The girls...

Joan Rivers used to politely ask “Can we talk?” as one of her tag lines during a stand-up comedy routine. I am not going to be polite…

“Girlfriend, sit the hell down; I need to tell you something.”

Since Breast Cancer Awareness month was October, let’s talk about your girls. Now, I am just going to come out and say it. I know I am a human being of the female persuasion, but I like boobs. Maybe it is because I have small ones and different size boobs seem to fascinate me. There are fat women with big or small breasts, and there are skinny women with big or small breasts. The intriguing part is how women treat their own mammary glands (because that what they are; mammary glands whose initial purpose is to feed babies).

Some ladies celebrate their hooters by putting those puppies right out there for all to see. Some ladies cover them up for various reasons. And some ladies just ignore the fact that they have boobies, and let them have free range around the front of their bodies. The rest of this blog is to the latter set of women.

Are your ta-tas are tickling your belly in any manner? Hoist up those puppies because it is GROSS!

The first modern bra was invented at the turn of the 20th century. There was no Victoria’s Secret store in the 1900’s so bras pretty much sucked, and to be truthful, they still suck. However, this is no excuse for letting your girls run about wildly as you go about your day. If you are under the age of 25 and have had no children, then great, wear your tightest t-shirt, and let those babies show all their perkiness to the world. Celebrate them, show them off. I will be happy to attend a party in the honor of your snappy, happy knockers. However, once you are over 25 or have had children, GET YOURSELF A DECENT BRA!

Now when I say ‘decent’, I don’t mean expensive. You can buy some excellent bras in Wal-mart. This is where the bitching starts…

· The elastic pinches my torso: Then either you have gained weight (go buy a bigger bra) or you bought a bra that was too small (go buy a bigger bra).

· The cups are too big/too small/ too itchy/ too see-through/ too hard/ too soft/ too pointy: This could go on for days, and when you talk bras with women, it does. Why did you buy it in the first place? You need to try on bras before you buy them.

· The straps dig into my shoulders: Loosen them; they are adjustable. If they keep digging into your shoulders, go buy a new bra.

· The straps always fall down: Tighten them; they are adjustable. If they keep falling down, go buy a new bra.

· Underwire bras hurt: Let me say this, and I want to make sure I am absolutely clear with my next point. STOP WHINING and SUCK IT UP! Because if I don't want to see your boobies dangling on your belly looking like tube socks, and I can pretty sure guess that your boyfriend, girlfriend, or spouse doesn't want to see them there either.

Here is the thing. The framework for any bra is fabric and elastic; guess what, they wear out with washing and general use. Bras are good for about a year if you have 3 or 4 of them; two years if you have 8 or 9 of them. Yupe! one year, so those of you who are wearing an 8 year old bra. Knock it off!

How do you buy a bra, you say? Well first, there are two sizes. The number (34, 36, 38) refers to the inches around your rib cage. The letter size (A, B, C) is the actual cup size of the boobs. These sizes are mutually exclusive. During your life time, you will gain and lose weight, so your boobs and chest will grow and shrink and usually not together. So, go celebrate your girls and buy yourself a bright pink bra with good support. The people looking at your breasts will thank you.

Snapped

Every person has a breaking point. For some people, it may take years for them to hit it or it could be just a matter of moments. The moment can be an earth shattering event or just the smallest comment that just pierces you like a knife. However, what do you do at that moment when the mental snap occurs in your head?

Heather stopped dead in her tracks and just stared at her husband for a moment. “What,” was all she could think of saying to him? Tom repeated his comment and turned back to watch the football game as if nothing had happened. In Tom’s mind, nothing had happened; he just stated an observation and moved on with his life. Heather’s life, however, came to a complete halt. She walked into the kitchen and started the kettle for some hot Darjeeling tea. She always loved this tea; it was so smooth and calming to her. Maybe it would give her some clarity. She closed her eyes just as she started to replay the moment; the tea kettle started to whistle. As she walked up the back stars dunking the tea bag up and down in the hot water, Heather kept thinking. “What in the hell just happened? What did I do wrong? Why do I keep fucking up like this? What in the hell is wrong with me?” She passed her kids in the bonus room and lightly kissed them on the top of their heads. They gave her the “Whatever” grunt and a “Mom, I am trying to talk to Sophie” comment.

The old sleeper sofa in the sewing/office/guest bedroom was her destination. Heather kicked off her shoes and wrapped a blanket around her as she drank her tea. Her mind was blank as she faced the Monet print; she didn’t see it before her. When she was finished with her tea, she quietly curled herself into the couch and blanket so it almost looked like she wasn’t there. With her eyes closed, she drifted back. It was like watching a video. She was on the couch in the living room reading a Nora Roberts novel. The sex scene was a good one. The leading man slowly, gently caressed the leading lady’s body. The kisses were soft and lingering just a hint of tongue here and there. It was the kind of smoldering kiss that they do in the Hollywood movies. Heather looked up with a girlish grin at her husband and thought “Why not.” She closed the book, and walked over to Tom. She bent over him and kissed him as the characters had just done in the novel. After about 5 seconds, she pulled away slightly and looked into her husband’s eyes as she smiled. Staring back at her were these angry eyes that seemed to pierce through her. “Who in the hell are you kissing?” barked Tom. “What?” replied Heather.

She opened her eyes and looked around the sewing room. There was a Monet print of an open meadow where the flowers seemed to sway in the wind. She glanced at them and desperately wanted to be there or anywhere in the world but not here. That is when Heather snapped.

She stopped reading the romance novels and started reading murder mysteries. Each book was darker than the last. The murders were more gruesome and cruel. With each story, Heather replaced the victim’s character with Tom. She would relish in the way the murder would plan, stalk, and kill his victims. As she finished reading the kill scene in this latest novel, Heather with a malicious smile glanced over to Tom and thought “Why not.”

What plagues me?

As people grow up, create their lives, start a family, they bring bits and pieces of their life with them as gentile reminders of where they come from or how far they have gone. My mom’s objects were very simple, sea shells from the beach, which was 20 miles from our house and a few family heirlooms that seemed to anchor the house with their presences. There was Great Uncle John’s piano that moved from our house to my brother’s house and now resides with my niece, and a dining room set from my Great Grandmother on my Dad’s side of the family, which now is at my house, and books. My mom loved books. Some were old; some were new. No matter how busy mom’s life was as a single mother, she always read to us. Some people have to have a swing set in the yard, ice cream in the freezer, candy stashed in the bottom of a drawer (It’s the secret candy that everyone knows about ; everyone eats, but for some reason, everyone sneaks into the drawer as if it was a hidden treasure).
These are the things that we choose as comforts to give us peace and a sense of belonging. Then there are the things that for some reason just seem to plague us no matter where we go in life. We can move out of state, move up or down in the social latter, be unemployed or a millionaire. But for some reason, you always end up with a house with a rose bush and you hate roses, a boy dog that loves to jump the fence and chase down girl dogs in heat, the relative that seems to eat at your house more than their house, or you always seem to break mirrors (hand or wall mirror doesn’t matter you will break one very 2 to 3 years). For me, I would gladly take one of the above inconveniences.
What do I get?
Poop. Yep. You read that correctly. My life has been plagued with crap. For a woman who is naturally constipated, I certainly have a lot of fecal matter issues to contend with for one person.
It all started when I was young. You see, my mother believed that administering a lukewarm enema would cure most common ailments from the common cold to food poisoning to mental illness. “You’ll feel much better after all that stuff clogging you up is gone.” From an early age, I learned to monitor my bowel movements for signs. After writing that statement, I am completely surprise that the study of BMs did not require chicken bones and a brewed concoction of chamomile and eye of newt with a pinch of licorice root although it would account for my fascination with the forensic sciences and the occult world.
In Kindergarten, I found out that being afraid to go the bathroom in the middle of class has various side effects. One of which is a really bad nickname that can stick with you for several years and is only relieved when one changes schools. The second being that labeling of human waste as dirt when discovered on the floor near your shoes fools no one, not even other 5 year olds.
From this point on, my life seemed to take a turn for the better with only a few incidents of an old dying dog with weak bowels or a niece or nephew to change their diaper during a babysitting gig. Even after having kids, the monitoring of my family’s bowel activities was something I did quietly in the background of living life in the suburbs.
Then one day I did something that was totally out of character, and it must have thrown the Fecal Gods into a tizzy. I decided I would travel France to visit my brother and sister-in-law and to take a book art class. I am not sure how this offended the Gods of Shit, but it did. I had just finished up a day of book making when a screaming email came to my attention. Back home, the family dog had just crapped all over the house. My then husband had to take off the rest of the afternoon from work to clean it up. The next day, a similar email arrived from home only this time, the dog had wrecked havoc upon the master bedroom. This lead to a total melt down in judgment, and my x-husband decided to wash one of the Dupioni silk curtains in the washer and then run it through the dryer. From a small reading nook located in a turret of a 16th century chateau, a horrifying scream was heard for miles. After the news that bathroom cleaner, which contained bleach, was used to clean the celery colored bed skirt from the Pottery Barn, I simply passed out from the shock of it all.
My relationship with bodily waste was improving and then a warning sign came from nowhere. After walking the dog one evening, I notice dog poop on my shoe. Now typically, this happens from time to time when walking a dog along the same path in the woods. However, I knew something was askew when the poop was on top of my shoe and nowhere else. I promptly called Dateman to inquire if he was breaking up with me. He said no. A few weeks passed, and I completely forgot about the pending doom that was before me. Then it came from nowhere in the middle of the day. College Dude (my son) called my cell phone frantically. The call went something like this…
“Mom, the dog just crapped all over the house, but mostly in the kitchen.”
“OK, where is the dog now?”
“Outside. We opened up all the windows because it stinks in the house. We thought we were going to throw up. I think she is sick because it looks really red.”
“OK, take the dog to the vet;’ I’ll meet you there. Make sure you take a stool sample for the vet to test.”
For a stool sample, a large size Tupperware container filled to capacity with poop was transported to the vet’s office. The Vet tech commented on the “ample amount” of the stool sample the boys (College Dude and neighbor side-kick) had gathered and praised them highly for their efforts.
$200.00 later…we all were back home. The boys ran across the street to the neighbor’s house so they didn’t have to finish cleaning up. I walked into a kitchen with dried diarrhea covering floor and a serving spoon lying in the middle of it. To collect my composure, I closed my eyes and thought of the beach for 10 seconds then turned on the radio, grabbed some paper towels and a garbage bag and sang as I cleaned. After the Hazmat team certified that the house was now fit for human occupancy, the dog and College Dude both came back into the house.
Quietly, I monitor the fecal cycle of everyone in the house and wait for the next bowel explosion to occur.

Prologue to Dagda’s Cauldron

Below is a prologue to a story I am writing. Let me know what you think. Good or Bad. Thanks

The cold winter wind stung her skin as she stepped through the circle. The sun was bright and caused her eyes to squint until she became accustomed to the light. It had been several months since Wicklow had been in man’s world. She was excited and full of mischief. She wanted to play with the humans; they always made her laugh. Typically, pixies didn’t come out during the winter months for a bit of tomfollery. But, Wicklow was always breaking the rules and getting into trouble; besides, she had a new game to show the children. She couldn’t wait until the spring ritual.

The house came into view; Wicklow stopped in her tracks. The human house she always visited was still and cold; something was terribly wrong. The front door was strangely open; leaves and animals had found their way into the home. Wicklow went inside and over to the window shutter to close it from banging in the wind. Where were the children? She flew up the stairs and into children’s room; the closet was empty. Where were the toys? One lone wooden soldier lay under the bed: alone and forgotten. The pixie slowly picked up the toy; a tear ran down her cheek. She felt just like the toy. As she made her way back to the living room, she noticed something on the fireplace mantel. There were two letters placed under what looked like a deck of cards.

She opened up the top letter. Tears came to her eyes. The children had gone away. Suddenly, a thought came to her. Flying from room to room, Wicklow franticly searched the house. It was nowhere to be found. The children had taken the stone. She began to smile. She knew would see them again someday.

When Wicklow returned to her home, she went straight to her room to put away her new treasures. There was a slight hesitation just before the cupboard door was shut. She picked up the second letter and began to read…

For those who wish to follow in my footsteps,

There is a story you must know. There was a time when Ireland was young and the land was full of promise. Invaders would try their hand at conquering this land, but the people were strong and full of fight. It has been said that one day a mist like no other descended upon the land. This mist was as thick as the rolling seas and with it came ships carrying our ancestors from Nemend. The Irish people called them, Tuatha de Danaan, since they were the children of the goddess Danu.

They were a mystical people who brought four magical treasures with them: The Sword of Light from the city Findias; the Spear of Lugh from the city Gorias; Dagda’s Cauldron from the city Murias; and the Stone of Fal from Fáilias. These treasures served their masters well. Then the Milesians, a warring band of invaders, seized the land. The Tuatha de Danaan vanished. Legend has it they found shelter within the hills, lakes and rocks of the land and took their treasures and mystical knowledge with them. These are our Forefathers; this is our history.

As a Shanachie, I roam the Irish countryside captivating farmers, merchants and their families with tales of old Irish battles and legends. But these are the hardest times I have seen. The Irish people have always dealt with invaders but the famine. It is a nightmare like I have never seen. The last hamlet was empty of people. As I walked over the last hill towards Donheadaly in the county Tyronne, a plain gray stone house came into view. The shutters were bright blue. It was a welcoming sign after months of wondering the countryside. I could not wait to share my new treasure with this family.

In my pocket was a deck of cards found during my travels. The images on the cards showed the home worlds of the ancients along with places and things seen during their travels. The images would help enhance the stories as I weaved tales of old before the children.

As I entered the Fallon house, the hearth was cold; an open window was welcoming the autumn chill into the house. A note was resting on the mantel in the living room. I picked it up to read. I had to brace myself against the fireplace as I read the words. It was a note from one of their young sons, Mickey. The family had gone to America to flee the famine. My heart was heavy; my soul now broken. My protégé, gone.

My time has come for me to return from where I came; back into the mist. I leave this desk of cards as a reminder of our past and a guide to future.

Shanachie of Danu,

Henry Blackwell

Wicklow slowly folded the letter and then sat on her bed. She stared at the weathered paper being held in her hands. She knew she had to tell the others. The Shanachie of Danu has returned to the land of the ancients. All they could do now was wait… wait for a sign.

Reducing Stress

Good Housekeeping always has those articles about health and good living. Here is one I found entitled “Good Advice for Staying Centered, Coping and Living Fully.” It lists 6 simple ways to help reduce stress in anyone’s life. Let’s see if it will work for me.

At the beginning of the article, it says the first thing you need to do is define what the stress looks like in your life. For me, stress is 5’9” about 175 lbs with blond hair (what’s left of it), blue eyes with that ‘You turned out to be such a disappointment’ look in them. Once you have defined your stress, one needs to determine the best course of action for clearing the stress from one’s life. For me, this was accomplished in divorce court. However, this doesn’t work for crazy kid schedules, hectic jobs or shortage of cash for credit card debt that suddenly appeared out of nowhere. So what do the experts say?

1. Smooch Spontaneously: “A study of 2,000 couples showed that those who kissed only during lovemaking are eight times more likely to report suffering from stress and depression than those who frequently kiss on the spur of the moment.” Sweet! I like this study; however, Dateman lives 40 minutes from my house leaving the spontaneity out of any smooching plans that I might have. I tried kissing Mark Harmon during his NCIS reruns, but he never seems to kiss me back. Therefore, my only alternative is a 95 lb. Rhodesian ridgeback dog with toilet breath, and she is only too happy to slap her dog drool upon my face, which truly concerns me.

Calling Robert’s Rules of Order: Can we have a sidebar conversation? “This is not a meeting, and this certainly doesn’t qualify as a quorum because it is just you and me. Which technically, it is just you because I am just that nagging voice in your head,” said brain in his typical condescending voice.
“You just put my hand down! Control Freak”
Sidebar conversation:
Dateman doesn’t want to be called Dateman anymore because he has moved up the relationship latter and became boyfriend. To me, Dateman sounds more like a Marvel cartoon hero wearing tights and a cape while he is about to save the love of his life, Sweet Polly Purebred, from mortal danger because the bad guy, Dick Dastardly, has tied her to the train tracks, and the train is speeding towards her. However in my mind (which has been described as a mix can of nuts), the term boyfriend sounds more like the guy from 10th grade who may or may not meet you at the school dance. It all depends if he can get a ride from his older brother and passed his algebra II chapter test. Do you see my dilemma?

Therefore, here are some of the names I have come up with to elevate Dateman to a new alias. Send me a comment, and let me know if you think Dateman should get a new alias?

- Friend (which is how my aunt refers to him “How is Your Friend?” as she whispers the last two words as if he was a double agent of some kind, and the CIA and KGB are listening in on our phone conversation.)
- Marlboro man (given his propensity to chronicle the mid-western life style and to wear Wrangler jeans with boots)
- Magnum (since he kind of looks like Tom Selleck minus the Hawaiian shirt and those embarrassing short shorts)
- The Blade (defined as a dashing, swaggering, or jaunty young man. I love the word “jaunty” it reminds me of Gene Kelly and Cary Grant or Rock Hudson in those Doris Day movies. They were a dreamy movie couple. Weren’t they?)
- The Gaffer (meaning old man, and the term just cracks me up)

“Hey, can we get back to kissing?” demands brain
Most definitely, I would like to be kissing Dateman right now. Especially, if it is anything like the kissing scene from “Spiderman” where our hero is hanging upside down, Mary Jane peels back just enough of the Spidey mask to reveal his lips, and then they kiss and kiss and kiss. All of this is done while they are in an alleyway, and it is raining. “Good God, your libido is about to explode. Think of your Grandmother making you a cup of tea.”
“Lemon and sugar, Hey, I am so going to kick your butt!”

2. Put the kettle on: The University College of London (of course) noted that people who drank black tea 4 times a day for 6 weeks had lower levels of Cortisol after a stressful task. Cortisol? Isn’t that a pain medicine? “That cortisone, Einstein,” says brain, “I hear Paris Hilton has a brain vacancy maybe I can apply for that job?”
Now, don’t get me wrong I love a good cup of black tea especially Earl Grey or some Irish breakfast tea, but the only side effects I ever seem to get are yellow teeth and having to urinate 20 minutes after each cup. Maybe it is the act of getting up and walking away from the stress to relieve oneself from liquid waste; thus causing a reduction in stress levels. “Maybe it is the 4 oz. of whiskey you dump into each cup that gives you the ‘I just don’t give a shit’ attitude towards your life,” remarks brain.
“Tattletale!”
“So when you are in a drunken heap on the floor? Don’t you find that a bit stressful to explain?”
“No, I just say I am looking for a contact.”
“What about the snoring?”
“I can find my contact better if it is reverberating from the noise.”
“Oh Lord, I am trapped the head of a loony.”

3. Eat healthy: Having a balanced diet will maintain your daily intake of much needed vitamins and minerals. In turn, your body will respond in kind with much more energy and vitality. I was raised on this advice from my mother who stated “Only bad mothers serve their children frozen foods, and I love you. Here eat an apple”. She was the master of manipulation. If she tossed in a hug and kiss, she had you eating a pork chop, which has been fried for 10 minutes on each side until it resembles rawhide. Anyway. This is fine as long as you are under the age of 30, and before your body starts doing all kinds of really weird stuff with the food you eat. Lactose intolerant, allergic to this or that, acidy foods causing mouth ulcers, etc. The food group I am the most pissed at is the fiber group. Eat fiber so you won’t get colon cancer. Eat fiber so you’ll have healthy regular bowel movements, and you won’t be bloated or grumpy. Eat fiber to get rid of toe nail fungus or whatever. See here is the thing. Scientifically, fiber is the rough stuff that scrubs your colon so no nastiness remains and causes harm to one’s intestinal track thus polluting your body with unnecessary byproducts from the digestion process. Great. It’s a sucky job, but it needs to be done, right? I don’t know why corn chips don’t qualify as fiber. Have you ever accidentally swallowed large broken corn chip pieces? Those bastards are like little razor blades shredding the sides of your esophagus as they travel down to your stomach.

“Get to the point,” cries brain.
This fiber thing has one tremendous side effect, which is gas. I am not just talking about gas as a cute little toot that squeaks out of your butt every once in a while. I am talking about the smell of a decaying animal that seeps from one’s rectum at the most inappropriate moments in one’s life. Like while standing in line at one of those fashion boutiques, you know the one where you make 4 times more than the sales clerk, but for some reason, she is condescending and treats you like crap. Or when you are having a performance review with your boss, and there are only two of you in the room. That one really sucks. How about when you are out dancing with the girls, all of a sudden you realize you are the only one on the dance floor, and everyone is looking at you and whispering. This is the moment I visualize when my therapist asks “Have you ever wanted to die?”
As a side note: I did just finish a bag of Bar-b-q Fritos, and I only had a minor incident with one stabbing my tongue. Now I have to run 83 miles just to burn off the 300 calories and 29% grams of fat. Holy freaking cow!
“Hey, ADD girl, fiber remember?” screams brain.
“Yum, Fritos. Oh, fiber, yeah I’m done with that topic,” says me

4. Take the Cuddle Cure: Researchers at the UNC – Chapel Hill recently found that if Dateman was naked while wearing the Batman utility belt…”System overload, let’s get to work,” commands brain. Dategirl slowly closes her eyes as she lays her head on the desk. “Oh come on, she is drooling. This is sloppy work, people. Visual! I need a visual. Oh my, definitely keep the utility belt!”