January 29, 2014 § Leave a comment
Every boob has a story. Some are more exciting than others, but most are quite sensitive. As a young girl, dressing up my Barbies was the only real exposure to how boobs should look, unless I came across an older girl in the dressing room of the dance studio who forgot her modesty. Barbie has quite the bust, so when my own were budding in 5th grade, I didn’t really notice. After all, it seemed too early. Sure there were rumors about a couple a girls I heard HAD to wear a bra because they were blooming early, but I was pretty sure bras were optional and people were making a fuss over nothing.
When the snow started to melt at the end of 5th grade, short shorts and hormones became an issue among my tween peers and the school board. I quickly learned most girls in my grade were shaving their legs. I just kept quiet (I was really good at that), how did they know they needed to shave their legs? Later that summer I got a tutorial from a brunette friend. We hopped in her shower with our bathing suits on and she showed me how to lather up the shaving foam and be careful around the knee.What else was I in the dark about? The half hour of sex ed I had been shoved into wasn’t really covering all of this.
I was terrified of getting my period at school. The girl in 5th grade who had to wear a bra borrowed my flannel once to tie around her waist because she leaked. What’s leaking? A couple more early bloomers would have us “check” by walking briskly a few paces ahead so we could see their bums and look for blood. Blood? How much blood? Right after I had my shaving lesson I spotted for three whole days. I barely needed a panty liner. This was it? This was what all the complaining was about? I could totally handle this for the rest of my life AND go horseback riding whenever I wanted. However, the panty liner did prevent me from swimming at the popular girl’s last day of school pool party. I was benched with a few others who “forgot their bathing suits”.
Entering into middle school was a different story. Boys were taller, and my mom decided I needed a training bra. She literally tried to convince me to try it on over my clothes in Mervyns. If you don’t remember Mervyns it was a step down from JC Penny. I wasn’t doing that. Whatever, it will work, she bought me three. Things progressed rapidly from there. All of us sudden I was falling out all over the place and started getting embarrassed changing for gym class. I also found running to be the worst thing in the world. I was in ballet class 5 days a week, but I couldn’t get it together to run the mile. The training triangles weren’t doing a very good job of being supportive, but I didn’t know any better. No one else I knew was wearing underwire in 6th grade. I also didn’t want to go bra shopping with my mom ever again.
The one day I wore a skirt to school was the day I really started my period. There was no mistaking this. Panicking, I just put a wad of toilet paper down my underwear and booked it to my locker to grab the pad my mom had given me for emergencies. This was it. This was definitely it. I was so flustered I tucked my skirt into my tights and wandered back to Social Studies hoping to see a trusted friend so I could tell her what was going on in my panties.
After surviving nearly a week on the rag, I knew I never wanted it again. The next time it came around, I had swim class so my mom ponied up to give me the tampon instruction. Meanwhile, my tatas were spilling out of my training wheels and getting into all kinds of accidents. I started to develop what my mom calls “floobies.” A floobie is when the bra cuts your boob in half because it is too small and you look like you have 4 boobs instead of 2. Well, the little patches of fabric holding my chest up were making 4 floobies. I looked like a nursing golden retriever. I went from Mervyns training bra floobies to a Bali 34C in less than a week. Yes, I was stuffing Cs into triangles. “You HAVE to wear a bra,” my mom cautioned as she waited outside the dressing room. Yes, I got to go in the dressing room, and I had to let her in so she could check my work. It just made me more depressed as I had to pass on the 32 & 34 & 36 B. I hated everything about having boobs and having to wear the bra. For so long I thought it was optional. Optional for some, but not others. Sort of like those kids who have to wear helmets. I remained pissed off at my tits and their mandatory helmets.
I wanted to hide them, but if I wore a baggy t-shirt I looked pregnant. If I wore tight shirts I got unwanted attention and people thought I was slutty. By 7th grade things were getting out of control. I got a very supportive sports bra with hidden underwire so I could run a successful mile. Leotards and dance costumes had become increasingly more difficult to deal with and I began to hold straps together with a hair clip in the back to make an X. The tension on the straps made my shoulders red and raw while also giving me a classic uniboob. So why did people love these things again? To help me make peace with my developed body my mother too my to Victoria Secrets and bought me every color of the angel bra in a 34C. Just in time for my first boyfriend.
Disclaimer: This is a long story. Next week I’ll tell you about my unfortunate nickname in high school and how a 34C would just be the tip of these icebergs. Also there will be no more talk of periods if that turned you off. I usually post on Tuesdays/Wednesday-ish.
January 21, 2014 § Leave a comment
Before SNL was “On a Boat” or had its “Dick in a Box” there were “Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey” and if you don’t remember these, it’s past your bedtime. Go to sleep.
These deep thoughts covered a plethora of topics and were funny, poignant, some of them strange, and some of them rude. Which is to say most were pretty brilliant. Fun fact! Jack Handey is a real person who started these musings in 1975 with Steve Martin (if you’re under 23, he’s that white haired guy with the banjo, or you might remember him from “The Pink Panther” 1 & 2, or the romcom classic, “Father of the Bride,” your mother made you watch).
Deep Thoughts By Jack Handy went a little something like this:
It would open on the beach, or a flower, or a meadow, or something equally calming. The text would come up on the screen with voice over.
Deep Thought: If you lose your job, your marriage and your mind all one week, try to lose your mind first, because then the other stuff won’t matter that much.
Much cheaper than getting getting Justin Timberlake’s wig and mutton chops to stay put while on a boat for eight hours.
I make a lot of random notes I think may become brilliant posts that will get me an agent. They don’t. Most of them are just randoms, and nothing worth exploring further. Much like a make out partner at the bar in college. I would like to share them with you now so they don’t shrivel up as tweets somewhere never to be retweeted by a bored teen.
Deep Thought: Skinny girls are like futons. It’s alright to sleep on a couple when you’re young, but when you’re shopping for long term, you’re going to want a pillow top.
Deep Thought: Sometimes you just need to really read a Lululemon Bag and argue with it. Seriously, some of those facts are just made up and not real things for real life.
Deep Thought: I WILL adjust my boobs. It’s just like when you adjust your balls. And yes there is a chafe risk.
Deep Thought: Following TEDtalks on Instagram will always makes you feel like a douche for following Cosmo and Cameron Diaz. Probably should go do something innovative and amazing and not spend one more minute agonizing over who wore it best.
Deep Thought: If we were all on a mission to be as adorable as possible at all times we all would be corgis. And there would be no war.
Deep Thought: Quick poops are life’s way of giving you back the extra minutes you spent in traffic.
Deep Thought: You know you really made it when you’re so rich you have a real excuse to wear really nice pajamas every night of the week. No sweat stained free t-shirts for you.
Deep Thought: I’m on a similar life path as Brittany Spears. I may have gone completely insane for the later half of my 20s, but I’m pulling it together now. I’ve got a good looking weave. Things are just great.
Deep Thought: At one point or another we can really be happy we didn’t go through with sharing a life with that horrible someone we were so positive we were going to marry one day.
Deep Thought: Hand jobs/blow jobs are basically oil changes for your day to day relationship engine. If you do them as regularly scheduled everything with keep running smooth. If you ignore the sticker on the windshield, prepare to get into an argument over every breath you take.
Deep Thought: Why have stockings to hang by the chimney with care? Why not just put candy and small gifts in actual socks. That way you have two to open and can wear them later when your feet are cold.
Deep Thought: The grocery store, at any time, is the worst sampling of humans possible. Everyone is avoiding eye contact, and they are all out to run you over with their cart to get the last bag of baby carrots.
January 9, 2014 § Leave a comment
Okay. I did it. I turned 30.
Not like there was a choice. I didn’t mean to make it seem like I finally “took the plunge,” it wasn’t like purchasing a new car or becoming a member of the Polar Bear Club. However, if given the choice I’d probably turn 30 again.
Don’t worry. I’m still alive. In fairly good health, although I did get a migraine the other day as the result of my overindulgence in holiday cheese. The milestone birthday didn’t help me acquire the super power I hoped for, but ever since the dawn of my 4th decade I’ve been feeling relaxed. Relaxed in a pillow bed of baby giggles, weight lifted, jazz hands with an antidepressant cocktail on a Tuesday kind of way. The serenity has been surreal. It’s like my 20s were just a giant checklist of to-dos before 30, but now that I’ve officially missed the deadline, my “fuck it, dude, let’s go bowling” attitude has taken over.
To my surprise turning 30 didn’t give me gangrene on my ring finger. Looks like I won’t need to schedule that amputation after all, and may get successfully engaged one day. There’s still hope, mom. There’s more exciting news. My uterus didn’t implode either. I’m told I got five more years until I have to worry about my baby maker tuning into quicksand, thus proving, thirty isn’t really all that dirty.
Doesn’t “dirty 30” refer to a 30 pack of shit beer? Are you comparing each year of my existence to a can of Natty-Ice? Sure maybe those first two years of college, but the rest of it will not be whittled down to sips of watery Bush Light waiting to be turned into pee. Dirty 30 should be a strip club on a forgotten interstate, or a good name for one of those muddy obstacle course 5ks that are popular now. After some research I came across an acceptable explanation for the origin of this term.
The expression almost always refers to women, as men are thought to always be in this state.
Urban Dictionary is the Jewish mother of definitions, it really doesn’t get the credit it deserves and it constantly wants you to wear ugly t-shirts. However, sometimes she yells at you about something completely off topic. This was a less applicable definition.
It took about only three days before I started feeling my thirties. My birthday was on a Tuesday, and my back went out on Friday. I’m in pretty rad physical shape “for my age” so I bounced back quickly, but whoa, time to start “being careful”. Especially when executing the quick orgasm. I’m not going to sacrifice standard form just because we’re short on time.
You might be wondering what happened to my 30 Days to 30 Bucket List. Well, in conclusion, I will share the embarrassing failures of my outlandish bucket list in the hopes you will overlook the fact that I went AWOL for three weeks and now rouge on the posting schedule. See, writers need deadlines. Anyway…
1. Participate in a dance performance. Or “dance off”and this can be a living room activity.
I did, on a stage. You can see it here. I pretty much wore a knee pad to every rehearsal without shame because I’m old.
2. Go to a fancy dinner party, act like yuppies, and drink too much wine.
I drank too much wine at dinner with Mister Red in a sleepy central coast town and we acted like yuppies desperately searching for nightlife. Then we realized the entire population had kids our age and things would be shutting down early. Not sure if this counts.
3. See Hawaii.
It was really clear out one day. Looking out over the coastline, I could have sworn I saw Hawaii.
4. Do a handstand.
I’ve been diligently practicing yoga, hand-standing when I can. There are moments where I’m all, “I’m doing it, I’m doing it!” before I crash into the person next to me, completely ruining their zen. So… I’m still working on this one.
5. Purge all the things I don’t need or never use. (this one sounds like I’m already 30).
Then there was Christmas, and I got more crap I don’t need.
6. Purge all the people who don’t contribute to my happiness.
Might need to remind myself of this daily. I constantly dwell on irritating people.
7. Throw a pie in someone’s face.
It was a cupcake into Red’s face on his birthday. No picture proof, but there were witnesses.
8. Start therapy. (because after I turn 30, I’m probably going to need it).
Check. Still crazy.
9. One last piggy back ride.
This might have happened the night we got drunk and acted like yuppies. I don’t remember.
10. Topless beach. (what if I turn 30 and they immediately sag to librarian status?)
This is on this year’s “to-do” list, cause gravity is a real thing.
11. Renew my passport (I’m going places in my 30s… but that’s a different list.)
I’m a procrastinator, and this sounds like work.
12. Scuba dive. (but I might settle for a really amazing hike excursion).
I’ve been watching a lot of nature docs on oceans.
13. Don’t kill my basil plant.
So I just didn’t buy a new basil plant. Problem solved.
14. Make a new friend.
Does my therapist count?
15. Become a REAL author. (this doesn’t mean whisky drinking, I’d settle for an agent taking a serious look at me) AKA start my dream job.
Basically I want to be exactly like Tina Fey, but I think I’m too shy. So I sent my manuscript to an editor and I’m starting my 30s off by fixing typos.