There’s been a whole lotta buzz lately about the website Miss Bimbo dot com. I heard about it through the awesome TentoTwenty site, where I’m a contributing writer, but there have been multiple other folks on the interwebs discussing its relevance. In fact, several of us have been so disturbed by the overt implications of this site, we’re each dedicating a post to it, specifically today: Thursday because it’s Throat Punch Thursday over at Debi’s, and we’re all joining in the fun.

Several of my friends will be talking about the negative messaging this sends to our tween crowd and how this site is one more reason young girls will see themselves as not good enough, not skinny enough, not whatever enough. And all of that is probably true, and it’s deplorable.

But my rant and throat punch today won’t be for those reasons. I am dedicating my throat punch to women who give other women a bad image. STOP DRAGGING ME DOWN BECAUSE YOU THINK IT’S FUNNY, NO BIG DEAL, and NOT HURTING ANYONE!

When one woman degrades herself, she degrades all of us along with her. To refer to yourself as a bimbo – even in jest – is to debase me, too. Do you even know the definition of a bimbo?

an attractive but empty-headed young woman, esp. one perceived as a willing sex object.

Last month a photograph of a puffy-faced Ashley Judd appeared all over the internet, and immediately critics were discussing the obvious plastic surgery signs, weight gain issues, and how Ashley’s husband’s wandering eyes will get her back to how she should be looking. Ashley Judd is one of my new heroes because she stood up for me when she published a three-page response to all the haters, gossipers, critics and rumor spreaders. Please take a few minutes to read her article published on The Daily Beast.

The Conversation about women’s bodies exists largely outside of us, while it is also directed at (and marketed to) us, and used to define and control us. The Conversation about women happens everywhere, publicly and privately. We are described and detailed, our faces and bodies analyzed and picked apart, our worth ascertained and ascribed based on the reduction of personhood to simple physical objectification.


Be the person who STOPS promoting the hyper-sexualization of our society.

Women: Have enough respect for yourself to know where and when to draw the line in your conversation, your dress, and in your relationships.

Men: Please show women the respect they deserve, and help them rise above the low standards society currently embraces.

We can all do better than Miss Bimbo, who thinks so little of herself that a website devoted to her crassness, cleavage and curves is her idea of success and fulfillment. I know better.


My heart is full of color this morning. I love color: seeing it, touching it, wearing it, and feeling it from the inside of me all the way out to my fingertips. There is a certain reverence to the morning light as it warms the first leaves with its touch, and that same light source creates a palette of vibrant pastels when it sinks into the western sky, stretching its fingers to touch every cloud goodnight, painting for us a spectrum of possibilities from sunup to sundown.

Without color, my life would be dull, indeed. A red living room wall greeting me when I walk into my home is a reflection of my own vibrancy and passion for living. Yellow accent pieces against my muted apple-green kitchen walls supply yearlong springtime. And for sanctuary, peaceful breathing, and rejuvenation I withdraw to the hand-painted vines climbing the blueish/greenish walls of my bedroom.

Mornings allow me to identify with the ROY G. BIV lineup of colors in my closet, starting always with my shoes and building up from my feet. Yesterday it was my cowboy boots and blue tights supplying all the color my basic grey dress didn’t have on its own. While others looked at my striking blue legs paired with my lime green raincoat and pitied my colorful brashness, I smiled and embraced the authenticity of me.

If ever in doubt, I always wear red, but wearing color is a given, as John Ruskin, English art critic, reminds me, “The purest and most thoughtful minds are those which love color the most.”

The Emperor’s New Clothes

We all know the story; it’s a childhood classic. The cast of characters includes:

1) The Bumbling Emperor with no fashion sense, and an apparent inability to run the empire effectively without designer clothing.

2) The Traveling Salesman who identifies a need, and then sells the emperor a solution. That’s right. He sells him a solution, but no actual clothes.

3) Advisors to the Emperor, each of whom lacks the gumption to ever tell it true for fear of what, exactly? Execution? Job loss? No Christmas bonus?

4) The Honest Child who tells it like he sees it.

Since this is my blog post, I’ll momentarily assume the role of the Honest Child.

If you are a woman and you choose to wear tights – know they are tights, not pants – even if they have no feet sewn into them. The marketing mavens of fashion (aka The Traveling Salesman) want you to believe you’re covered up enough, but they are lying to you. They already got their money; you’ve given them their reward. They now owe you nothing – least of which fashion advice. Just because you wear a shirt that may or may not match your tights does not give you permission to walk outside without pants or a skirt covering you – at least past your thighs.

Please – for the sake of the rest of us attending the parade called out in public, cover yourself with real clothes, or there may be a child shouting loud enough for everyone to hear, “Why aren’t you wearing any pants?!”