A Girl from Pluto Ep. 6

     

This series will contain posts styled as a memoir with memories that I feel like sharing. I first wrote these articles in 2017 when I was suffering from burnout. I may post one or two a month. I hope you enjoy these intimate glimpses into the life of...

Episode 6

Bro...Those Brows

Since I’m on a roll talking about the times I’ve been bullied, here’s another.

(I almost didn't share this one because it especially embarrasses me, but here goes...)

Eyebrows are funny things, aren’t they?

My sister plucked my eyebrows for the first time when I was little because my eyebrows were always wide, not very ladylike, you could say. But she plucked my eyebrows too short, not knowing that you should only pluck from the bottom, not the top and definitely not the front, unless, of course, you have a unibrow, which I never had. Because of this mistake, I ended up having trouble with my eyebrows my entire childhood. I had to learn to tweeze, because once you start plucking you can’t, or shouldn’t, stop. And that’s how my eyebrows ended up getting shorter. And shorter. And even skinnier. My eight grade school pictures are horrendous because of my skinny, short eyebrows.

I hated my eyebrows because they weren’t normal. I did not use brow pencils, knowing that would only make it worse. Pretty much, when I didn’t have thick bangs, which wasn’t in style anymore, I had to hope no one would notice.

But they did notice. They wondered why my brows were so short. I’d shrug. Or I’d blame it on my sister, which wasn’t fair.

At one point, because I hated plucking and I had to tweeze so no one could see the little bristles where I should have an eyebrow, I started to use a shaver between my brows Not a good idea. The skin in front of my eyebrows would turn a pale shade of green, almost like a man’s jaw and cheeks can turn after shaving. I tried to cover this with makeup, but it was still visible. Eventually, someone asked about it. A boy, of course. He asked why it was green and even poked me between my brows. I shrugged, said I didn’t know, and looked away so he’d leave me alone. He claimed he wasn’t picking on me, and he generally was a nice person, but he had pointed out something I knew and disliked, so I ignored him.

Years later, not having to worry about school or looking cool, I cut my bangs and let my eyebrows grow in underneath their hair shield. They were not pretty. If the wind blew my bangs to the side as I walked through a parking lot, I’d duck and quickly sweep my bangs back, even held them in place.

It took many years for my eyebrows to look normal. They’re not perfect, but I no longer hide them. Except, my glasses now conceal them a bit.

If I ever have a daughter, I’ll make sure she doesn’t touch her eyebrows. I’ll tell her this story. If need be, her brows can be touched up but never plucked or reshaped from their natural form. Natural is better. Bold is beautiful. Embrace the brows you’ve got!

A Girl from Pluto Ep. 5

     

This series will contain posts styled as a memoir with memories that I feel like sharing. I first wrote these articles in 2017 when I was suffering from burnout. I may post one or two a month. I hope you enjoy these intimate glimpses into the life of...

Episode 5

Is She Anorexic?

I have always been skinny...too skinny...boney. I knew it, even at a young age, but I was never made aware of it, or made to think it was “wrong,” until I heard my best friend’s grandmother say to her mom, “Is she anorexic?” I was standing right behind her, and she didn’t even try to whisper it. I stared at the back of her dark, curly head in shock. Did she really just say that? About an eleven-year-old girl?? And right in front of her???

I peered at my best friend’s mom to see what she’d do. She caught my eye, knowing I heard. She gave a little laugh and said, “No she is not anorexic.”

The grandmother looked over her shoulder at me with her face scrunched up. She clearly didn’t believe her.

Let’s just make it clear that I have never been anorexic or bulimic. I have never gone on a diet to lose weight or done anything drastic to be thin.

I know there were people who looked at me then, and may even look at me now, and thought, “Get that girl a sandwich.”

In case you’re wondering, I love food. I eat a lot. I love chocolate, donuts, bread, pasta, pizza, tacos. Enchiladas! When I’m hungry, I eat. Period.

Let’s make another thing clear…I never liked being the skinniest girl in class. I didn’t like being called “flat” in 6th grade when other girls were developing. I didn’t like being called boney or twiggy. Never. Not once.

As a matter of fact, when I was in 6th grade, I weighed myself a lot to see if I gained anymore weight because I desperately wanted to reach 100 pounds. I made my way ounce by ounce, but it seemed to hover at 98 forever. No. I want to be 100! I want to be normal. If I can get to 100, then I can get to where my best friend is, and no one will look at me and think I’m anorexic.

Talking about weight is damaging for anyone, child or adult.

I lost 15 pounds after my spine surgery. That was a lot! I was even bonier.

In 10th grade, after my surgery, I fought to gain that weight back. By the end of the year, I was around 130 pounds. My friends noticed and were proud of me. Proud? Really? But then again, I had wanted to gain weight, and they knew that.

***

Years later, on social media, something that bothered me was how my friends would share photos with quotes that talked about how women without curves were like roads without bends.

Really? So we’re comparing ourselves to roads now? Who came up with that?

There were sayings worse than this, like: Bones are for dogs, meat is for men.

This one offended me the most.

So, you’re saying I’m a bone that a dog should chew on? You’re making me less of a woman, less of a person. You’re saying I’m a fucking chew toy. And you’re insinuating that no man could ever love me for me because I don’t have “meat on my bones?” No one can love a thin woman?

There’s one more: “Where do men put their hands on skinny girls?” 

Do I not have all the same body parts? Just because a woman is thin doesn’t mean a man can’t find a place to put his hands. 

***

Picking on a woman for her size is wrong in every which way.

If you’ve got curves, go ahead and flaunt them, but don’t say nasty things about women who don’t have them. The same is true for the reverse.

And while it’s true that women get bullied for having curves, it’s not a one-way street. Women who are skinny/flat/narrow get picked on, too. 

We need to STOP being mean to each other and realize we’re in this together. We're all beautiful, and the more we knock each other down for how much we weigh, the more we are giving each other insecurities and traumas that will only continue down our lines to the next generations. Sadly, I don't see us stopping this practice, but it's a nice thought.

A Girl from Pluto Ep. 4

    

This series will contain posts styled as a memoir with memories that I feel like sharing. I first wrote these articles in 2017 when I was suffering from burnout. I may post one or two a month. I hope you enjoy these intimate glimpses into the life of...

Episode 4

Big Foot in Heels

There was this woman I have a memory of from my childhood; a black woman who wore bright purple lipstick. She enchanted me with her purple lipstick. One day, she gave my mom a bag of shoes. I spilled them out on her small, concrete porch and saw a pair of red heels. These were the old-fashioned kind that covered most of the foot with a short, stubby heel. How marvelous! High heels! Red high heels! I was only about four, and I knew that red high heels were important, powerful. Now, when I see a woman wearing red high heels, or Christian Louboutin red sole pumps, I see the power she exudes. She’s confident. She’s fierce. And I wish I was like her, but I have big feet. 

My feet started to grow past the normal size when I was in the fifth grade, and my dad started to call me Big Foot. I laughed. He was teasing me. After all, he has very big feet. But when my feet continued to grow, becoming disproportionate to my height, becoming noticeable, I started to hate my feet. His silly nickname started to bother me. My feet were ugly. They were a boy's feet.

In middle school, my feet got noticed. More specifically, my shoes got noticed. I couldn’t find cute shoes to wear. None of the stores had nice shoes in my size. In 8th grade, I had a pair of black and white shoes that looked normal until you saw the Velcro straps. Velcro straps are for kids, but they were the only shoes Walmart had in my size. If I wore pants, you couldn’t tell when I was standing, but if you looked when I was seated, you’d see the straps. 

Once, this popular boy pointed out that I shouldn’t do the strap like that. He redid them so the straps were stuck to each other and sticking up, almost like bunny ears. This was apparently the cool way to wear shoes, like basketball shoes, with Velcro straps. But my shoes would get too loose when I walked, so back the straps went the right way.

One day at lunch, I stood next to my cheerleader best friend and her group. I was on the outskirts, like a gnat lingering too close. I looked over to see a group of girls pointing at my shoes and laughing. I was wearing capris, so the Velcro straps were on full display. They were making fun of me, and it hurt. A lot. They didn’t know how much I hated my big feet. They didn’t know my struggle. They didn’t know that these were the best shoes I could find, that my parents would pay for, and that I actually liked them, despite how humiliated I’d feel if someone saw those damn Velcro straps. 

***

These are the same girls, who, sometime after this, were talking to my best friend’s group and saw my nail polish, a bright neon green that I loved. The meanest of the group, the one who was doing the most pointing at my shoes, looked at my nails and said, right to my face, that it looked like I had fungus on my nails. My cheeks warmed as my best friend and her friends looked on. 

No one said anything. I don’t even recall if any of them smiled or chuckled. All I could see was this girl whose name I never knew and her friends laughing. All I could hear were the words “fungus.” This was my favorite nail polish color. It did not look like fungus!

I didn't remove my polish when I got home, but I kept it on until it started to chip. Why should they bully me into removing my favorite nail polish? What they did was worse, though. They embarrassed me and made me ashamed of my favorite nail polish. I didn’t wear it to school again. 

However, this color remains to be my favorite nail polish color. I even did a reel about it and this very memory. It got a pretty nice response on TikTok.

***

Anyway, back to shoes. 

That same year, my dad brought me to a shoe store. We asked the owner if they had shoes in my size. They did, but they were for boys. My dad didn’t want to leave the store without shoes, so I was forced to pick out a pair. I chose a white shoe with red lines. They looked like clown shoes when I had them on. I HATED them. I wore them to school only a few times and then refused to wear ever again. A boy I had a crush on touched them when I wore them to school the first time. He said they were cool, and he could’ve meant it, but I was humiliated by them. I didn’t want anyone to see how enormous they were. Or that they were for boys. Especially not those girls. Luckily, they didn't notice.

***

In 10th grade, after I had spine surgery, I had a black pair of heels with straps. The heels were short and long, like wedges. They were the only heels I could actually walk in. I did not like flipflops or sandals, as they showed off my manly feet, so I wore these wedges when I had on my red and pink bohemian skirt that went to my ankles. I loved my outfit. I felt pretty. I had worn it a few times before that year, such as for picture day, but that day, when I was walking through the courtyard to where my friends hung out before the bell, I heard a boy shout, “Look, it’s big foot.”

My face seared with humiliation. I knew instantly that I was “big foot.” No one else was around. 

I looked over to see my ex-best friend sitting with a group of people I didn’t know. And they were all looking at me, laughing. I turned my head away, as if I didn’t care, and kept on walking. But I couldn’t shake that. When I wore that skirt again and those shoes, and when I walked the same path in the morning to my spot, I braced myself for the jokes. They didn’t come again. Maybe because, I noticed, my ex-best friend wasn’t among them anymore. Or maybe because they didn’t care anymore. Or perhaps they were laughing under their breaths. I don’t know, but I was grateful that it didn’t reoccur. I never had the confidence I once had when I wore that outfit any other time.

***

People have asked me my shoe size. I always ask, “What size do you think I wear?”

They always answer size 9. Um. Size 9 is big? Really? I wish I was a size 9 shoe! I let them believe it, though. Truth is, my feet were much bigger than that. Back then, I wore a size 12. It seems my feet have shrunk, because now I'm an 11 or a 10, depending on the shoe.

While writing this, I saw an article online that shared celeb shoe sizes from smallest to biggest and stated that at the end of the day, no one notices, and that the female celebs in their article were gorgeous whether they had small or big feet. Their biggest size went to 10 and listed celebs like Kendall Jenner, Khloe Kardashian, Heidi Klum, and Angelina Jolie. I looked at the beautiful photos of these celebs showing off their bare feet and did not see my feet at all. It said that Angelina Jolie’s feet were called “weird” and “gigantic” once when she did a Louis Vuitton ad. If people can be nasty about the stunning Angelina Jolie’s size 10 feet, imagine if her feet were a size 12 and she wasn’t as stunning or famous. Imagine a girl like me. 

But a glass slipper can be a size 5 or a size 12. 

My Most Popular TikTok Video

 

So, I created and posted this TikTok on April 10th, 2023. I watch The Sound of Music every year for Easter, and when I watched it that year, I recorded this moment because it's my absolute favorite moment in the movie. Captain Von Trapp ripping that Nazi flag. *swoons* It's hot, okay. It's hot.

This video gets views and likes and shares and saves daily. Still.

Let me just make it clear that I only have 170 followers on TikTok. My videos don't get that much engagement. Only about 6 have views over 1K. 

Current Stats:

Likes: 13.5K

Comments: 54

Saves: 993

Views: 484.7K

And so you can enjoy the video, too:

You can find the video on TikTok here.

And you can find me on TikTok here.

A Girl from Pluto Ep. 3

   

This series will contain posts styled as a memoir with memories that I feel like sharing. I first wrote these articles in 2017 when I was suffering from burnout. I may post one or two a month. I hope you enjoy these intimate glimpses into the life of...

Episode 3

Trendsetter? Who...Me?

In 5th grade, I had my mom make two tiny--and I mean tiny--braids on either side of my face. Then I asked her to cut the rest of my hair by about four inches, which would bring my hair to my shoulders, so the braids would be longer and stand out. She did it, liking the idea.

I went to school the next day and all everyone, even my teacher, talked about were my two long braids. Everyone thought it was cool, and I beamed. Yes!

A month or two later, during spring break, my best friend and one of her other best friends, went on a cruise to the Bahamas with their families. They came back with a single braid framing their faces. The end of their braids had a few inches of colorful thread twined around and around it in a pretty, exotic fashion. A silver charm dangled from the tips. The thread and charm went a couple of inches past the end of their hair, making their braids longer. 

Classmates noticed this right away and loved it. (They were also popular, which made what they did noticeable.) Someone who knew them but never talked to me later asked if I did my braids to copy them. Um, no. I had mine for a lot longer. Weeks, even. But she didn’t seem convinced. 

Soon after, I undid my braids and let my longer hair go free. I liked this look, too, and kept it for a while. I believe it was during the summer when my mom finally convinced me to cut them. She said it was time. I could always do it again, but change would be good. So, feeling a little sad, I let her cut them. And there. I wasn’t special or unique anymore. Average. But sometimes average can be good.

***

In 6th grade, near the end of the school year, several of the girls in my class started to wear these green lanyards that all of the students in our class got. We also received dark green squishy keys floats. We hooked this key float to our lanyard and wore them every day, even if we didn’t have keys to go with them. I don’t remember what the lanyard or key float promoted, but it didn’t matter. A couple of girls would chew on their key floats, mangling them with teeth marks. I didn’t, because I didn’t want to ruin mine. And also...ew.

After a while, though, I took my key float off and put on something else. Beanie Babies were still popular then, and McDonalds came out with some that had keychains on them. I had a yellow duck and had had it for a couple of years, so the color had changed slightly from a bright yellow to a dingy yellow. I called it “My Sick Ducky.” My Sick Ducky went on the end of my lanyard. My best friend soon started to wear a lanyard, too, although she wasn’t in my class and didn't get one like the one we all got, and she put her key chain Beanie Baby on hers. I believe it was a lamb. Then a few other girls did it. I bet they thought my bestie did it first, as is usual when you’re invisible. And I was invisible.

Most of the time.

***

In 8th grade, my mom and I crafted a neat idea to make a bunch of bracelets with orange and black beads so I could wear them a week before Halloween and give them to my friends. We had a blast creating different patterns by alternating orange or black beads. There was even a bracelet with almost all black beads and two orange beads opposite each other. An orange one with just two black beads was also made. 

We worked on these bracelets all weekend. Monday morning, I had about twenty different bracelets. I wore ten on each wrist and went to school. My best friend noticed right away and picked out a few she wanted, so I gave them to her. I gave one or two to a few other friends.

By lunch time, I noticed people who I had not given a bracelet to sporting one on their wrists, and not just any students, either, but popular ones. My best friend and I shared lunch period, and I learned that she didn’t have any of the bracelets I’d given her because she had given them away when people asked her for one. And that’s what happened when I gave more than one to my other friends. 

It became a Halloween friendship bracelet trend in a way. Even boys wore them, and boys were asking me for one when word got out that I was the one with the beaded goods. I obliged until I only had four left and wanted them for myself. 

The next day, I spotted a girl wearing an orange and black beaded bracelet, but it wasn’t one of mine. She had made it, and it wasn’t as good. It was at that moment that I realized that I set a trend. Not many people can say that. Even if the trend only lasted a matter of days, it happened. And that’s what counted. I was shy. I was quiet. But I had set a trend with my mom’s help.

***

All you need is one other person to do it to get the ball rolling. Maybe these trends only came to be because my best friend picked it up, too, who was popular and a cheerleader in middle school. Either way, they have to be started by someone, the original creator, and that was me. Then you need someone with more influence to make it a thing. That was my best friend. She didn’t do it to “help” me, though. She genuinely liked my ideas, which was an endorsement in of itself. 

To this day, these moments pop into my head and fill me with pride.

Even a shy, nerdy, unpopular girl can set trends. 

I Published 3 Books in 3 Months

 

And I need a nap.

I published a picture book for my mom in January, a middle grade book in February, and a collection of flash fiction and poetry for my mom on March 3rd.

Three books.

Three months.

The last on March 3rd in honor of my mom.

Three was her favorite number.

I didn't realize any of that until now, so apparently, no matter how exhausted it made me, it was meant to be.

I present to you...the three:

Gregory Green and Sammy go on a fishing adventure with Grandpa. Except, it doesn’t seem like much of an adventure to Sammy the Teddy Bear. He hasn’t caught a single thing all day and is bored. Then a tug on his fishing pole changes everything. Excited, they take the catch home where the fish gets bigger and bigger. Only, it’s not a fish at all. It’s a catch of a lifetime.

Links (so far):

eBook: NOOK / KOBO / APPLE BOOKS / SMASHWORDS / AMAZON

Print: AMAZON

Reviews: BookBub / Goodreads

Fay Williams and her family have moved from their home in New Orleans to Deadoak, a small town where strange things are said to happen, and Fay hopes so. She is a magnet for the strange and documents everything in her Journal of Weird. During her first day at school, Fay finds out her science class will be dissecting frogs. She can’t think of anything she wants to do less, but Mr. Phibian will fail her if she doesn’t. Now she has no choice.

Except, the frogs have another plan when they come to life and terrorize the school. Can Fay, her twin brother Jay, and her lab partner Frances save their school and prevent everyone from turning into half-human, half-frog creatures with a hunger for flies and…people?

Fay knows one thing for sure. This is going in her Journal of Weird!

Links (so far):

eBook: Nook / Kobo / Apple / Smashwords / Amazon

Print: Barnes & Noble / Amazon

Reviews: Goodreads

In loving memory of Elaine Kaye.

Sweet romances for the lighthearted and intriguing suspense for the daring. Poetry that explores the longing of loneliness, the desire for love, and the wish to fly free.

Links (so far):

eBook: Nook / Kobo / Apple / Smashwords / Amazon

Print: Amazon

I have plans to publish more in the final few months of the year, so stay tuned!

A Girl from Pluto Ep. 2

  

This series will contain posts styled as a memoir with memories that I feel like sharing. I first wrote these articles in 2017 when I was suffering from burnout. I may post one or two a month. I hope you enjoy these intimate glimpses into the life of...

Episode 2

Nailed It?

My mom would paint my fingernails a different color every Sunday before the next week of school. I remember having red nails the most. It made me feel grown up, because red is a very womanly color, I thought.

My mom sold Avon for many years when I was little, seeing all the makeup that people ordered, flipping through the shiny Avon booklets that had this special smell to them--like perfume and magazine paper--and touching the tiny lipstick samples (so cute!) filled me with wonder and awe. I would help my mom slip booklets and samples into clear plastic baggies, and then I’d go with her around neighborhoods to drop off those goodies. She’d stop at the end of a driveway, and I’d get out and run to the door, slip the baggie on the handle or prop it against the door, and then hurry back to the car. This excited me. Would we get in trouble if we were caught?

My mom had a nice collection of nail polish thanks to Avon, but mostly they were dark, autumn colors to match her coloring. 

Nail polish became my first makeup love. My sisters and I had our own collection when we shared a room. Mostly, though, the polish belonged to my oldest sister.

I remember lying on my bed one day when my oldest sister came home from sleeping over at a new friend’s house, and she was telling our sister all about it, specifically what her room looked like. One thing I picked up was that this girl had lined up all of her nail polishes along the front of her dresser. A lightbulb went off in my head. What a brilliant idea! And if my sister thought it was cool, maybe she’d think it was cool if I did it, too.

The three of us had matching dressers. I went to mine, rearranged the items I had up there (like plastic ponies), grabbed all of our nail polishes, and carefully lined them up. How neat. How pretty. How adult. 

My sisters noticed. There was sneering. I believe something was said about it, but I can’t remember the words. I do recall that afterward, I sighed with longing and sadness when I saw those nail polishes, so pretty, bright, and sparkly. I kept them there for a while. Days? Weeks? I don’t know for sure, but I did end up taking them down. My sisters didn’t think it was cool that I did it. So, I concluded that meant that I wasn’t cool.

Now, I do my own thing to display them. Years ago, I found a neat spice rack at a thrift store. I hung it up in my bathroom and arranged my nail polishes in it according to color. I like to see my nail polishes instead of having them zipped up in a makeup bag or in a plastic container under my bathroom sink, which is where they had been for ages before this spice rack. 

***

I never lost my love for nail polish. As I got older, I’d paint each nail a different color, alternate between two, such as one nail black, the next orange, and repeat. I did this a lot in October for Halloween, my favorite holiday. And I made sure that my thumbs started with opposite colors to make it even. Five nails orange, five nails black.

I also went through a phase of liking fake nails. My best friend and I would buy packs of fake nails from Walmart and glue them on in her bedroom. The first time I wore fake nails, I couldn’t get enough of them. There’s a scene in Dennis the Menace of a woman tapping her nails in a rhythmic manner on a counter. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap. I loved it! So, when I had on my first set of fake nails, I tapped them on every surface I could find. I would even pretend to be typing on a keyboard. Every time my nails clicked against a table, counter, or desk, it sounded as though I was typing. I did this a lot.

In middle school, I started to get blank nails at Dollar Tree and shape and paint them myself. There was one pair I was really proud of. It was white with black, glittery tips. I put a lot of effort into them. When I wore them the first time to school, my insecurities came back to me, and I suddenly didn’t want anyone to see them. I’d curl them into my palms. But one day, a girl in 8th grade (I was in 7th grade) noticed them. She asked to see them, and I held out my hand. She asked if I did them. Afraid the laughing would start, I said I did. And she said that she could barely tell, and she liked them. That compliment filled me with happiness.

If only more girls would give other girls compliments.

The trouble with wearing fake nails to school is that they most likely would pop off in school. Several times, I’d dig out my nail glue from my purse and quickly reapply my nail before anyone could see, especially my teacher. But there’d be days when a few nails would pop off of one hand, so then I’d end up peeling off the rest of the nails with my teeth, while in class. I’d pile them on my notebook and then stuff them into my pocket when I was done.

Sticking your fingers in your mouth to bite your nails isn’t a very attractive look. And the crunching sound of your teeth cutting through your nail? Shivers. Definitely not attractive. But nothing is worse than having to spit out or pluck a piece of nail or dried glue off your tongue. Nope. No thanks.

I haven’t worn fake nails since middle school. I just don’t like them. The glue. Having to deal with them popping off. The glue. And I don't get my nails down professionally either because I just don't have the money to blow on that. Now, I let my nails grow freely. I'm fortunate to have nice, natural nails. I haven't painted them in almost two years, but I'm going to try to do that more this year and reacquaint myself with my love of nail polish.