New name- new status- new tattoo.
As the rack rocker previously known as "Smut", I decided to change my name. Oddly, the name "Smut" when Googled brings up an enormous amount of filth (that I didn't produce myself). So, with my toolbox as inspiration, I've chosen "Stanleigh". If I confused you, I apologize, but must warn you- it will not be the last time I scramble your brain.
In my last post I was pitiful and "girly" wishing to be "Hopeful". Well, I got my wish! So, the pity party is over, feel free to grab a goody bag on your way home.
Lastly, I got new ink. As controversial as this has become, I did it for me. I have always wanted the logo just because of the community and awesomeness that SG stands for. However, I have always felt like I would be considered a poser (like getting a Metallica tattoo and not being at least a roadie). Now that I am a Hopeful, I went for it! I love it. I'm not advertising a "corporation", I'm giving a shout out to group of amazing people and beautiful women who I am proud to have my little face posted next to. If I get a membership, awesome (I'm almost sure they don't do that anymore)- but right now, I'm still paying and will continue to because I adore you all (*all is subjective).
Much Love and New Beginnings,
Stanleigh
As the rack rocker previously known as "Smut", I decided to change my name. Oddly, the name "Smut" when Googled brings up an enormous amount of filth (that I didn't produce myself). So, with my toolbox as inspiration, I've chosen "Stanleigh". If I confused you, I apologize, but must warn you- it will not be the last time I scramble your brain.
In my last post I was pitiful and "girly" wishing to be "Hopeful". Well, I got my wish! So, the pity party is over, feel free to grab a goody bag on your way home.
Lastly, I got new ink. As controversial as this has become, I did it for me. I have always wanted the logo just because of the community and awesomeness that SG stands for. However, I have always felt like I would be considered a poser (like getting a Metallica tattoo and not being at least a roadie). Now that I am a Hopeful, I went for it! I love it. I'm not advertising a "corporation", I'm giving a shout out to group of amazing people and beautiful women who I am proud to have my little face posted next to. If I get a membership, awesome (I'm almost sure they don't do that anymore)- but right now, I'm still paying and will continue to because I adore you all (*all is subjective).
Much Love and New Beginnings,
Stanleigh
Eight years ago, I sent in photos only to have a quick "no thank you" email appear in my inbox.
As the perpetual chubby girl I was not surprised, and set aside the idea of ever becoming an SG.
When I turned 30 I decided to give it another chance. I've seen beautiful, thick SG's and figured that I had nothing to lose (other than add another notch to my pity belt). I sent in just a few shots again to SG. Within hours, an email appeared in my box. Since it was such a quick response I knew it would be another "thanks, but no thanks" email. So, imagine my shock when this message said that I was "perfect" and to fill out paperwork!
Perhaps it's my need for acceptance and/or my fear of being old that led me to go into spidermonkey mode when I finally got that email from Suicide Girls.
Unfortunately, I was at work at the time and jumping through my asshole with excitement. So I didn't take the incredibly necessary time to read through all of the FAQ's. I just wanted to get my paperwork in before they changed their mind. I filled out the papers, scanned, and submitted them; as well as the photos that I had submitted earlier.
Only later, when my pulse slowed and I made it home, did I realize what a huge dipshit I am and that I couldn't resubmit more (much better) photos that would be considered a set.
So now I wait, somewhat patiently, for my original photos to be rejected and hope that I get a chance to submit my actual set. In the meantime, I anxiously wish to be "Hopeful" and to be accepted.
I'm still old, chubby, and perhaps not "alternative" enough. However, this has been my dream for many years and to be able to prove to myself and those like me that beauty is a sliding scale, would be one thing I'd love to leave behind for prosperity.
As the perpetual chubby girl I was not surprised, and set aside the idea of ever becoming an SG.
When I turned 30 I decided to give it another chance. I've seen beautiful, thick SG's and figured that I had nothing to lose (other than add another notch to my pity belt). I sent in just a few shots again to SG. Within hours, an email appeared in my box. Since it was such a quick response I knew it would be another "thanks, but no thanks" email. So, imagine my shock when this message said that I was "perfect" and to fill out paperwork!
Perhaps it's my need for acceptance and/or my fear of being old that led me to go into spidermonkey mode when I finally got that email from Suicide Girls.
Unfortunately, I was at work at the time and jumping through my asshole with excitement. So I didn't take the incredibly necessary time to read through all of the FAQ's. I just wanted to get my paperwork in before they changed their mind. I filled out the papers, scanned, and submitted them; as well as the photos that I had submitted earlier.
Only later, when my pulse slowed and I made it home, did I realize what a huge dipshit I am and that I couldn't resubmit more (much better) photos that would be considered a set.
So now I wait, somewhat patiently, for my original photos to be rejected and hope that I get a chance to submit my actual set. In the meantime, I anxiously wish to be "Hopeful" and to be accepted.
I'm still old, chubby, and perhaps not "alternative" enough. However, this has been my dream for many years and to be able to prove to myself and those like me that beauty is a sliding scale, would be one thing I'd love to leave behind for prosperity.
A Prom to Remember
I’d like to share with you one of the many events in my life that will always keep me humble. There is no way to possess conceit once you’ve taken your brother to prom.
After dating throughout high school, my boyfriend decided that we needed to “see other people” during senior year. He made this decision a month before Junior/ Senior prom. For the first time since freshman year, I had to find a date- and fast. In a fit of necessity and desperation, I began searching for any male I could find. I would ask them to go as long as they appeared to be either a) a non-rapist or b) small enough to take down should they try anything funny. I began my quest at the fast food restaurant where I worked; I will not mention it’s name, but it had a big smiling star instead of golden arches. As cute as I was in my khaki’s, orange polo and visor; there were no takers. Hard to believe considering that I wore a headset mic way before Brittany Spears made it fashionable.
Next target: my brother’s friends. My lack of knowledge in the judicial system kept me from taking into account that I was potential jail bait and I chose to overlook the fact that many were married. Mere details- I needed a date! With less than a month to go, I started considering that maybe I could handle a rapist after all, if they just rented a tux, I was in. In a last ditch effort, I went to my fellow Scholars Bowl and Science Club members and finally found a date.
Then, it was a matter of buying a ticket, a dress and a hairstyle- or so I thought. With less than two weeks before the big night, my “date” changed his mind. I have no idea why, just as I have no idea why I never considered going to prom alone. My hunt reached a feverish pitch. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Desperate measures led me to take advice from my mother (which has never gone very well). The solution became- take your brother as your date.
My brother was 24 and had not lived with me in ten years, so not even my friends would know he was my brother. I could give him a different last name and the identical hair color and square jaw would be a small coincidence. A tux was rented, a corsage and ticket were bought and it was golden (plated).
My date arrived in his tux complete with a flask of vodka in the breast pocket. He rode shotgun in my Chevy Blazer, and off we went. Everything was going smoothly until the vodka kicked in and my brother began dancing with all of my friends. When one asked, “Are you sure this won’t make your girlfriend mad?” He replied, “That’s not my girlfriend, that’s my sister.” Score!!!
This little conversation didn’t top the moment when my brother presented a check and order form that Mom had given for us to get pictures made.
Good news, I had a date and didn’t get raped. Bad news, well you read the story.
I’d like to share with you one of the many events in my life that will always keep me humble. There is no way to possess conceit once you’ve taken your brother to prom.
After dating throughout high school, my boyfriend decided that we needed to “see other people” during senior year. He made this decision a month before Junior/ Senior prom. For the first time since freshman year, I had to find a date- and fast. In a fit of necessity and desperation, I began searching for any male I could find. I would ask them to go as long as they appeared to be either a) a non-rapist or b) small enough to take down should they try anything funny. I began my quest at the fast food restaurant where I worked; I will not mention it’s name, but it had a big smiling star instead of golden arches. As cute as I was in my khaki’s, orange polo and visor; there were no takers. Hard to believe considering that I wore a headset mic way before Brittany Spears made it fashionable.
Next target: my brother’s friends. My lack of knowledge in the judicial system kept me from taking into account that I was potential jail bait and I chose to overlook the fact that many were married. Mere details- I needed a date! With less than a month to go, I started considering that maybe I could handle a rapist after all, if they just rented a tux, I was in. In a last ditch effort, I went to my fellow Scholars Bowl and Science Club members and finally found a date.
Then, it was a matter of buying a ticket, a dress and a hairstyle- or so I thought. With less than two weeks before the big night, my “date” changed his mind. I have no idea why, just as I have no idea why I never considered going to prom alone. My hunt reached a feverish pitch. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Desperate measures led me to take advice from my mother (which has never gone very well). The solution became- take your brother as your date.
My brother was 24 and had not lived with me in ten years, so not even my friends would know he was my brother. I could give him a different last name and the identical hair color and square jaw would be a small coincidence. A tux was rented, a corsage and ticket were bought and it was golden (plated).
My date arrived in his tux complete with a flask of vodka in the breast pocket. He rode shotgun in my Chevy Blazer, and off we went. Everything was going smoothly until the vodka kicked in and my brother began dancing with all of my friends. When one asked, “Are you sure this won’t make your girlfriend mad?” He replied, “That’s not my girlfriend, that’s my sister.” Score!!!
This little conversation didn’t top the moment when my brother presented a check and order form that Mom had given for us to get pictures made.
Good news, I had a date and didn’t get raped. Bad news, well you read the story.
So, today I tried to do my photoset for Hopeful review. I don't have access to a photographer in my area and my student loans keep me from hiring one.
This leaves me one option: my husband.
The man can paint an aircraft or a hot rod without flaw; yet, when it comes to photography he may as well be Ray Charles.
After waiting for the perfect outdoor light (albeit 105 degree heat) I got all gussied up, covered with car grease and Kobalt tools; only to have the test shots look like a naked mechanic corpse.
Tomorrow: a new day, a new setting....same photographer.
This leaves me one option: my husband.
The man can paint an aircraft or a hot rod without flaw; yet, when it comes to photography he may as well be Ray Charles.
After waiting for the perfect outdoor light (albeit 105 degree heat) I got all gussied up, covered with car grease and Kobalt tools; only to have the test shots look like a naked mechanic corpse.
Tomorrow: a new day, a new setting....same photographer.
Southern Evolution
Many relatives would disown me for using the term “evolution”, that’s blasphemy. Thankfully, those relatives have not mastered the “inter-tubes” and will never see this web blog.
I live in a place that time forgot; or chances are time chose to sneak away from. I still live in the world where women wake up early and cook breakfast for their families, and serve the men and children first. If there is any food left, we women, will stand in the kitchen and eat a little as we clean up and do the dishes. Unfortunately, we also work outside of the home and many of us hold college degrees (which were not obtained online). Lest I progress, now where was I?
On holidays and random weekends, we gather families together to sit on the back deck of a double-wide and rave about how good the above ground pool feels on our blistered skin. We keep our beverages in floatation devices, while in the river and in the pool, and have usually rigged a leash to our tube so that our beer does not wander. During these glorious times, the men folk cook the meat while the women brown those last 10-20lbs we are unsuccessfully hiding under our Wal-Mart two-piece (that was “on sale!”).
Some times are dressier, that’s when we women dress in our conservative best and my Aunt wears her church “fall”. For those of you not familiar with a “fall”, it is similar to a weave, but attached via hair clip to a very sad pony “stub” to create the illusion of a sudden glorious fall of taffy colored, perfectly ringlet-ed hair. That is the idea. However, my aunt’s church fall was at it’s most glorious in the early eighties and now resembles an angry squirrels tail. No one will tell her this for it would be impolite and may embarrass her. So she sashays proudly with a rabid squirrel attacking the back of her head. At least she still has the self pride to discuss the outfit worn by the “hussie” at church earlier that day who is “trying to catch her a good man, bless her heart”.
I would like to say that this hair-clip vanity is only present among the women; but I can’t. Several, holidays have been presenced by a toupee or two. For example, Grandpa has worn a hairpiece for 30 years and only Grandma has seen him without it. We like it this way and have accepted it. While Uncle Don is mainly bald on the top 50% of his head. During my 14 years in this family, several holidays passed that we were not graced with the smooth, shiny top of Uncle Don’s scalp; these were the gatherings when he decided to borrow Grandpa’s old toupee. The thought of him wearing his father-in-law’s hairpiece did not disturb me at all. What was most disturbing was that, while it matched Grandpa’s hair to a T, it shared none of the characteristics of Uncle Don’s. More troubling is, like Aunt Teresa’s fall, that no one says anything. In the realm of the South, it is perfectly natural for hair to appear and disappear on any given religious holiday- the true Christmas miracle.
I have had my own southern evolution. At 17, I became pregnant by a married man. Before my first trimester had passed, I was forced to marry this married (but separated) man and leave my home for his; before my mother’s friends found out that I was a whore. His other wife lived in another state so there was no indication of her at the courthouse where we paid $35 and got “hitched”. He had no car and even less credit, so we rented a 30 year old single-wide trailer for $650/mo. I skipped school most days to nap, until I was told that I was providing a bad example to other girls and was told to drop out (6wks prior to graduation) by the guidance counselor.
I gave birth to my daughter on what was originally my graduation night, so in my scrapbook there is my graduation announcement and her birth announcement with matching dates and a 2 hour time difference. We brought her home to a new single-wide trailer, financed with my father’s credit and down payment. Within two years, we had another daughter and moved into a double-wide before eventually moving into our first immobile home. As living arrangements improved, so did I. I received my GED and a B.S. in Psychology. I ran my own aerospace parts company (into the ground) and attempted a Master’s degree before student loans forced me to work more and study less.
After all of this “evolvement”, I am still a southern woman. I don’t smoke, drink, or cuss in front of my elders; I wear my best conservative dress on religious holidays. I stay in the kitchen, where I belong, cooking and serving others before myself. I don’t involve myself in conversations with the menfolk, unless I’m asked for my opinion.
Being a southern lady, has held me back in many ways. Many of these traits I choose to not pass on to my daughters. I want them to run where their whimsy leads them and to not feel pressured by societal roles. However, I do want them to remember to serve others first and to keep their mouths shut if their opinion may harm an other’s opinion of themselves. And I also want them to remember to tether their beer to their inner-tube; there is nothing as sad as a Natty Light floating down river half-full.
Many relatives would disown me for using the term “evolution”, that’s blasphemy. Thankfully, those relatives have not mastered the “inter-tubes” and will never see this web blog.
I live in a place that time forgot; or chances are time chose to sneak away from. I still live in the world where women wake up early and cook breakfast for their families, and serve the men and children first. If there is any food left, we women, will stand in the kitchen and eat a little as we clean up and do the dishes. Unfortunately, we also work outside of the home and many of us hold college degrees (which were not obtained online). Lest I progress, now where was I?
On holidays and random weekends, we gather families together to sit on the back deck of a double-wide and rave about how good the above ground pool feels on our blistered skin. We keep our beverages in floatation devices, while in the river and in the pool, and have usually rigged a leash to our tube so that our beer does not wander. During these glorious times, the men folk cook the meat while the women brown those last 10-20lbs we are unsuccessfully hiding under our Wal-Mart two-piece (that was “on sale!”).
Some times are dressier, that’s when we women dress in our conservative best and my Aunt wears her church “fall”. For those of you not familiar with a “fall”, it is similar to a weave, but attached via hair clip to a very sad pony “stub” to create the illusion of a sudden glorious fall of taffy colored, perfectly ringlet-ed hair. That is the idea. However, my aunt’s church fall was at it’s most glorious in the early eighties and now resembles an angry squirrels tail. No one will tell her this for it would be impolite and may embarrass her. So she sashays proudly with a rabid squirrel attacking the back of her head. At least she still has the self pride to discuss the outfit worn by the “hussie” at church earlier that day who is “trying to catch her a good man, bless her heart”.
I would like to say that this hair-clip vanity is only present among the women; but I can’t. Several, holidays have been presenced by a toupee or two. For example, Grandpa has worn a hairpiece for 30 years and only Grandma has seen him without it. We like it this way and have accepted it. While Uncle Don is mainly bald on the top 50% of his head. During my 14 years in this family, several holidays passed that we were not graced with the smooth, shiny top of Uncle Don’s scalp; these were the gatherings when he decided to borrow Grandpa’s old toupee. The thought of him wearing his father-in-law’s hairpiece did not disturb me at all. What was most disturbing was that, while it matched Grandpa’s hair to a T, it shared none of the characteristics of Uncle Don’s. More troubling is, like Aunt Teresa’s fall, that no one says anything. In the realm of the South, it is perfectly natural for hair to appear and disappear on any given religious holiday- the true Christmas miracle.
I have had my own southern evolution. At 17, I became pregnant by a married man. Before my first trimester had passed, I was forced to marry this married (but separated) man and leave my home for his; before my mother’s friends found out that I was a whore. His other wife lived in another state so there was no indication of her at the courthouse where we paid $35 and got “hitched”. He had no car and even less credit, so we rented a 30 year old single-wide trailer for $650/mo. I skipped school most days to nap, until I was told that I was providing a bad example to other girls and was told to drop out (6wks prior to graduation) by the guidance counselor.
I gave birth to my daughter on what was originally my graduation night, so in my scrapbook there is my graduation announcement and her birth announcement with matching dates and a 2 hour time difference. We brought her home to a new single-wide trailer, financed with my father’s credit and down payment. Within two years, we had another daughter and moved into a double-wide before eventually moving into our first immobile home. As living arrangements improved, so did I. I received my GED and a B.S. in Psychology. I ran my own aerospace parts company (into the ground) and attempted a Master’s degree before student loans forced me to work more and study less.
After all of this “evolvement”, I am still a southern woman. I don’t smoke, drink, or cuss in front of my elders; I wear my best conservative dress on religious holidays. I stay in the kitchen, where I belong, cooking and serving others before myself. I don’t involve myself in conversations with the menfolk, unless I’m asked for my opinion.
Being a southern lady, has held me back in many ways. Many of these traits I choose to not pass on to my daughters. I want them to run where their whimsy leads them and to not feel pressured by societal roles. However, I do want them to remember to serve others first and to keep their mouths shut if their opinion may harm an other’s opinion of themselves. And I also want them to remember to tether their beer to their inner-tube; there is nothing as sad as a Natty Light floating down river half-full.
