nakedjen

Glitter Lives in the Lining of Your Skin

The Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue lands on our newstands today.  As is tradition, the beautiful Kate Upton is baring all on the cover, and she'll be at kid's eye level at our grocery check-out stands for all of us to see.  You don't have to look, but if you do, I have something important to share with you.

I want to remind all of you, each and every one, women and men, both, that we can celebrate our own beauty, our own bodies, and that the bodies in these magazines are not exactly real.  They really are just images of a preconceived notion, of the media's hopeful ideal. They are the result of digital manipulation and lots of plastic surgery.

My wish is that all of you will know and remember that you are far more beautiful than a manufactured picture in a magazine and that you are much more than just eye candy.  The body you have is far more capable than just being "hot" and that the very real you, exactly as you are, gives me way more than just a pretty face.

You own your glitter.  Go and share it. Freely.

 

 

You're one of the few who put up with me.

It seems impossible to me, though I know it isn't impossible at all, that there are people in my own life who have never been to places like California or Hawaii or Alaska or Oregon before in their entire lives.  I realize that sounds arrogant, but my heart holds all the people I love so very dearly and closely, that even when I'm in those places, those far off contemplative places, I often choose to believe that all of you whom I do love so dearly, each and every one of you, is right there with me, tucked carefully in the pockets of my skirts or jeans or backpack or, I don't know, riding along on the backs of my dogs.  Somehow, you're with me.  All of you.  Right there.

Which is also, quite honestly, I suppose why I am surprised and just a little bit shocked when I turn to my professor, as I often do, I turn to him, and share a story or seven or thirty-three, and he's not even the slightest bit aware of what on this earth I am talking about and I cock my head sideways and then have to remind myself that, oh right, he wasn't there at that moment in Alaska, or California, or Oregon, or Copenhagen, and it is quite possible that he wasn't even ALIVE, (as happened last night when I was yammering on about the 1972 Olympics and Olga Korbut and Munich and Mark Spitz) and it is my duty and responsibility to decide (really it is) if it is worth it to continue to yammer (god do I yammer, people) or to just shut the fuck up already and allow us both some quiet time, time without words, time to just be, time in between, time to breathe and allow the rest of the universe to share its magnificence.  Oh, yes.  The magnificence.  There's an enormous amount of it.  Just waiting to rain down upon our heads.

Back to the places where I think you all have been.  Portland is one of them.  I'm certain, since I've been there so very often, that all of you have been there often, as well.  That you know all about the rivers that divide the city, the bridges that cross the rivers, the amazing and swell little neighbourhoods, the fantastic people who dwell there, the weird that is just normal there, the coffee that makes you wish you lived there all the time, the incredible vegan community, the food trucks that serve every imaginable kind of food and, oh yes, the bikes! BIKES!

My professor happens to be one of those people in my life, those dear people, who had never ever been to Portland.  Never.  Until earlier this month when we stopped there for two days on our way to the Fair.  Boy did we stop.  Full stop.  Stopped so much that my professor was taking names and making plans for our own return trip and sorting out exactly which colleges might employ him. No, seriously. He really was!

We rode bikes.  We wandered and got very lost in funky neighbourhoods.  We poked around in old bookstores and vintage shops that held magical secrets in old musty filing cabinets.  Shops that contained old turntables and the amperage and wattage bulbs and microphones for ancient radio stations no longer on the air.  Vinyl and furs and neon signs mixed with vintage dental chairs ready to extract your very worst nightmares!

FanFuckingFabulous.

Also fabulous?

The Backstage Bar.  My goodness.  I walked right in, introduced myself to the bartender, Rian, and said aloud, "Now, this is a spot to get naked if ever there was a spot to get naked!"  As if I needed just a tad more confirmation, just as those words fell out of my mouth, "Friend of the Devil" came wafting from the rafters.  It was a sign.  I was taking off all of my clothes.

I think we three, the three musketeers, must have sat there for at least two hours talking about, of all things, religion.  Not just religion.  RELIGION. Patrons filed in from the end of their own workdays and slowly filled the bar. That bar is the perfect spot in Portland for spending a long and lazy afternoon.  The tunes are good, the atmosphere is kind and the bartenders know to let a girl get naked if she feels so inspired!

My professor insists that we're going back to Portland soon.  I want to go back even sooner.  With all of our belongings and both dogs and 'lilsalty and all of you who quite possibly may have never been.  That's the point, isn't it?  If you'd like to come along, naturally.   You're welcome to join me.   

Of course, that probably is not truly possible, but the good news is that we have awesome friends there, my professor really did love it, and we can visit as often as we'd like. 

Plus, there's a bar just behind the stage that will let me get naked.  You know I'm going to have to go back.  Just for that.

Honestly, my heart is huge, I love all of you and I want you to come on the adventure! Or go and find your own.  This world is a huge and exciting place.  There's a spot on your list I know you're just hoping to go.  Now's the time. You're one of the few who put up with me.  I'll go with you.  You just have to ask.

Shall we go?

Naked With Intention

I get asked this question a lot.  A whole lot.  I also get asked, a whole lot, how I keep from getting arrested since I seem to just show up naked in the most unlikely of places?  Is there some sort of special something that I do to avoid arrest?  Is there some sort of practice to becoming as comfortable as someone like me seems to be as I am in my own skin, willing to just be naked in the presence of others, clothed or not, without really batting an eyelash?

I think if you've read my words for long enough you already know these answers so you can skip this post and just carry on with whatever it is that you happen to be doing on your own Friday evening that makes you happiest.  I might suggest that it include hugging a few people that you love, perhaps even a few that you don't even know, sharing some glitter just because and if you happen to be living on the East Coast of these United States, making certain you have some drinking water, a working flashlight or three, DOG FOOD FOR THE DOGS, snacks for you, and to just get ready to even, maybe, have a little naked dance in the rain.  I would do it, but we all know I'm bat shit crazy.

Back to Phil's question.  The thing is this all just takes practice.  It really does.  There are those places where public nudity is actually accepted and encouraged although I am going to be the first to admit that I'm not even a big huge fan of those particular places.  I'm far more of a fan of natural hot springs or places like my beloved Oregon Country Fair where we have sanctioned communal nudity and everyone is so relaxed and nonchalant about it that you really do realize that good heavens all bodies are just so incredibly beautiful in their unique differences!  Seriously.  When you see so very many naked bodies all together, each one just as beautiful and different and special and exotic as the next, you realize that we are magical creatures and our bodies are all as unique as our voices and our hearts and should absolutely be shared.

Now, I'm not suggesting you take off your clothes and go walking down the streets of your neighborhood. (Or, actually, maybe I am). I realize that when I do that many people exclaim that I'm an exhibitionist, that I do it to shock people.  My own mother, Emily Gilmore, insists that I do it because I have some screws loose and just absolutely MUST have people STARE AT ME. 

It really isn't about that, actually.  Not really.  I actually even have my own very strict internal set of rules about where and when I'll get naked, even in the very most public of places.  I will admit that if there's just a bit of shock value, that's okay.  But it is more, for me, to get others to reconsider their own individual notions about nudity.  About our bodies.  About exactly why it might be so offensive, so wrong, so awful to have a fully naked woman standing on a street corner.

However, I am suggesting, I am, that you dip your own toes as far as you can into the places where it feels the most comfortable for you.  I have always said that we can't exactly go about fighting wars if we're all standing around naked because there's no where for us to keep the bullets.

I live in this world naked. I can't live in this world any other way.  What I am enchanted to know is that there are others who can't live in this world any other way, as well. 

Naked with intention.  Now, there's a political platform we should perhaps all consider.

 

Something Beautiful

December 8 Prompt

Author: Karen Walrond
The Beauty of Different
@chookooloonks

Prompt: Beautifully different. Think about what makes you different and what you do that lights people up. Reflect on all the things that make you different - you'll find they're what make you beautiful.

 

My eyes are electric blue. 

My hair is naturally curly, in ringlets.  It looks like I used a curling iron, but the truth is I don’t even own a hair brush.  Or a blow dryer.  It is what it is.

I have lots and lots of freckles.

Sometimes, I have more than one chin.  Sometimes there are lots of chins.  Other times, I only have one chin.  I can’t explain it.  My face decides how many chins it wants to have and I just have to keep smiling.

I laugh.  Loudly.  You can hear me laugh in Texas when I’m standing in Utah.  That isn’t an exaggeration.  It doesn’t make me laugh any less or any more quietly.

I tell really long and involved stories. 

I wear children’s shoes.  Sometimes I wear children’s clothes, too.  They’re cheaper!  I’m just freakishly small.  I just appear larger on the Internet.  I’m told that a lot.

I’m not afraid to tell you that I think you’re wrong.  I’m also not afraid to truly applaud and celebrate you when I think you’re truly right. 

I’m the one who will throw a parade for you complete with a marching band and floats.  Yes, floats.  You want the floats, trust me.

I share. Everything.

I keep all of your secrets.  Yes, even that one.

I’m a pain in the ass to go out to eat with, but I also take full responsibility for this and make it work even if you take me to a Dude Ranch for a week where COW is the only option.

I never wear make-up.

I sleep naked.

I live naked.

These are all things that make me, me.  Not all of them are unique, not all of them are beautiful, not all of them are different, but they are all the different parts of me.

That I am different is something I hear nearly every single day.

Am I beautiful?

Well, yes.  Some times I am.

 

 

Roll The Dice

Nickel slots spinning endlessly in despair. Ancient waitresses teetering on stilettos in torn fishnets hawking watered down cocktails in hoarse whispers. Frat boys sucking on cheap cigars and yelling hit me, baby, with a high five. Elvis. Always Elvis.

And a naked lady. Appearing tonight.

Vegas, Baby.

naked is naked and naked is me.

i took naked photos yesterday morning. because i keep getting emails from folks saying, "are we getting naked friday photos?!! it has been a really long time..."

and it has. been a really long time. i know this.

it isn't that i don't enjoy being naked. or celebrating it, in fact. because, i do! absolutely.

i'm just in a space, at this moment, where i'm feeling like putting naked pictures of myself on my blog isn't something i really should be doing.

and, yes, my photos are already splashed all over the place out there. i know this. i'm not going around deleting them all or trying to capture the ones that are already polluting the internet.

part of it, i guess, is that i'm in the process of rethinking exactly what it is that i'm doing with my life. perhaps i'm having my own mid-life crisis of some sort? god only knows. i just know i'm in my own HEAD a whole hell of a lot (and it isn't the best and most fun place to play) and i keep thinking about what's next?! i'm barreling towards 50. which feels like a place where a person might have some sort of fucking clue?!

but that's the cruel joke of this life, i think. some of us get the answers right from the start and then others of us spend our life taking off our clothes, changing costumes, putting on new ones and stripping bare again, because nothing ever quite feels like it fits us. at all.

i know i'm happiest NAKED. but i also know i spend a whole lot of time and energy explaining myself NAKED. and that is where my biggest issue is right now.

if i have to explain, if it takes all that energy to get everyone else to truly "get" it, is it really even worth it to me? what is the point?!? 

naked isn't just a person without clothes.  naked isn't nudity. naked isn't pornographic, even. naked is a life lived bare, without apology, very much out loud, fiercely and furiously and generously and in gratitude and sometimes, yes, it is really fucked up and full of flaws and mistakes, but because it is naked, you're going to see all of it.  there are no covers, there is no screen, there is no filter.

naked is naked and naked is me.  a picture of a naked me might not even say all of that.

and that is just a small dark glimpse into my head at the moment. there's lots more cavernous canyons of crap. but since they're mostly full of crap, it's not even worth attempting to vomit it out here.

Ta Da!

Best fair so far.

I am overflowing today with so much love and gratitude and all I want to do is hug every body. Every.single.one.

I have so much to share about the magical goodness what was the fair this year, but I'm seriously in like some sort of manic hyperbole of myself and am having trouble even keeping my own two feet on the ground.

So instead I'm going to go walk the precious black furry gods who share their hearts so generously with me and breathe deeply and remember, with deep and humble gratitude, that I am one very lucky woman. 

 

One oh so very blessed and lucky and loved woman, indeed.

Being happy isn't having everything in your life be perfect. Maybe it's about stringing together all the little things like wearing these pants or getting to Santa Cruz - making those moments count for way more than the bad stuff.

This is a story that begins with a pair of pants.  A pair of pants that I acquired quite by accident last summer.  A very particular pair of pants that I actually lusted after for quite some time, but never actually purchased because spending that kind of money on those kinds of pants seemed all kinds of frivolous.  Especially when I was in the middle of losing house and home and husband all in one fell swoop. 

Which is why, when I happened upon the very same pair of pants, the pants I had wanted, the pants I really did not need but oh so desired, among all the very many thousands of pants that are there for the wanting at our DI early last summer I decided that the goddesses of the pants Universe had decided that I had waited and wanted for quite long enough. 

I bought the pants.  For $1.99.  The pants, as you see, were meant to be.

Saturday morning, the sky was crystal blue, the sun a glowing orb of goodness, the air was cool and crisp, the birds were singing spring songs of cheer and I woke up in Santa Cruz.  My home where I am truly understood, at least most of the time.

I pulled the pants from my suitcase, slipped them on and it is right then that I noticed that either I had shrunk or my pants had found some sort of pants growing magical fairy dust while they've been hiding out in the bottom of my dresser drawer because no sooner had I pulled them up over my ass then they slipped right back down to my ankles.  Completely.  Without need to unbutton, unzipper or in any way manipulate them.

These exact same treasured pants that I wore nearly every day tucked under sassy short dresses were most decidedly suddenly two sizes too big. At least.

Inconceivable!

I didn't have a belt with me, nor anything that could easily be fashioned into something that might hold these most treasured and favorite of all my pants up.  I did have plenty of other clothes with me, clothes that fit just perfectly fine, clothes that were also absolutely weather appropriate for that most gorgeous of first days of Spring in Santa Cruz.  Did I change in to them?  Of course I did not.  That would have been a far too rational thing to do.

Instead, I grabbed a fistful of pant in one hand, grabbed all my other stuff in the remaining free hand and headed out the door. 

As I was driving to Holly's house, whom I was meeting to go clean our beloved and beautiful beaches, I called her to beg for the two things I needed most in the world right at that moment.  Coffee and a belt.

She sounded like death.  Warmed over with a side of fries.  I had just seen her the evening before and couldn't possibly imagine what had transpired in the few hours since, but was imagining that there had been some sort of horrific zombie flu invasion in her quadrant of Santa Cruz and my brain was immediately trying to think of what the hospital had told us about how to combat zombie flu invasions.  Feed it? Starve it?  Drink only liquids?  Meanwhile, Holly is saying something about no belts and no coffee and she might not go to the beach and, oh god, she has to go!

At that very moment, I was passing an exit on the freeway where if I hopped off I knew there was a strip mall (do we not all just despise strip malls?  All together now.  THEY SUCK AND CAN BE THE FIRST THING TO GO IN THE ZOMBIE FLU INVASION!) that had a drug store, a grocery store, and a Peet's coffee.  In other words, perhaps a belt? And definitely coffee.

So I hopped off the freeway and hopped into the parking lot of this craptastic strip mall.  I will just now add, because this will be important later, that the parking lot for this particular strip mall is all kinds of backwards.  Let's face it.  This is California.  At the beach.  Where real estate is a high premium.  If we're going to have a parking lot, well, we're going to construct it like a small kid with her Legos and squeeze as many Matchbox cars as we can possibly fit into the allotted one hundred square feet.  Believe me, a girl with her Legos and Matchbox cars and get really creative if she has too.  Especially when that land is costing her a gabillion dollars.

I parked. Holding a fistful of pants in one hand, I wandered into the grocery store.  Yes, the grocery store.  In search of a belt.  At that point I probably should have gotten the COFFEE first so I could actually have some of my brain function before attempting to solve the BELT issue, but I didn't have the COFFEE and thus didn't THINK to actually get the COFFEE and instead just kept thinking about the fact that I was wearing NO UNDERWEAR and would truly be at least HALF NAKEDJEN if I didn't do something about the PANTS ISSUE pronto.

Fistful of pants. Wandered the aisles of the grocery store.  I actually went to the produce department and searched for twist ties.  Yes, twist ties.  DO NOT JUDGE ME, PEOPLE.  I had not had coffee.  Enough twist ties tied together and you can make a belt.  You know, like on Survivor, only BETTER!  Only because California is in such a horrible and deep depression they are not even providing the good citizens there with twist ties for their plastic bags in the produce department.  (California, I want you to know we have lots of twist ties here in Utah.  I will send you some if you truly need them!). 

Thwarted with the twist ties, I tried to find the "sewing supplies".  Instead I found the Hardware Section. Of the Grocery Store.  Where I found DUCT TAPE.  And, yes, of course, I went all McGuyver and figured I could just fashion an oh so fashionable DUCT TAPE BELT.  For the magical pants.  That would keep me from being HALF NAKEDJEN. 

Oh, but, what was that I spied in the HARDWARE section right next to the DUCT TAPE?  Industrial sized safety pins.  Which, you know, can be pinned together.  To make a belt!  Those of us with pants suddenly large enough to fit Mr. T can still be STYLISH, you know.  A SAFETY PIN BELT.  I would be oh so GOTH and very SANTA CRUZ all in the very same instance. 

So I grabbed the industrial safety pins.  With my fistful of pants I wandered to the cashier where I was reminded, oh so very well, about the very special nature of cashiers in Santa Cruz.

You can never just check out at a store in Santa Cruz.  That is just a near impossibility.  This is because your cashier is nearly always having a conversation about the surf conditions with their buddy who somehow just happened to wander in shortly before you appeared at the cash register.  Not only that, but whatever you're purchasing that day, be it orange juice or, I don't know, INDUSTRIAL SAFETY PINS, is the most fascinating item in the store for purchase that the cashier has EVER LAID EYES ON and he spends at least ten minutes completely enthralled and fascinated that YOU FOUND THIS IN THIS STORE?!?!

Ten minutes. Swear to god.  Holding a fistful of pants and two dollars.  WITHOUT COFFEE!! To just buy the pins that would eventually keep me from being naked.

In the parking lot, I hooked all the safety pins together to form one long unbroken chain of safety goodness, weaved it through the belt loops on my pants, and then, well, I was no longer in danger of pants to the ankles slippage.

So I headed into Peet's.  For COFFEE.  I completely confounded the boy behind the counter with my request for a SHOT IN THE DARK.  He had absolutely no idea what it was that I wanted.  So I explained it to him and asked for TWO SHOTS, please, as it had been kind of a rough morning what with my fistful of pants and all.

I'm not exactly certain what happened next except that I know that I was sitting in my cute little rental car, putting the coffee where it was supposed to go, getting ready to go meet Holly when my car came in awful crunching contact with the back end of a Ford F250. 

There was no damage to the truck as it was the trailer hitch that hit my car.  There was some ugly damage to my little rental car and all I could think, honestly, was THANK GOD I'M NOT HOLDING UP MY OWN PANTS!

Of course, I know that this story could be far more interesting and exciting if I had not already addressed the pants situation and instead I had hopped out of the car, the pants had immediately slipped to my ankles, I had somehow found myself entangled in them, I had tripped and fallen, HALF NAKED, into the arms of the truck driver with half of Santa Cruz watching.

Instead, I'm just grateful for INDUSTRIAL SAFETY PINS, for excellent car insurance and for extra shots of espresso because those are all really important and necessary things in your life when you're writing a story about pants.

+++++++++++++

Hey, I'm live on SecondHand Radio with SecondHand Karl, Thursday, March 25, at 10 P.M. EST.  I told Karl that I'm really an open naked book and he can talk to me about anything. So...if you want to ask me about anything that you really want to know, feel free to tune in and join the conversation.  Anyone can call in, anyone can join the chat.  I'd love it if you did!

Naked Jen for Dove "Real Beauty Campaign"

I've written about Dove's Real Beauty Campaign here before.  How I was excited that a major brand and company was finally taking the issue of self-esteem and body image seriously and using it as a platform for their products and to actually improve the minds, bodies and souls of women (and men!) across the globe.  Bravo, Dove. 

As this has been my message and platform for over seven years on this blog, I am truly happy that they're using their big and mighty resources in such a positive way.  It can never hurt when we are helping each other to love our bodies and our selves.  More love in this world is always a beautiful thing.

Recently, though, I also realized that I could be an excellent partner for Dove.  I mean, honestly, I've been walking and talking and living their "real beauty" campaign for far longer than they've been putting ads on television or billboards on street corners.  Loving exactly who you are is my motto, the words I always live by, the way I encourage everyone to always be. 

With the help of my friend, Marlo, a campaign has been created on Facebook to help me to get Dove's attention.  Marlo was incredibly sweet and had the following to say in the launch of this campaign:

NakedJen had been CAMPAIGNING for REAL BEAUTY years before the Dove campaign. She is a TRUE LIVING example of a woman working daily to promote SELF LOVE embrace SELF BEAUTY against the stereotypical ideals.

If you have a Facebook account, it is quite simple and really easy to join the group.  In this case, numbers are what counts.  Look, if a silly Facebook group about a tinfoil hat on a dog can garner 1,000,000 members, certainly we can get at least a couple thousand, right?  And that couple thousand should help me to really get Dove's attention!

To join, just go here.  Click the join button.  You're done.  And...if you're not already one of my friends, please ask to become one, too.  I'd love to be your friend.  I'll just warn you now, though, as NeverNakedBeth says, I can be exhausting!

And for those of you hoping for more tales of Sundance, I promise they're coming.  I have many, many more, plus a great give-away to share with all of you.  Your patience will be rewarded.  Soon!

P.S.  Are you all just loving the Olympics?  I can not get enough and boy oh boy am I ever so grateful to the good fairy who sent me that television!  Totally fab!

I am Naked.

December 26 Insight or aha! moment. What was your epiphany of the year?

Being naked can be a very political statement.  If necessary.  That is all.