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.
 
















 

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!