Don’t tell me what to do

Recently I started wearing red lipstick. Not like, sheer red lip gloss. Like, RED. LIPSTICK.

see?

And I feel pretty great about it. Not only does it make me feel awesome, my beloved grandma Nancy wore red lipstick all the time and it makes me feel like I’m channeling her. And she was amazing so that’s great news.

But I got mad yesterday.
And here’s why:

I’m minding my own business at the check out line at the HEB and a guy remarks to me, “a little dressed up?”
I’m looking at my outfit like, “um, no.”
He’s like, “it’s just that the lipstick you’re wearing. It’s a lot. You probably shouldn’t wear it. I don’t like it.”
Me: *flames flying out of my ears* That’s a good thing. Red doesn’t really seem like it’d be your color.

OKAY, HERE’S THE THING: if you don’t like bright red lipstick, guy, then don’t wear it.
It is absolutely not your place nor any of your business what I, or anyone else, chooses to put on their body.  I am not here for your viewing pleasure.

And then I started thinking about it. And about how many times people have told me that I should/shouldn’t do something because THEY like/don’t like it.

How many times someone has said,
“you shouldn’t wear that dress”
“you shouldn’t be blonde”
“red isn’t your color”
“don’t get too muscular”
“don’t lift too much”

And the thing is, I’m not asking for their opinion.
I’m not saying, “hey, I’m thinking about wearing red lipstick, what do you think?” I’M WEARING IT ALREADY.
This is not an invitation for your unsolicited opinion about what you prefer me to do/wear/look like.
I’m wearing it/doing it because IIIIIII like it and IIIIIIII want to.
And if I had always listened to the people who told me “you shouldn’t” or “don’t”, I’d probably never accomplish anything I wanted to.

After talking it over with Mama Nancy, I’ve decided that there’s only one good response to people who tell me, “don’t…” or “you shouldn’t…”, etc.

So the next time someone tells me “you shouldn’t wear red lipstick”,
my only response will be a big smile and then to say “or else, what?”

If my mother only knew…

If you were to ask my mama, she would say I wasn’t that bad of a kid. Ask me? I was a demon child. 

Don’t let the Glamour Shots fool you. And that denim jacket gave me ALL the life.

I made good grades but I challenged everything. I thought every confrontation could be solved with a fight (oh. you wanna fight about it?). I always had to know “why?” I bitched and complained about cleaning, cooking, and sewing.

“Mom! Why do I have to sew?”
“Because who is going to darn your husband’s socks, Aislinn?”

“Mom! Why do I have to talk Spanish?”
“Because how else will you talk to your mother-in-law, Aislinn?”

“Mom! Why do I have to cook?” 
“Because I don’t want to, Aislinn.”
(Just kidding. My mother tolerates loves cooking)

“Mom! Why do I have to write and speak correctly?! I wanna say ‘lol’, ‘brb’, and spell ‘cool’ like ‘kewl’ like my friends!”

(with a really judgemental look on her face)
“Because you will sound ignorant and I will not let anyone say that ignorance came out of this house. Also because people will judge you.”

God. I was so annoying. 

Second grade. Yes, I have a pasta necklace on. Yes, that is my real hair. All that judgment you’re doing? Quit it. Right now. Second grade was rough.

Once I got into junior high and high school, I started being a rebel. Kind of. Like, I did things I wasn’t supposed to…but there was NO WAY I was gonna flaunt it in my parents’ faces. Because I knew some kids who did that and their parents were just like “oh no! What will we do about our rebellious child?”
…but I knew if I did it, my parents would murder me. Straight Texas Chainsaw Massacre. 

I was a rebel on the down low, yo.

So! If my mother only knew…

1. I tried smoking cigarettes twice. Both times they were Virginia Slims Menthol Lights. Both times I failed miserably and I did NOT become an immediate addict like all the literature in the school nurses office said I would if I tried smoking. 

2. One time, in college, I skipped all my classes for an entire month to pick up extra shifts at work because I blew all my money at one time and couldn’t afford to pay my bills. I didn’t tell my parents because I was really embarrassed that I could be so irresponsible. 

3. My first semester of freshman year at LSU, I literally drove every other weekend to San Antonio to spend time with my then boyfriend, but he was not the reason I wanted to transfer to UTSA. That would be because I wanted to take class with my best friend, Brittany.

4. In elementary school, I used to creep into her room and try on her bras to estimate how big my boobs would get and then meticulously fold them back the way that she had them so she wouldn’t notice. Ha. 
(ladies, don’t even try to tell me you didn’t do that)

5. I always knew that she kept Christmas presents at the bottom of her closet behind the shoes, but I would literally WILL myself to stay away from them. I didn’t want to ruin her surprise (she LOVES giving Christmas presents).

6. (if my mama and daddy both knew!) One time, my dad almost accidentally threw away all of the love letters, pictures, and little notes/artifacts from before and just after my parents got married. I managed to save them before certain demise and I’ve kept them safe ever since to avoid a accidental and unfortunate fate at the bottom of a trash can. 

I know I’m saying all these like she doesn’t know…but knowing Mama Nancy, she probably does know. With the exception of the last one. And if she didn’t before…she knows now! (hi, mom!) 

Linking up with: Two Thirds Hazel and Mommy in Heels

Crisco and Wedding Rings

Day 18 of Jenni @Story Of My Life’s #blogeverydayinMay Challenge.

“Tell a story from your childhood. Dig deep and try to be descriptive about what you remember and how you felt.”

Mmm. A childhood story.
Just a warning: if you’re on a paleo challenge you may not wanna read this.

I come from a pretty hispanic family and we probably eat all the foods that you imagine we do. And my grandma was the best cook in the whole world. Rice and beans, enchiladas, calabasa con pollo, huevos rancheros. Nom nom nom. My most favorite thing to eat was my grandma’s homemade tortillas. They were perfection. They were thick and buttery and amazing. 

I remember watching her make the balls of dough as a kid, fascinated. She would pull out all the ingredients, put them on the counter and then, like magic, she’d be putting fist sized balls of dough in a plastic bag to refrigerate for cooking the next morning. Because, of course, we needed fresh tortillas for breakfast the next morning. 

I distinctly remember the day she let me help make tortillas. I got to stand up on a chair so I could reach the counter like a big girl. I remember laughing as she’d kneed the dough and her wedding ring would disappear into it and come up covered. Then, she’d complain that she never remembered to take it off before she started. She would walk through each step out loud so I’d remember what she was doing. I remember her smelling like flour, Crisco, and grandma all rolled up. She’d hand me a big clump of dough and tell me to roll it up in a perfect circle and I did as I was told. By the time we got to the end of the dough, I had a lot of perfectly round circles. She used the last of the dough to make two “baby circles”. We packaged up our circles and left our baby circles out.

She used her rolling pin to flatten out our baby circles and cook them up on her comal (flat skillet). She covered them in butter and we sat down to eat ’em. She said we needed a treat for all of our hard work.

Even after all these years later, I still remember what she smelled like, how she laughed, and how to make the perfect flour tortilla (I’d share the recipe, but it’s a secret!)

{What’s your favorite childhood memory?}