This is a question for the girls. Do you ever feel strangely aware of your ta-tas? I am writing this to commiserate, not to er… titillate. There will be no pictures posted for public ogling. Eyes uptop sailor, that’s all I have to say to the masculine readers…

But they are a damn nuisance, aren’t they? Breasts: In constant need of support and encouragement, mucking up the works when you want to take a jog or serve coffee without an awkward close encounter. Yet for all their irritating aspects, they do make you feel sort of feminine and special.

In these ways, a good rack is similar to a man.

When I was 14, I was tiny and flat-chested. I had itty bitty buds, which I took pains not to accentuate, because that would have welcomed more derision than attraction. You know that part in ‘Bend it Like Beckham’ when the ample, indian relative is dressing up the younger girl? And she goes, “This will make those mosquito bites look like juicy, juicy mangoes!”  

I could so relate to her humiliation.

I used to put balled up socks in my bra to admire the effects in the mirror. And then, rather suddenly, my gazangas came in.


What a mixed blessing. What a pain in the rear. Gone the care-free days when I could just throw on an extra layer and be respectable in public. Certain sort of men who never looked at me before started to look: Namely, people I would dub ‘old dudes’ in my high school lexicon.

(My brother and I had a rather awkward moment at Universal Studios when an aged hottie started hitting on me aggressively in the hotel pool, that is until Bryan screamed at him, loud enough to rouse the lifeguards, “Hey, are you still hitting on my FIFTEEN YEAR OLD SISTER ?!?” I coulda killed him at the time, but now the memory makes me smile.)

Along with these changes came an abrupt end to recreational jumping jacks, and a sort of instinctive horror of jokes that featured mammograms.

One of the worst parts about generous jugs is that the value of masterful bazooms depreciates, rather like a mercedes. The minute you drive those babies off the lot, you begin a struggle with gravity that you will, ultimately, completely and totally lose. What’s the shelf- life on natural buoyancy? How long can a woman reasonably invest in v-necks without fearing spill over?  Is it absolutely inevitable that old age will see you rolling these things up, or tying them back like an old bugs- bunny-with-the-unwieldy-ears cartoon?

“Do your ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro, can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow?”

Please, please, God, no.

I’m almost 32 now, and my billibongs are holding their own, but I’m anxious about the future. My consolation is that men have dangly bits, too, and I’m betting the flesh-flute must get kinda goofy looking as well, when old age sets in. Maybe the true meaning of love is finding someone you can flop your bits with, contentedly.

Meanwhile, though… *squeezes elbows in a bit as I type* I do sorta revel in my bumpies. I have classic cleavage: Old West cleavage… “Well hello Miss Kitty, ma’am…” cleavage. This here is a portable money-clip, and a pretty easy way to win money at a co-ed poker match. 

They’re womanly-ish, y’know? Sort of the last remnant of our primordial feminine divinity, as attested by those fertility goddess figurines that have triple breasts, or a torso covered in mammaries. Serene and mysterious, those statues betray no dangling worry about the future, but rather a strange, enchanting confidence best wrought with nipples and granite.

Anyhow, I’m off to dazzle my own Old West gun-slinger, with a little bit of decolletage. If he’s very, very good, I might even pretend I’m Miss Kitty.

Ta ta for now.

The oldest trick in the book…

Memed. You heard me, Memed. Memed again. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve been memed, so long in fact, that I thought I’d somehow developed immunity. But it’s cool, cus it’s Norm over at ‘Costant Change is the Norm...’ who did the meming, and it’s one of the oldest, most venerable memes on the web: 7 random facts.

Here are the rules, such as they are: Players start with 7 random facts about themselves. Those who are tagged should post these rules and then post 7 random facts. Players should tag 7 other people and notify them they have been tagged.

(By the way: Norm only tagged two people, which I think is thoughtful, because memes spread kind of like viruses around the blogosphere, and it’s clear that he was using something of a quarantine tactic to prevent wide-spread panic and mayhem. I will not be so thoughtful, as widespread panic and mayhem rather appeal to me, as long as they aren’t a result of republican scheming.)

MY SEVEN RANDOM FACTS (pay attention, there will be a quiz)

1)  I do not care very much for shoe shopping. This is foremost in my mind, because yesterday, I did, I did indeed, I did indeed shoe-shop. The occasion: my cousin’s wedding, which is a week hence, and to which I’ve been invited. They did not explicitly state a dress code, but I gleaned through my fantabulous deductive reasoning skills that they would prefer people to wear clothes, and shoes, if at all possible. I guess I could have used this as another fact, but planning ahead isn’t my forte. Doh, there’s another one.

2)  I hate parrots.

3)  Hate is kind of a strong word, but when I hate something, I really hate it. I strongly, strongly dislike soap operas, c.d. wrappers, the 2nd to the left teller at Bank of America, and the way my crisper smells ever since Sierra dumped apple juice in there, and forgot to tell me. (Did you know apple-y stuff can create an absolutely horrid smell if it is allowed to grow old enough to smell that way?)  But I hate parrots. And I stand by that. I’m also none too fond of ring worm or explosive diarrhea. Just sayin’.

4)  I have never been married. Ever. But I’ve been engaged quite a lot. Four times, in fact. Twice was to the same person. In all honesty, I’m very happy about not marrying any of the people that I didn’t marry.

5)  My cat is sleeping on my bed. It is my cat, not the other cat which is not mine, but doesn’t make the distinction. This is a boring fact, but it is true, and it’s also true that the cat is sleeping there after being kicked out 4 times. How is that possible? Well, here’s the part I really wanted to tell you: Because my cat can open doors.

6)  I was born at… well, you don’t care about that. But here’s the fact: The building in which I was delivered is no longer used for the same purpose it was back in 1977. The building in which I first caterwauled my dismay to the big, bright world is now a mental health ward.

7)  When I was a baby- old enough to crawl, but not yet walking, my parents had some sort of party. That may be the most outrageous part of this story. What little I remember of the marriage of my biological parents is not conducive with loud, crowded parties. However, they had a party, and I was crawling around, and people were going in and out, and I was crawling around, and when someone opened the door I happened to curl my hand around the door frame, which no one noticed, and when the door shut, the heavy metal guard on the edge of the door sliced the end of my right, pointer finger off. People then noticed I was there, as I became rather loud and overwrought. I would love to know whose idea it was to find the tip of my finger, but apparently a whole gaggle of grownups spent the next 15 minutes on their hands and knees, searching for my finger-bit, while my mom tried to wrap me up and get me ready to go to the hospital. I’ll continue this story on #7.5.

7.5) They arrived at the hospital sans finger-bit. It was decided that since I was very upset about having a missing part, that the best course of action would be to take some more of me from my hip region, and stick it on the end of my finger. But first, I had to be calmed. The doctor gave me some sort of shot that was meant to sedate, but it had an opposite reaction, and according to my mom, some of the nurses were worried I would actually howl myself to death. Frankly, I think it was a reasonable response. If you have lost a nice bit of finger, and then had people decide that they’d also like to remove a nice bit of your hip, and if they then come at you and stick sharp objects in your person, I think howling is the very least of the responses you’ll be issuing.

Eventually they gassed me unconscious and went forward with the brilliant idea. The tip of my finger never fully healed, but I wasn’t aware it was abnormal till about the age of six. I thought everyone had a finger like that. The two inch train-track shaped scar on my hip, however, I’ve largely ignored. So my 7th fact?

I do not now, nor have I ever responded well to medication. So I pretty much only take it if I think I’m gonna die otherwise.


And that concludes my 7.5 random facts. I tag:

mercury, Jaynova, anhinga, ybonesy, Corina, Ombudsben & Bo. Also aefiel. Because you have invoked the inner muppet. Have fun!

Big Boom

Listening to the news, but I don’t really believe it. It’s like that movie, armageddon.

Is anyone else hearing this?

7,000 just GONE. An ‘estimated 7,000 people’. They keep showing that satellite picture again and again, and it looks like a movie with the impact and explosion, so I don’t really believe it.

Meteor hits. Thousands dead. Just ended.

I don’t even understand how people can continue to live when it’s that random. They’re talking about the impact and comparing it to the bombs dropped in Hiroshima, and it seems like exactly the same thing (but different).

All these people just evaporated with no say, and it made no difference what their plans or ambitions or how they lead their life. I keep checking on Sierra.

I swear I felt something- not to get all Star Wars and shit cus the nutbars are soon enough going to be talking about judgment day, but it wasn’t the impact (from that far away? naw) it was like an uneasiness. a ‘disturbance in the force’… yeah, go ahead laugh, but at the moment it doesn’t really seem to matter how stupid what I say sounds. 7,000 people were dead like in a millisecond.

I guess when life is that random it’s best to express yourself when you have the chance. I’m gonna go call someone I love.