Sass Talk – Chapter TWO

Chapter Two

The clickety-clack sounds of her high heel clogs were the only sounds heard on the dusty, concrete sidewalk on Main Street. Vangie Ann was on her way to her weekly hair appointment and she was more than a bit perturbed. She was running late, again, because of her good-for-nothing husband W.R. Pickel. He was always making her late and had one excuse after another as to why he was late. He was like a broken record. He had a high-pitched hypernasal voice that grated on her ever-loving nerves. Oh, if only she could go back in a time machine and visit her 18-year-old self. She would give herself a good whop to the head for ever conceiving the idea of marrying that man. He was a whiner and a womanizer, but Vangie Ann was far too old to be making any changes in her life now. So she made his life a living hell ever chance she got. She put the capital “N” in the word Nag. It gave her a secret thrill to drive the poor man to drink. After all, he deserved it for all his flirting ways with the small circle of women in the town.

The bell clinked as she crossed the threshold of Curl Up & Dye Beauty Shop. A hushed silence spread around the room as Vangie Ann entered because everyone knew that she was the town gossip. She loved a good tale and ate it up like candy. The problem was once she chewed on it for a while, she spit out the most outrageous tales imaginable. Just last week, she started a rumor about Otis Murrell Stackcake, her brother-in-law. Now everyone in town suspected him of cheating on his wife Peggy Sue, Vangie Ann’s sister, because of her vile tales. Vangie Ann and Peggy Sue had never really gotten along with one another. Vangie was three years older than her sister and she had always been jealous of Peggy Sue who was much prettier and had a sweet disposition unlike Vangie. Peggy Sue had a slew of boys hanging around the house wanting to court her when they were young, but she only had eyes for Otis Murrell. He had been the high school football star of the town.

“Hey there Ms. Vangie Ann,” said Cherry, the shampoo girl. “Hello yourself….” said Vangie Ann, eyeing the younger woman with suspicion. Not that Cherry would have given a second glance at poor old Mr. Pickel, but she knew that Mrs. Pickel was very jealous. Everyone knew of her spiteful ways and tried to steer clear of her at all times. She was one woman that no one wanted to cross. She was viper with that tongue of hers. She had started more than one mess of rumors around town. Vangie Ann made her way to her usual chair. She had been coming to the Curl Up & Dye since Miss Dolly had opened it up fifteen years before. Every week Miss Dolly washed Vangie Ann’s hair, applied a “special” creme rinse that everyone knew was really black hair dye, (#12 Black Rage), rolled each section of her hair on rollers and set her under the hairdryer for 45 minutes while Vangie Ann pretended to read the latest gossip magazines.She was actually listening to the other customers’ conversations, well, the little bit that she could hear under the whir of the hairdryer.

This morning started out no different than any other morning and the conversations began heading in the direction of her husband’s errant nephew, Darrell “June Bug” Pickel. What a disaster that young man was. He was always getting into trouble as a young boy and teenager. He listened to that loud rock-n-roll “devil” music and drank beer, even on Sundays. He had long hair tied back into a ponytail that hung straight down to his tail-end. What a disgrace he was! And, he had been shacking up with that horrible little floozy Daisy Mae Hogg, of all people, for the last couple of years. They lived in a dumpy little single-wide trailer out on the south side of town. What happened next was something that she definitely hadn’t expected. She was busily eavesdropping the best that she could under the noise of the hairdryer. Cherry was talking about her “secret” boyfriend again. No one knew his name and that drove Vangie crazy. She had been slyly asking her pointed questions for months, but still hadn’t been able to get Cherry to give up the name of her beaux. Out of the blue, she heard the biggest racket of music blaring outside. Not ten seconds later, she heard the town’s only firetruck siren go off. She stood up from her chair so fast she knocked the hairdryer into the wall behind the base of the chair. Everyone stopped talking as they first saw a buttercup yellow Jeep fly past the window with loud music blaring from inside. Sure enough, that little floozy Daisy Mae was behind the wheel, singing her heart out and laughing in between verses all the way through town, with her long bleached blonde hair flying out the windows.

“For heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Vangie. Just then the firetruck rolled by in an hurry, sirens blaring drowning out the noise from Daisy Mae.

“What in the world! My, oh my. Has the world gone mad?” screeched Vangie. Everyone looked out the window, watching the fiasco going down Main Street. There hadn’t been this much excitement since the annual Fourth of July parade. They watched the firetruck until it was out of sight and then the myriad of conversations became chaotic as everyone began talking at once. Miss Dolly turned on the police scanner to see if she could find out what was going on. Cherry got on her cell phone and began talking to her secret beaux. Agnes who was all of 90 years old, slept like a baby under the hairdryer. Carol Anne and her twin daughters, Betsey and Brittany, began arguing over who they each thought they saw driving the Jeep and Vangie Ann just listened and took it all in. Her mind was already reeling with the sequence of events that she was concocting in her mind. Oh, what tales she had for the women of her quilt circle.

Just then, Mr. Pickel came barrelling into the beauty shop towards Vangie. “Vangie, my sweetness, we need to go. There’s been an accident.” he whined over all the commotion. All at once, everyone stopped talking. Vangie and Mr. Pickel were the main spectacles and Vangie Ann became astutely aware that everyone was watching the pair of them, rapt in attention.

“Mr. Pickel! Stop your prattling at once. We will discuss whatever has gotten you riled up at another time.” explained Vangie, in hushed tones.

“But dearest moon pie, I have to tell you something awful.” he pleaded. “I think my dear young nephew Darrell has died in a fire! And, I think Daisy Mae did it!” he exclaimed. “She has run off and Darrell is missing!”

“Dear Mr. Pickel need I remind you to never call me that vile name again!” she yelled.

“But moon pie, my nephew……”he wailed. He began to break down and cry, right there in front of everyone.

“Come along Mr. Pickel, we will talk about this in private…..”she said in angry, hushed tones. “We don’t air out our dirty laundry for everyone to see!” With that, she grabbed Mr. Pickel’s arm and out the door they went. She, marching along to the car down the street with pink foam curlers still in her hair, with poor Mr. Pickel being dragged by his wife down Main Street in front of the townspeople. He would rue the day that he embarrassed his wife. She would make sure of it. “And all over that stupid, silly boy…..”she muttered. “Serves him right to get himself killed. He messed up my hair appointment. I will never forgive him for this!” she yelled.

“But dear, he’s dead! How can you be mad at him?” he wailed. “How can my poor nephew, June Bug be dead? Oh, my sister is rolling over in her grave. I can feel it, moon pie. I can feel it” said Mr. Pickel as he placed his hand above his heart.

“Snap out of it, you idiot!” WHOP! Vangie’s hand went up the side of his head.
“Ow! Dearest, why did you hit me?” he yowled, rubbing his eye.

“Because I told you, you old fool, don’t ever call me that vile name, moon pie again!” WHOP! “And don’t you ever sass talk me either!”

The ladies in the beauty shop couldn’t hear everything through the thick glass window, but they saw enough to giggle at Vangie Ann. “Moon Pie” indeed. But poor Mr. Pickel, how they all felt sorry for him. Why did he ever put up with that wife of his?

Within a few minutes, life went back to normal in the little beauty shop on Main Street. The dust settled back onto the hot streets on that fateful day in August. It would become the hottest day on record for the whole state of Texas. A funeral would be held for Darrell “June Bug” Pickel a few days later, and an inconsolable Mr. W.R. Pickel would be hiding his black eye behind some dark sunglasses at the interment service. An arrest warrant would be issued for Miss Daisy Mae Hogg of Hogg Holler, last known whereabouts  – driving down Main Street like a bat out of hell, Texas. Life would never be the same again, but Mrs. Evangeline Ann Pickel had enough to talk about for months to come. And, Mr. Pickel never sass talked her again.

 

 

Chapter One – Burnin’ Down the House

CHAPTER ONE

Daisy Mae Hogg was on a rampage. She was ready to spit nails. Her husband Darrell, more commonly known by his nickname, “June-Bug” had just driven off in their only prized possession, a 1972 red Chevy Nova with jacked-up back wheels. June Bug was known to get a wild hair every once in a while and pull a weekend drunk, but it wasn’t even payday. Daisy Mae had just rounded the corner of the yard after milking Betsy Anne, the lone milk cow, when she saw him peal out of the dirt packed driveway headed off to town, blaring “Tuesday’s Gone” out the windows. As if his choice of song wasn’t suspicious enough, she found a note lying on the dinner table just inside the single-wide mobile home that they had just bought from Uncle Otis Earl last month. Apparently, June Bug had decided that he and Wanda from the town’s only diner were running off together; she could barely make out the chicken scratch that he called handwriting, but there it was in black and white. They were running off together for a weekend tryst. He explained further that they expected Daisy Mae to be gone when they got back. Apparently, the hovel that he called home was to become the new love pad for he and Miss Craftmatic Adjustable Bed, the one that everybody in town had tried out. Daisy Mae rushed to the back bedroom and began rifling through her meager belongings. She found her battered and beat-up suitcase under their double size mattress. Its rusty hinges creaked open and Daisy Mae began frantically rummaging through a few forgotten rhinestone dresses from her former beauty pageant days. Torn stockings, pink foam rollers and a long-lost Jungle Red lipstick flew behind her head as she pitched each of the contents to the far corners of the room, which was only a couple of feet behind her.

“Oh, he better not have……I will kill him dead!” screamed Daisy Mae in frustration.

“It’s bad enough he’s took off with that two-bit floozy Wanda. Every man in town has had a ride on her merry-go-round……I hope she gives him cooties and his little ding-a-ling falls off!!!”

Right in the nick of time before Daisy Mae could have a complete conniption fit, her fingers felt the edge of a worn piece of paper. Frantic with anger, she tore the tattered turquoise polka dot fabric from the inside flap. Musty smelling threads exploded all over the bed causing an unexpected sneezing fit that lasted for a couple of minutes. Daisy Mae found a balled up tissue in the floor beside the bed and blew her nose. With shaking hands she opened the yellowed envelope and out popped a dozen $100 bills. Packing those babies away in the crease of her Wal-Mart push-up bra, she took a last look around at the squalor of the trailer. June Bug had a nasty habit of leaving spit cups around the place. The scent of moldy wintergreen, his particular brand of snuff, permeated the stifling air inside the trailer. She pulled out a dresser drawer and stuffed some jeans, flannel, underwear and t-shirts into the old leather suitcase, closed the clasp and walked into the kitchen, about 4 feet away.

Daisy Mae opened the Frigidaire icebox that had been made from an era way before her time.  Apparently, June Bug had taken the last of the cold beer, too. There was a pitiful looking jar of pickled pig’s feet, a small wedge of government cheese and one lone Tupperware container. Whatever was inside didn’t resemble food any longer, it had the smell of roadkill. In the freezer was two uneaten deer steaks wrapped in aluminum foil with an inch of ice packed around on the outside of them. She grabbed the steaks and pitched them out onto the floor and grabbed a bag of frozen peas stuffed in the far corner of the freezer. She carefully pulled the bag from the back and laid it gently on the countertop. With a small skinning knife, she opened the bag and inside was another stack of $100 bills. Deciding that they were just too cold to handle, she tucked the bills away in the back pocket of her Levi’s.

She had just one more stop to make before she lit out for good. Underneath the bathroom sink was a giant box of Always maxi-pads. June Bug was totally freaked out about any kind of female unmentionables so he had steered clear of that box, refusing to even allow his Aqua Velva to reside in the same place under the sink. Once again, Daisy Mae opened the box and out spilled several dozen $100 bills. A satisfied smile stretched across her face as she contemplated what to do with the stack of green bills. She looked around the tiny room and found a plastic grocery bag wadded up in behind the toilet.

“Hmmmm……..” she wondered, “That wasn’t here yesterday when I cleaned up this pig sty..”

It was one thing to put up with June Bug’s disgusting ways throughout their 10 by 20 feet “home sweet home,” but Daisy Mae had put her foot down when it came to the bathroom. She had grown up using an outhouse and she was bound and determined to keep their one and only indoor bathroom clean as a whistle. She opened the twisted plastic and to her surprise there was nothing in the bag. She started to crumple it again and toss it in the trash pail, but felt something in the bottom of the bag. She carefully opened the bag up again and to her total shock and dismay discovered a spent shot-gun shell, a splatter of dried blood and a sticky, used condom. Her anger flared up to disproportional heights once again. She stuffed the crumpled plastic grocery bag in the outside pocket of the suitcase. On shaky knees, she walked in a daze back into the kitchen. She opened a small, lopsided cabinet door and grabbed a box of matches. Daisy Mae quietly and carefully opened the front door and slowly walked out onto the dusty, dirt yard. She took out a match and struck it against the red phosphorus strip and watched the small flame dance in her hand. She immediately dropped the match when it burned down singeing her finger. She slowly looked around the property as if remembering every tiny detail for the last time and began to walk away.

Upon greeting Betsy Anne, she untied her bridle and opened the gate, letting her go free. At first, the old cow just looked at Daisy Mae with a kindness that only other females understand, no matter the species. With unexpected sadness, Daisy Mae watched the cow slowly walk away. She walked a few feet, stopped and sniffed and then kept on walking down the dirt road away from it all. Daisy Mae turned around and with mascara smearing down her face, she began to laugh hysterically. She dropped her bags, ran into the shed and found two cans of gasoline. She began to race around the outside of the trailer splashing gasoline onto the trailer. She hadn’t felt this good in such a long time. In fact, she felt so good, she began to sing. There Daisy Mae was – splashing gasoline and singing at the top of her lungs, bellowing out the first few lines of a beloved country western song. With a skip in her step, she threw the gas cans inside the trailer after pouring out the last of the contents on the gold shag carpet. She went back outside, found the matches, and struck the first one letting it get a good, strong flame started. POUF! The first set of flames ran up the south side of the trailer, then the back side caught up in another puff of wind. The best thing about Texas heat, in her opinion, was the fact that it was dry enough to burn that sucker to that ground. And burn it did!

Daisy Mae threw her suitcase into her 1976 Jeep Renegade, climbed into the front seat and put the key in the ignition. The worn-out engine fired into life and Daisy Mae pulled away without a backward glance, $7,000 in cash and a 1000-watt smile. Just this morning, June Bug had complained about how the passion between them had fizzled, and “some things were gonna change around here real soon.” Little did she know at the time just what he was really yammering on about. The thought of those two expecting to come back to their own little love shack, now burned to a crisp, made Daisy Mae begin to laugh in earnest. Her leather-clad foot hit the pedal to the metal and dust flew up behind her as the hot Texas sun beat down on the top of the Jeep. With the wind blowing her bleached blonde hair back, Daisy Mae couldn’t remember the last time she felt so good. Soon, it would all be a fading memory. Just as she was driving past the diner in town, “Tuesday’s Gone” began playing on the radio. She turned it up to full-blast and began singing her heart out, happy that this would be the last time she would ever drive through the little Podunk town. Folks in town later swore that they heard her hysterically laughing all the way out-of-town even over top of the siren of the town’s only fire truck, racing its way to the south side of town.

 

The Courage to Answer the Call

You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face…..You must stand up and face the fear head-on, never wavering from the power inside of you.

The next time you feel frightened or fragile, stand very still. It is in the softest of whispers that you might actually hear that still, small voice inside leading and guiding you to that which you most desire.

The Gift of Failure

The only thing I ever wanted to do was play music, specifically piano. From the time I began piano lessons at the age of four, I knew that music was my escape from the harsh realities of life, my own little world where no one else could intrude upon me. Around the age of 12, I had decided that I was to become a world-renowned Music Composer. My wildest fantasies included my original pieces of music becoming movie scores. At age 15, all I wanted was to get a high school band scholarship and go to college so that I could major in music. I wanted to learn to play every instrument. At age 18 I wanted to travel the country and become the next famous band member in a contemporary Christian band that I had been playing in for the previous two years. Instead of traveling and becoming famous in the music world, I became a piano and violin instructor at a local music store. I taught students of all ages and backgrounds there for seven years.

I was perpetually disappointed in myself for not pushing myself harder and becoming someone “big” in the music industry. I played around with the idea of becoming a New Age instrumental artist like George Winston and began compiling a list of original material to record. It seemed like every time I came close to the “edge” of a breakthrough something pulled me back or it just wasn’t the right convergence of events. Either way, I’ve gone through my whole life unfulfilled and incomplete, at least when it comes to music. Music was my first love and passion. I had envisioned great things for my life in music.

As I got older, my dream changed and I began to visualize opening a community arts center in the small town where I live. I wanted my arts center to provide music and art classes to the people in the town and the surrounding areas. The ever-present voice inside my head asked over and over again, “Is this the right time? Do I have what it takes to lead the way?”

Fast forward to a few years later at my current age and I realize that I was somebody important in music to many of my former students. Maybe I didn’t become famous and I definitely didn’t get rich, but I learned a most valuable lesson – connecting with people. I learned as much teaching my students as they did from me. I gained an amazing education in listening, problem solving and creative solutions. I was someone “big” in many of their eyes. I was, for some, the one person who cheered them along and helped them to believe in themselves, if only during their lesson time. The gift of failure for me was learning that I was more than a world-renowned musical artist, composer, and famous band member, I was a teacher. I made a difference in many lives. I learned that teaching was my true calling and passion in life. It just so happens that I had a talent for music, too.

 

 

The Fear of Success

The persistent conflict is the difference of whom one is and whom one is expected to become. Sometimes we choose the comfort of the failed role, preferring to be the victim of circumstance, the person who didn’t have a chance. It is then that one does not have to be held accountable for making mistakes and failing at something. It is easy, and alarmingly comfortable to blame it on any number of reasons why a certain idea is not plausible. But, the crux of the whole of it is simply fearing success more than failure.

Pursue The Dream

Pursue the dream and never give up hope that your dreams can and will come true. Don’t give up even if they become deferred for a time. Keep plugging away. Failure is a part of the path to success. It’s not if failure raises its ugly head, it’s when. Then the lesson transforms into persistence and determination. How bad do you want it? Do you want to make $xxxxx.xx a month working for yourself, setting your own schedule? Or do you want to work for someone else who can fire you for any reason at any time, no matter your amount of devotions, loyalty and time?

Beauty In All Its Flawed Perfections

I’m embarrassed to admit that I have spent almost a year researching the concept of seasonal color analysis. I had my “colors” evaluated back in the 80’s and was told that I was a Winter. At the time, it was a fun experience with each of us in our small group at a home party sitting in front of our own personal mirrors, head covered with a towel and NO makeup on. Each of us were draped with swatches of solid colors and then the group helped determine what colors looked the best on each other. The goal was to learn our individual Season to help determine what color of clothing, makeup and even hair color looked the best for each person to wear. As a teenager I took the information to heart and dressed in my Winter colors for the next 20 years, which meant I wore black and white, and jewel-tone colors such as sapphire, emerald, fuchsia, royal purple and ruby-red. Back then, there were only four seasons that a person could be: Spring, Summer, Autumn and/or Winter.

Looking back, the entire philosophy is flawed. Supposedly, if you had any warmth to your skin, eyes or hair you were automatically placed in the Spring or Autumn Seasons, which are the warm seasons. You can theoretically wear all the warm colors, such as yellows, golds, rusts, oranges, browns, olive greens, beige, warm purples and so forth.And, if you had cooler skin, eye color or hair color then you were automatically placed in the cooler seasons of either Winter or Summer. You could theoretically again, wear blues, purples, cooler greens, black, navy, white and on and on. Simply look at a color wheel that artists use you can see the difference of warm colors versus cool colors. Warm colors have either yellow or gold added to them while cool color have either blue or gray added. Every color can have either white, black or gray added depending on the saturation of color that you desire. It’s a very simple concept, but flawed and maybe worked half the time for half of the people analyzed. This system applies to art, but cannot be applied to individuals all the time. We are a combination of all colors. Most of us have cool AND warm tones in our skin, hair and eye colors. I think that most of us have a few certain colors that we instinctively are attracted to. Those are probably your best colors to wear. However, wearing your best colors also depends upon how wearing that color makes you feel. In my humble opinion, that is the best way I can describe color analysis in the simplest of ways. It’s not rocket science no matter who tries to tell you different. What I remember most about the experience back in the 80’s is that it was an afternoon of fun with some friends and family members playing “dress up.”Fast forward to modern times and the seasonal color system has exploded into a huge, profitable business. There are so many different “systems” out there to help one determine what season is best. What started out as 4 seasons have now become 16! I won’t go into the particular systems available. You can Google “seasonal color analysis” and find page after exhausting page explaining all the different methods. Some are very easy to understand, but most are confusing and conflicting with other systems. And, of course, in order to get detailed information about your personal color analysis, most systems or methods out there charge money for said information.

I suppose I should have prefaced this post with the reason for my most impassioned interest in this endeavor. Last year I began the process for having weight loss surgery in which I was finally able to accomplish in May, 2014. Since then I have lost a substantial amount of weight and with each lost pound I had become more and more obsessed with trying to look my very best. I had weight loss surgery a few months after I turned 40 years old. The combination of turning 40 and having weight loss surgery sent me into a whirlwind of self-doubt. I have had so much time to think and analyse and drive myself nuts. After all, I don’t spend my waking hours thinking about food anymore. Anyway, back to the original vein of thought………..I have finally come to the conclusion that seasonal color analysis can be a great starting point for those who don’t have a clue about colors, which honestly, I think is a small percentage of women. For the rest of us, I think that we should stop listening to the media about what is beautiful. We should trust our own instincts and wear what makes each of us, individually, feel beautiful and energized. Are you drawn to a certain color? Then wear it if it makes you feel good about yourself. I tried so hard to put myself into a category over the last year. I drove myself crazy along with everyone else around me. Am I a Soft Summer or am I a Light Spring or could I even be a Bright Winter? I took countless pictures of myself in natural light, subdued light, with and without makeup on. I took close-up pictures of my eyes. However, I DID discover what my correct eye color is. That experiment was actually quite interesting. For years I thought my eye color was light green and it even says that on my driver’s license, but they are actually light gray with yellow-gold flecks. The outer rims are charcoal gray and steel-blue. I even have some amber and periwinkle flecks in there as well. That’s pretty cool! Still yet, how would I describe what color my eyes are? I’ll just stick with light green. After all, blue-ish+yellow=green. I consider myself lucky in the fact that my eye color changes depending on what colors I wear. Sometimes they are gray or blue or green. I like that.

After an enormous amount of time sitting in front of my computer reading every article available about seasonal color analysis, I have finally come to the conclusion that this philosophy, for the most part, preys upon the insecurities of us women. Why would any of us want to add yet another label to who we are as individuals? Are we not more than our outer appearance? If the first thought of how we express ourselves to others is based upon a particular method of color analysis or energy profiling that someone invented based upon an opinion, not fact, then how can we possibly express our authentic inner beauty to the world? Are we only valuable if we are pleasing to look at? If so, then what happens when our beauty fades as it surely will in our elder years? Will we no longer have any value? Personally, I think that we have to stop marginalizing ourselves and buying into the idea that we are only worthy if we are beautiful to look at. Beauty comes from within. It is that life-force that exudes unconditional love to others. A seemingly plain woman can become most beautiful by her smile, her kindness and her warmth extended to others. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder anyway, right?

I confess that I fell victim to the whole idea and wasted many hours trying to make myself fit into a mold. During the course of this last year, I learned more about myself while researching color analysis that actually had nothing to do with color analysis itself. I learned that even at the age of 40 I still bought into the idea that my worth is based upon what I look like. Fortunately, I have finally transcended that thought process and have begun to break free of such confining methodology. Now, I most desire freedom. Freedom from feeling like I have to prescribe to other’s ideas that are based upon making women feel even more insecure about themselves. How many of us have fallen victim to all the hype surrounding the definition of beauty? How many of us have voluntarily surrendered our self-esteem while blindly trusting “experts” to tell us how we should feel and look and express ourselves? You can’t fake authenticity. That is what we are doing when we allow someone else to take the reins of our true nature.

I do understand that wearing certain colors can make one feel a bit more energized, but I think that has more to do with how each of us react to color and our mood at the time. We, as women, are a moody bunch. Our hormones cause to act and react in all kinds of ways as they are constantly changing. So how in the world are we supposed to only wear certain colors all the time? We are not static and unchanging. Sometimes we might want to blend in with the wallpaper in our gray outfit and other times we might to feel sexy in leopard-print leggings. The point is – do what makes YOU feel good and happy and energized. Unless you are truly clueless, don’t give your money and self-esteem over to someone who claims to know what will make you look the best or feel the happiest. Trust yourself. Let your intuition guide you to make the best choices of what colors to wear. You know YOU the best! Be your own kind of Beautiful!

Here are some great quotes from beautiful women – enjoy!

“Pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick and pull yourself together” – Elizabeth Taylor

“To all the girls who think you’re ugly because you’re not a size 0, you’re the beautiful one. Society is ugly!” – Marilyn Monroe

“Beauty is how you feel inside and it reflects in your eyes. It is not something physical.” – Sophia Loren

“Happy girls are the prettiest.” – Audrey Hepburn

“I know who I am. I am not perfect. I’m not the most beautiful woman in the world, but I’m one of them.” – Mary J. Blige

And from a few good men:

“My Mother was the most beautiful woman I ever saw. All I am I owe to my Mother. I attribute all my successes in life to the moral, intellectual, and physical education I received to her.” – George Washington

“Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it.” – Confucius

“Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariable excites the sensitive soul to tears.” – Edgar Allen Poe