You're Soaking in it

The article was titled, “Why I Stopped Wearing my Bra and Why you should too.” Seriously, did the author really suggest, "I take my bra off?"  OK, peeps, I’m just gonna break this to you gently and without much hoop-la.   I will never, let me repeat, nev-ver stop wearing my bra.

As a matter of fact, I’m thinking about coming out with my own line of bras called, Forever Up There.  Yep, that is correct.  They’re gonna be expensive, but at the same time, priceless.

What young, beautiful double D - wine soaked breast-estes  wouldn’t want to be, “Forever Up There.”  It’ll be just like my BFF Spanx- a miracle worker in a bag.  Except, instead of sucking you in, this specialty garment is gonna hold you up there- just how high you ask?  Well, that is the true gift in the contraption, you get to choose. Oh, and if you have any fear of heights, we've got that covered too.

Here's how it will work,  first select your size and than select your desired level of lift.  So if you truly want to be eighteen again, you’d choose the “You Go Girl” model.  This baby delivers you a third hand at a cocktail party, the perfect spot to hold that wine glass while you enjoy some yummy nibbles.  Think, "Mommies little helper." 

If you're not looking to start your husbands wig on fire, but are still seeking a girlish bounce, we'll get you fitted in our classic "Hello Lover" series.  Guaranteed to have your loved one running out to drape you in new baubles, say that coveted Tag Heuer diamond studded watch or maybe something simpler, like a pearl necklace.  Yes, this series is sure to be a people pleaser.

But let's face it, as the writer indicated, not all women are happy wrapped up tight in these boulder holders and some demand the freedom to go all natural.  These ladies fit into a particular series, still under development that we refer to as the "Frankly, I just Don't give a Damn"series.  This line will have particular appeal to the "Make mine a double" crowd.  Let’s face it ladies- you stepped off the edge when you started wearing the pants with the elastic around the waist (not to be confused with yoga pants, yoga pants are fabulous) and only changing out your razors once every six months.  Once you made the conscious decision to replace your Bobby Brown  moisturizer with Oil of Olay,  you'd already come to terms with not giving a rats ass, so why bother with the whole lift and separate philosophy? Proceed with extreme caution my friend. You have entered dangerously close to the, "So Just Sue Me" group and that is no  mans woman's land.  Never say never.

Rejected...Again

  Re: Internship II

Dear Ms. XYZ:

Thank you for considering me for the position of intern II.

I am currently what most would call… uh, under-employed, as the field of high-end interior design has taken a nosedive over the past couple of years.   I was a victim of “down-sizing,” (note to self, refers to my employment status and not my dress size) and lost my corporate job after several years of politicking, profiting and back stabbing.  It wasn’t all bad and the tire marks are hardly noticeable.

I now have all the time in the world for the PTA, after-school ballet classes, running my son to T-ball practice and actually, with all my domestic diva skills, I’m a shoe-in for getting nominated lead “Room Mom.”   But here’s the problem; my kids are now in college, and they have strictly forbidden me to volunteer on campus.  With little to keep me busy, I’ve debated going the Martha Stewart route, but since my 401K has gone the way of my corporate health insurance, I have little to work with.  Besides, those orange jump suits genuinely do make everyone look fat.

Here’s the part where I’m going to sell myself.  By now, you know I can read and write, but what you don’t know is that I love, love, love to read.  I’ve been a voracious reader since I was eight years old, back when the Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle and Ramona the Pest were the rage.  Since those days, my reading level has markedly improved, and I enjoy a variety of different genres.  Humorous books are always first to hold my interest, I love Emily Giffen, Laurie Notaro and Jen Lancaster.

Emily’s characters are always so real and compelling.  While reading her work you can actually visualize that the characters are someone you personally know.  Both Laurie Notaro and Jen Lancaster are hilarious.  They are what I’d describe as “Good mood” writers.  Writing funny is not easy and they both have the ability to make you look at your own life and laugh out loud.  Emily Giffen and Jen Lancaster are slated as key-note speakers at a conference I’m attending in June.  I’m super excited and hope to meet them both.

Reading is something that I do a lot of and lately I’ve been doing most of my reading while lounging in my six foot soaker.  It’s true; my favorite place to read is in the tub.  Because of this, my local library has revoked my library privileges.  Some small issue with returning water-logged books…  So I have taken up with the Nook, which took a little getting used to and particular care because of the whole six foot soaker thing.  But ever since my last doctor’s appointment and having to do that whole, “Strip to my panties and jump on the scale” fiasco, I have retired the old Cheetos bag, so no worries that I’d get pesky orange pixie dust on any of your manuscripts.

Hopefully, by now I have convinced you that I am worthy, and you are scrambling for your iPhone to call and give me the happy news.  But just in case you need a little something extra to send my application directly to the top of the heap, remember, considering my current job, this will be a lateral move for me.  And since my existing benefit package offers all the advantages of unemployment, I’d be thrilled to accept this position with XYZ Agency.

As a discerning reader with a keen appreciation for humor and plenty of time on my hands, I feel confident I’m the reader you are looking.

Some of my most recent and favorite reads:

Recent Reads:	Some Favorites:
The Elegance of the Hedgehog;	I hate Everybody ;
Keeping Faith;	My Sister’s Keeper;
Nineteen Minutes;	Something Borrowed;
Something Borrowed;	Something Blue;
Something Blue;	The Island;
The Girl Who Played with Fire;	Born to Run;
Between Sisters;	The Elegance of the Hedgehog;
Handle with Care;	The Help;
Blue Bistro;	We Thought You'd be Prettier;
We're just like you, only prettier.	I hate Everybody.

                                                       




Very truly yours,

Rejected Again

To Spanx, or not to Spanx

There I stood, in the middle of a cramped dressing room with the well-intentioned German sales clerk on the other side of the swinging curtain calling out instructions.

"You really vant de Spanx with vat dress" she urged. "Ve have size two women coming in here for de Spanx."

Have you ever heard of Spanx? Since my current dress size is somewhere between a skinny-mini two and a big girl fourteen depending on the month or year, I recently gave these "shapers" a try.

I was pulling, prodding and yanking so hard to get the teeny spandex ditty up and over all my various jiggly bits and parts, that my hand slipped and I punched myself in the jaw. And, if that wasn't enough, my legs had gone numb.
"You vant to make sure to try it in vone size smaller then you like," the clerk said.

"One size smaller?" The rubbery apparatus was already threatening to cut off my circulation. Any smaller and I'd....

Spanx are offered in several styles and I was test-driving their deluxe model, otherwise known as the "Higher Power." This is for the serious woman that wants to squeeze into a 3" x 3" nylon casing and then proceed to work it all the way up to right beneath her bra. You know, super duper compression.

This little sausage maker is supposed to not only slim your thighs, ass and bra strap fat, but is said to make you look like you dropped a complete pant size.

Because getting beautiful in a pair of Spanx comes at the price of compression, the genius inventor cut us some slack in the form of a gusset sewn into the " well, you know " the intimate area.

I'm sure they did this because they knew that if the gusset wasn't there, and the wearer had to "go" in a hurry, they'd end up having to chew themselves out of this get-up.

And if you are sitting there all pretty and anorexic shaking your long blonde locks, thinking this story doesn't pertain to you, just wait. While most undernourished women have their faults, missing the public humiliation of another woman typically isn't one of them.

Now imagine this...

You are in a parking lot walking towards a big building.

Ahead of you are three attractively clad women. One of them is wearing pants.

You are aware, but not paying attention to every detail, which later " when the EMT offers you oxygen " turns out to be a blessing.

Suddenly with no advance warning, the pants on the woman fall to the ground! Swoosh. They are down. And I'm not talking about slippage here people. I'm talking about down, down.

As she swiftly leans over to pick them up, several thoughts go through your now astonished mind.

"Oh my goodness, her pants are at her ankles and her 'Higher Power' has made its debut."

And your final thought, right before the smelling salts are administered, is that her Spanx have a gusset and said gusset was offered up to the God of sunshine.

Yes, the "cookie" appeared quicker than any Brittney Spears moment and was, at that second in time, indelibly scorched on your now fragile psyche.

I kid you not, this is a true story; you just can't make stuff like this up.

In her Cups

Had a series of tests recently and, guess what? I didn't prepare for a single one and, BIG surprise, I failed miserably - all but one. The good news is, the one I did pass was the E.K.G.

With my shirt pulled up and my heaving chest exposed for all to take a gander, I sat in my doctor's office with what must have been a few hundred electrodes, along with the nurse lady that was busy attaching those sticky things to my exposed skin.

I looked down with wonder and thought, "Self, you ain't got a chance."

And, of course, after the first attempt or two at getting the first test going, nurse-lady demanded a closer examination of the "full-metal jacket" bra I was wearing. She quickly declared that the offending armor was interfering with the test and needed to go.

Just like that. Remove. My. Bra.

Now, you have to understand something about me. I'm very attached to my bra. Yeah, like in a fire - I'd be looking for my bra, not my family pictures. My girls may not be perfect, but they've been with me since the beginning, and I've always found that things run a bit more smoothly when at least one of us is in our cups.

And since I was sitting, soberly absorbing direction from nurse lady, I knew trouble was coming.

"Strip to your panties and step on the scale," nurse-lady bellowed. I cringed, closing my eyes. Ah, crap, not the dreaded scale!

Gingerly, I hoisted myself onto the platform and before nurse lady could reveal the truth out loud, I turned to her and said,
"Don't speak. Don't even think about saying what you were gonna say. The truth hurts. I can't handle the truth."

Nurse lady just looked at me as if I were off my rocker.

I continued, pleading now, "I was thinking that we could, uh, maybe grab some lunch. You know... my treat, before you break with the bad news."

Nurse-lady just smiled and, with her left hand, pulled a blood pressure cuff out from behind her skinny, emaciated self, while the right hand was (I swear to you) busy loading a syringe of orange liquid.

"Now, there," she cooed. "This won't hurt a bit." She smiled as she tugged the waistband of my big girl panties down around my hips.

Serious humiliation was what I was experiencing at this point,
S-E-R-I-O-U-S.

Once she finished, I quickly reached over to pull my big girl panties up, which I, at that point, was certain resembled John Candy's underwear in the movie, "Planes, Trains and Automobiles." Oh, yeah, to call them droopy would be an understatement.

I was feeling a bit over-exposed, to say the least, with half my rear-end swinging in the wind here, people!

Before I could begin the job of getting everything tucked back to normal, nurse-lady warned, "Don't touch that, it will only make it worse."
Don't touch what? I wondered. The site of the injection or my underwear?

"Hello, skinny nurse-lady, perhaps it's not awkward for you, but you have me standing here with my big girl panties half pulled down, and my ginormous, untethered breasts ready to project themselves right out the exam room door at the very first opportunity. I am dying here."

Like I said, there was only one test I passed that morning.
 
















 

Brown, it 's what I'm waiting for...

It's as if I'm living in a dream world. Day after day, the door bell rings and as I slide my athletic sock clad feet up to the glass pane to peer out, I am instantly buoyed by the sight of the large UPS truck.

Brown never looked so good.

I can smell the big truck's diesel fuel through the worn out weather striping that hasn't held up nearly as long as the Home Depot rep promised.

But what does it matter? That truck, that man is carrying up to my front door, yet another box of coveted wine!

Be still my heart.

My first thought is, "How did I get so lucky" and my second more sobering thought, "Who let me loose in Napa and was that such a good idea?"

Never mind. It is high time to put my priorities in order- gotta find a knife and a cork screw- in that order.

Ah. I slowly, lovingly lift each bottle from its womb-like wrapping. I examine each bottle, savoring the labels, caressing its shape, anticipating the bouquet-I swear I can smell the grapes.

I can hear each bottle softly calling out my name, "Hello Lover." Or perhaps, that was my own voice I was hearing, never mind, it really doesn't matter.

All that matters now is, "What time is too early to start drinking while you are at work?"

Looking around, I realize to myself- almost giddily, "Self, you're gonna need a bigger wine refridge." That is, unless we are able to keep up with the UPS trucks.

Ah, that sounds like a tough job, but I think I am up for it! I certainly got enough practice in on our recent Napa trip.

In Napa I learned to start early.

Early like when most of you are still blow drying your hair, we were pulling up to some quaint wine tasting bar. Funny thing about Napa, you can start drinking at 10:00am and call it a tasting.

Once you put that label on the occasion, everyone nods knowingly, "Oh, they are doing a tasting." Nothing wrong with that.

But don't ask to add a chaser of Jack, because that is totally inappropriate in Napa- and actually in most places.

Yeah, Jack before noon is a signal, a red flag, a cry for help. But tasting wine before noon is well, more of a life style.

A life style I could easily get used to!

Hungry Girl

So I am sitting there just minding my own business, having just licked the last of the whipped cream off my finger tips- And I know what you are all probably thinking right now, "Oh, I thought she was on a diet, how is whipped cream on her diet". So before you get started let me tell you in the kindest, most gentle manner possible, 'Shut-up would cha"? The fact remains, I am on a d.i.e.t. but whipped cream is part of my program. Yes, that is correct I have a program! OK, now that your worst fears for me have not been confirmed, may I please continue? Flashing on the television screen before me is an ad for a new show called, "Hungry Girl". Seriously, people, do you think there is any girl out there hungrier than I am?
I don't think so. And Hungry Girl is about all of 120 lbs- and for all my stick figure girl friends out there, 120 lbs is not obese in any understanding of the word, except for maybe if you are an eight year old girl. And of that fact, I am not even sure, but I'm sure a quick review of my grade school records will confirm this. And as long as I am on the subject of grade school- how obnoxious was it that they used to "measure" you in that manner? First off, it was never a real school nurse bound by the Hippo Oath, but instead some well intended busybody PTA president, room-mom. Now, all you PTA room moms, I'm not talking about you. But seriously, it would always be some "Heather's" mom who would smile sweetly and say, "OK, honey now let’s get your weight" and then that would be followed with an, "Ooooh. All righty then" and then she'd quickly offer the other "Heather's" mom who was assisting her in this little project a quick surreptitious glance at the staggering number. Later over a two martini lunch, they'd discuss that, "poor little, ah, well fat girl” in their fabulous Heather's class! But I have digressed from my original rant about Hungry Girl. Hungry Girl is produced by the Cooking channel and as it turns out Hungry Girl herself used to have a bit of a weight problem and a few years ago she lost 30 (cough, choke) pounds and now she is so fabulous they have given her a television show. Seriously, people- her own show just because she managed to lose 30 pounds? Those of us with real weight problems, those of us that have suffered the ravages of a Spanx generated “thigh fire” know that thirty pounds while admirable ain't nothing more than a few less bags of crunchy Cheetos over the course of a couple months. So now, I'm thinking of pitching my own show concept to the network. Yeah, and I have a few names I'm considering for my show, How about, "The Big Girl Show" or maybe “That’s not a Cameo cookie in my mouth" or my absolute favorite, "That's not a stalker, that's my ass show". Stay tuned!

Reeses, Butterfingers and Oh My!

It's that time of year again.  You know the weather starts to get a bit cooler, which by Florida standards simply means we will see days in the 80's instead of those hated "can't get my shirt from sticking and showing all my bra fat" 90's.  Oh, and speaking of bra fat or fat back, well I'm sporting less of this these days.  The big D.I.E.T. is starting to work.  I am saying this with a great deal of caution because typically, self gets all happy with one's self about now and decides that just one bag of frozen Cameo's in the freezer is not such a bad thing.  And I know you know the problem with "just one little bag," it will absolutely lead to some of the mega sized bags of Halloween candy that are all over the shelves of your local grocer.  Seriously people, I have not had a single Trick or Treater knock on my door in five years.  And yet every Halloween I buy bags of candy, just in case.  My biggest fear is some cute little fairy will knock on my door and I will have to reach into my bowl of pennies to offer some sort of treat.  So instead, I prepare.  I get out my biggest mixing bowl and fill it full of mini Butterfingers, Reese's and oh, those wonderful little chewy peanuty nougat thingies.  And then I casually start grabbing just a few, you know just for a small snack or short car ride.  And before I know it, I am back at the grocery store attempting to re-fill that quickly declining bowl of candy before two things happen; someone notices or God forbid, the damn fairy shows up.
This year things are gonna be different.  I have already turned my small, now much more pert nose up at the legions of sweet treats lining the isles.  Apologies to all you pixies and fairies, this year my windows will be dark.  "Nothing to see here folks, just keep on going".