submissives are weak and/or weak willed.
This could not be further from the truth. In fact, many of the submissives I know are probably the most stubborn and strong-willed people I know (of course, I'm not referring to myself... not at all). It takes a strong person to be able to willingly submit to another. Submissives are required to let go of all inhibitions and face fears that many men and women will never do in their lifetimes. It's not an easy path in life and it's definitely not something a weak person would be able to do.
Myth #2: Submissives have low self-esteem.
While it's true that many submissives may start out this way, someone can not remain in a D/s relationship and not gain some sort of self-esteem and improved self image (unless they are in an abusive relationship in which case I wouldn't call it a D/s relationship). An experienced dominant will work with his submissive to help boost her self-esteem... yes... by getting her to let go of her inhibitions and face her fears.
Myth #3: Submissives are abused or are submissive because they have been abused.
A woman (or man) who is being abused may be submissive by nature, but not all submissives are abused. Many submissives may have even experienced some form of abuse at some point in their lives, but that is not what made them submissive. Submissiveness is a trait that people are born with and it's possible this trait may make them easy targets for abuse, but not every submissive has experienced abuse in his or her life.
Myth #4: Submissives are pushovers and doormats.
Some submissives may fall into the trap of being pushovers and/or doormats. Submissives by nature feel the impulse to give to others without expecting much in return. If the submissive is not aware of this trait, they may fall victim to those who will take advantage of their giving nature. Submissives who are aware of their nature and well informed about this lifestyle, though, know their limits... how much they can and are willing to give... and who they are able and willing to give to.
Myth #5: Submissives are forced into submission and are oppressed.
The cornerstone of any D/s relationship and any type of BDSM activity is consent. Anything that is done to a person without their consent is abuse. Therefore if a submissive is forced into submitting to someone, it is abuse and not D/s. In a healthy D/s relationship or BDSM play, the submissive has full knowledge of what they are submitting to and has consented to it. Also a dominant will never do anything to a submissive that would cause her harm. These types of relationships should be mutually beneficial and a good experienced dominant is generally more interested in helping the submissive to grow through her submission than he is in doing things only for himself.
Myth #6: Submissives are not very intelligent people and are dependent on others to take care of them.
A lack of intelligence truly has nothing to do with being submissive. Some very successful business people are submissive and you would probably never know it by their demeanor in the workplace. Most submissives I know, while they depend on their dominants for many things, are very independent people and would survive quite well on their own.
Myth #7: Submissives are masochists.
Though there are some submissives who also happen to be masochists, believe it or not, not all submissives are masochists and not all masochists are submissive. Every submissive has different needs and desires.
Myth #8: Submissives will submit to any dominant.
There are submissives who are new to the lifestyle that are given the impression that they are expected to submit to everyone who claims to be a dominant, but this is not true. The only person a submissive should ever submit to is the person they choose to submit to because they have taken the time to get to know that person and built a relationship based on trust with that person. An experienced dominant will never expect a submissive he doesn't know to submit to him and will be wary of any submissive he doesn't know who freely offers herself to him without taking the time to get to know him first.
Making Love vs Rough Sex
I realized something the other day; whenever people talk about sex they often use violent, aggressive and rough descriptions. Guys are usually the most guilty of this, but there are even a few women that fall into the same trap.
For example:
Hit it. Beat it up. Scrapin’. Blow ya back out. Bump & grind .Get all up in them guts. Hit the skinz (took it old school on y’all with that one). Knockin’ boots. Smack it up, flip it, rub it down. Wax that ass. Screw .Bumpin’ uglies. Pound it out. Break you off. Diggin’ out the nappy dugout. Tear it up. Smash. Stab up the meat. Poke.
The list goes on…
On the flipside, the list of non-violent descriptions of sex is much shorter. In fact, all I can think of right now is “making love.” Let’s be honest, how often do people actually “make” love these days? Most times, love has nothing to do with what is going down in that bedroom (couch, kitchen counter, balcony or shower) at that moment.
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a little headboard-bangin’-fuck-the-shit-out-of-you sex just as much as I enjoy those tender hold-me-close-and-let’s-cuddle intimate moments, but other than lovebirds and newlyweds, I doubt there’s much lovemaking going on in the wonderful world of single folks. It’s just a bunch of hittin’, scrapin’, diggin’, blowin’, breakin’, knockin’, bumpin’ and fuckin’. Call it what you want, but my thing is why do these descriptions have to be so violent?
I know it’s not something we think about often, but maybe we should. Some might say it’s a cultural thing where an aggressive society breeds aggressive language. Others could argue it’s just a way for one person to express their dominance over another. Whatever the case, the aforementioned words tend to put the men in the active position, while women are on the receiving end of the action. (No pun intended). Some women could care less and actually enjoy the rough talk, but there are a fair share of those conservative ladies that would take offense to anything that could be perceived as chauvinistic.
I remember having a conversation with my girlfriend a while back about this very concept and she decided to take a more active stance in her sex talk. Rather than have the guy doing all the scrapin’ and diggin’, she enjoyed “enveloping” her man. It was a slight turn of phrase that put her in the dominant position. Not sure if that term will ever catch on, but at least it adds some diversity to the mix. At the end of the day, though, just because you like getting fucked every once in a while doesn’t mean you have to use fucked up language.
Is there a difference between making love and just having sex? What phrases do you use to describe both? Which do you prefer and why? Are most of your descriptions for sex aggressive and violent or do you use more tender words? Can you think of any other phrases that I may have forgotten? Other than “making love” how else would you describe that more emotional kind of sex? Do you think that the terms most people use for sex are sexist and chauvinistic? Or do you not care as long as the person can back it up in the bedroom? Would you rather be made love to or fucked?
Speak your piece…
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