Posts Tagged: breasts


29
Sep 09

i heart guinea pigs

more random & fascinating confessions most of which my mom shouldn’t read:

i am a major underachiever & huge procrastinator, but i did pretty well in school anyway. i am more of a street smarts, common sense kind of girl, but i always wonder what amazing things i would have accomplished had i truly applied myself. although, my english scores were very high, i was in basic skills math & retard science. i still struggled in those too. eventually i grew boobs and said fuck it.

i may have once slept with a mafia don. i am not investigating any further.

i stalked a boy in high school. okay, several. on foot. with binoculars.

uncle buck is my all time favorite movie. i named one of my daughters after one of the characters.

it’s not the posting of unearthed sex tapes or naked pictures (both of which i have never wittingly submitted to) on the web that concerns me. it’s if my gut looks fat or if you can see the cottage cheese on my ass that truly worries me.

i  find the smell of beer on a man’s breath to be sexy. that is really warped.

i still have all of my sticker albums. the stickers are in MINT condition. most still in original packaging.

when i get mad i shop. take that visa! i shopped a lot during my crappy marriage. this did not help my crappy marriage at all, but i have a kickin’ wardrobe.

i obsessively use the notes app on my phone to remember song lyrics so i can google them later to get the title & download them for my ipod.

i started a female pant suit revolution at my first job fresh out of college in 1993. i have authority issues. they breathed a sigh of relief when i quit. i am not meant for corporate life.

when i was 21, i came home late from a date & i busted my dad smoking pot. we went into the house & he sat on the bed of my childhood room while i lectured him on the evils of its usage. for an hour.

i worked at the freehold raceway mall before it opened to set up the gap there. when it opened they hired all new people. working at the gap sucks. i still fold my jeans the way i was taught.

as a teenager & into college, i shoplifted from mostly any retail establishment for which i worked. i found it to be quite a thrill. i totally understand winona rider.

when i was a freshman in college, i briefly dated a high school senior. i went to his prom.

sometimes i wonder if the people on billboards look familiar to me because i actually know them or just from driving past them every day.

when i watch really old reruns & there are old people on the show, i say to myself, that person must be dead by now. conversely, i wonder how the child actors turned out.

in college i peed behind a dumpster. several times. i also passed out on the floor of the girl’s bathroom in my freshman dorm after puking my guts out. several times. i drank a lot in college. i was nicknamed “booter.”

i had a major obsession with garfield when i was kid. i drew him constantly, read every book, and set up a residence for him & his girlfriend in my room. i had about 30 or so stuffed garfields & pals. i also slept with one of my stuffed garfields (& a nightlight) until i got married. i still have them all, but i am trying to get rid of the husband.

after college, while looking for a real job, i was a bank teller. since, i suck at math, my till was short often. i got fired. i still make sure all of my money is facing the same way & in order of denomination in my wallet.

i was an ugly duckling: i was born with one eye that crossed in & wore bifocals from 18 mos to 16 yrs.  my feet turned inward and i had to wear shoes on a metal brace until they faced out. i was never allowed to sit “indian style.” when i was 12, i was diagnosed with minor scoliosis. i cleaned up nice though.

i used to get spontaneous bloody noses from allergies as a kid without warning. this was a fun party trick and most endearing to the hostesses.

at the end of my senior year of high school, a bunch of my friends & i stole a street sign with my name on it by knocking it down with a baseball bat. we were unaware that this was a felony. i still have it displayed in my home.

i had a “valley girl” sleepover party for my 13th birthday. everybody had to dress like valley girls & talk that way. i was like, oh my gawd, a huge dork.

mere days after i got my license and brandy new honda civic, i smashed it into a car that was pulling out of a parking spot at woodbridge mall because i gunned the gas instead of the stomping on the brakes. my bff was in the car. after the information exchange with the bewildered driver, we still went shopping. i bought a pair of sneakers which i then returned a week later but i made my mom drive me. it was years before i ever drove back there. the woman said to my dad, “meester, i don know where she came from.” my crazy bff still drove all over the place with me.

the manner in which i lost my virginity would most certainly be considered date rape today. it was over 21 years ago & i still have not forgiven that guy. i most likely never will.

surgeries: age 12: 8 molars removed age 15: nose job, age 18: 4 impacted wisdom teeth removed, age 21: breast reduction, age 30 & 33: 2  c-sections. age 35: lumpectomy (benign, thank god) age 36: corrective eye surgery for the cross. i sincerely hope i am done.

i secretly love lite fm. i have an entire playlist on itunes. i know all the words to most of the songs. brandy & wildfire are in my top 10.

i LOVE guinea pigs. i had 2 as a kid before it was cool to own them. i had a sleepover with my childhood bff & let “miss piggy” run around in her sleeping bag. the pig left many “gifts.” her mom was not pleased. the modern day guinea pig cult following pleases me to no end. i got not 1, but 2 for my kids when the divorce started. $200 later i realized they are cute, but a pain in the ass to take care of when you live immigrants style in a tiny room with 2 other small people. my kids lost interest in the piggys & i gave them away on craig’s list after 2 months. i still feel guilty & hope they are living happy little guinea pig lives. now i just collect guinea pig books & leave it at that.

my best friend in high school and i spent hours after school cataloging every possible way we wanted to be kissed. we didn’t have boyfriends, but we once hooked up in a foursome situation, latter dubbed “switcheroo with ____ & sue.” i was thrilled until i figured out they just both wanted to hook up with her and i was a mercy killing. she was & still is way hot, no matter how many kids she pops out. you know who you are, bitch.

when i 20 years old and flying home from UF for the holidays one year, i sat next this weird artsy couple. i had the window seat and was essentially trapped. the lady grabbed my hand & said she did “readings” and proceeded to read my palm without my consent. she told me that when i was 40 i would have a major illness but i would recover. i have obsessed about it ever since. when i was 36 & had a lump removed from my breast, and i wondered if that was the illness of which she spoke, but i couldn’t be sure. i have 2 more years to worry about it. so now i fear, “what if i am going through this terrible divorce (14 mos so far) and then i die (god forbid) or the world ending prophecies are true and i never get to enjoy my freedom?” sigh. i am sure she has long since forgotten me & that plane ride, but here i am 17 years later still worrying. it made me realize that you can have a lasting impact on people, positive or negative, long after you have moved on. so be more responsible, you crazy palm readers.

last year, i went on  a date with a 25 yr old. during dinner he got carded and i didn’t. i then strongly suspected he was not even 21. i went back to his dorm room anyway. i was curious.

i have had at least 13 different jobs i can remember & sucked at all of them. in no particular order: ceramics assistant at a camp   (i spilled an entire bag of slip), babysitter (i got nail polish all over someone’s table), grocery store cashier (before the days of scanners), marty’s shoes store clerk, gap sales person, gap kids saleperson ( hello, may i help you find a size?), secretary (for a day – i left after lunch & never returned), bank teller ( we know how that went), payroll sales person at ADP ( i  faked most of my sales numbers), interior design assistant (i helped her organize by throwing out most of her source materials), wallpaper/window treatment sales person inside a paint store (i prayed i got the measurements correct when it was time for pickup/installation), pharmaceutical sales rep ( i was terrified of the office staff & drs. & my main drug was a market dog), psychological study research assistant ( i fudged all of my “research” for some poor dude’s thesis), & interior designer of my own ‘firm” for 11 months (when i was 9 months preggers, i had to sue my very first clients for stopping a check. the entire endeavor actually cost us money. i gladly gave up that empire soon after the first baby came).

when i was 10, i became completely obsessed with puberty & getting my period. i had an entire “starter kit” full of the proper materials under my bed that was ready to go when the time came (it sat dormant for 5 years). i studied the book, what’s happening to me, way before anything was actually happening to me. i still own it. i was actually happy when i sprouted 2 armpit hairs one day. i did flips when i got a giant bush (subsequently, i became a fastidious groomer way ahead of my time when i discovered i could do neat tricks with a hair clipper). i was a strange child.

i have a problem with honesty. too much of it. this why i tell you people all of this crap that is better kept to myself. i most likely have a weird need for self-deprecating attention.

baby hershey, pig #1. way cute.

baby hershey, pig #1. way cute.

cuddles, pig #2. also way cute.

cuddles, pig #2. also way cute.

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23
Jun 09

the saga (and sagging) of my rack

i think the first thing you have to know about me is that i have extensively obsessive boob issues. my entire life has been about my breasts. i come from a long line of large breasted woman, but i was a late bloomer.  and ever since i was a child, i wanted a set. bad. i was raised watching boobilicous cartoon super heros like wonderwoman, batgirl, catwoman & she-ra and couldn’t wait to fill in my underoos.

in fact, there are pictures of me when i was around 8, dressing up in my mother’s bras. i wanted boobs B A D. i did those crazy exercises, “we must, we must, improve our bust,” religiously every night before bed. i demanded my early bloomer friends show me what they had. i convinced my mom to buy me bras when i was in sixth grade & stuffed ‘em full of undies. That was a brilliant idea until one fell out on the swings during recess. STONE COLD BUSTED. not one of my proudest moments.

then my prayers were answered before my sophomore year of high school, when i was 15, & i sprouted a set of full C’s by the end of the summer. i came back to school with a sweet rack and was thereafter accused of sticking my chest out when i walked around. but, i wasn’t, haters! those were legit! soon the attention got to me & so did the inescapable teenage bad body image. that was the downfall of my super set. i started wearing minimizer bras. oh, the horror! by my senior year of college my boobs hadn’t stopped growing and i was 5’0″ (okay 4’11 1/2″) & 93 pounds, with DOUBLE D’s.

okay, so many did get enjoy them, but even though i had the perfect body, i hated it! yes, i was a DUMB BEYATCH! i began trying to hide the goods with baggy shirts and became more and more miserable. add in the fact that my mom has had gigunda tatas since she was 10 and she always HATED them and told me so daily. so she was on board the same unhealthy body image bandwagon that i was.

one day during a break between semesters, i saw a large breasted friend of mine. she spilled the beans that she was getting a breast-reduction and i was stunned that there was such a thing. sure I knew about implants, but making them smaller? and just like that, i decided i wanted to lop my boobs off too. i told my bff in crime, millie, (no names have been changed to protect the guilty) about my plan and she told me i was nuts & not to do it. “you have what everyone wants, ” she said. but, that only made me more determined, because i thought no one could possibly understand the plight of a petite huge breasted woman. besides the fact, that i am not a chick that ever listened to anybody. once something was in my head, there was no stopping me. i was sure the reduction was the answer to all my problems. the plastic surgeon with whom we consulted convinced me i would develop major back problems and the life before me would be that of an invalid, albeit, a sexy invalid, if i continued to carry those things around on my “petite frame.” what did he care? i was about to lose my tatas, but he was about to make a wad of cash. so after college I did the deed, and this, my friends, (all 3 of you reading this) is where my story gets really sad: the night before the surgery i had doubts about it & wasn’t sure i even wanted to do it, but i stuffed that down & ignored my gut. (exactly like the night before my now failed marriage, but that is another story entirely.) the other tragic twist is this: the insurance company rejected the pre-approval for the surgery at first. my father who would do anything for us & had no boobs himself lobbied the insurance company until they approved it. no one was telling his daughter she couldn’t chop her tits off.

Life Lesson One: Sometimes it is best to leave well enough alone. SIGH.

the ensuing recovery was a painful, awful, terror & when i first unwrapped my new jugs they were TINY. i had a full B & was feeling the first signs of remorse. the scars were hideous. when i gasped upon first seeing them, i said to my mother, “they are so small!” Her response was to say, “don’t let your sister hear you say that.” it was no secret boobs were not evenly assigned in my family. not only did I feel remorse, but i now had guilt too, and i had to keep it all to myself.

so, i tried to be okay with the boob issue for a few years by wearing mondo padded bras but regret slowly began creeping in until i couldn’t bare to even think about it anymore. i could no longer face my own girls in the mirror, but i became obsessed with other boobs, and just like a guy, i was always checking others chick’s racks out. i needed intensive boob therapy to get over it.

well, fast forward to pregnancy: i was now stressing that i wouldn’t be able to nurse because things may not have been reattached right, BUT, i had giant preggo boobs. it was awesome – AND the boobs stayed big & grew with each kid. so naturally, I wanted to have 4 or 5 kids. i was able to nurse, luckily, or not so luckily depending upon how you look at it – my life became even more about my boobs. there is no pain like engorged boobie pain and trying to get an ill tempered infant to latch onto a full boob. it seems logical that employing the fun bags for their actual intended use would be a snap, but its not and i elicited help from anybody within a 5 mile radius. forget the fact, the i went to an actual class to learn how to do this beforehand. useless. once the hungry screamer & i finally figured it out, my life was lived in 2 hour increments of nipple desecration and my life became a blur of boob chores – pumping, massaging, feeding, crying… and don’t get me started on nursing bras.

then several years ago, i found a lump in my right breast & it was terrifying. i had to to get my boobs mashed in the mammogram machine several different times which confirmed a suspicious lump. so, i had a biopsy & was told it had to be removed and they still weren’t sure if it was the c-word. i had it removed and thank God it was benign. of course, i had to have the lump removed from the smaller boob and i am sporting yet another scar which i tell dudes is a stab-wound ( it’s much more mysterious). i really just found the whole thing to be completely ironic. i wondered if there was no end to the suffering of my poor breasts.

the happy-ish ending is that I have made peace with the girls again (back to a DD thanks to the 2 babies), but feel terrible for treating my body that brutally. i hate the scars though they have mostly faded & are hidden by the (dare I say it) sagging (sigh). in a weird way i feel like they are fakes, because they have been altered.

so what is the moral of the story? mamas don’t let your girls screw with their bodies. they just need self confidence & your support to learn to love their bodies. plastic surgery isn’t the answer that we all think it is. i would absolutely discourage my girls from doing anything to their bodies at such a young age. women have it so tough, our boobs are too small or too big, but never just right. so ladies, love your gazungas no mater what size they are! they are part of what makes you, you, but they don’t define you. i finally realized, it doesn’t matter what size your boobs are, men will stare. it doesn’t matter what your body looks like as long as your head is on right. boobs & the women attached to them will always be used to sell stuff on tv. we will always use our boobs to get men to do what we want. men will always be on a quest to see ‘em no matter what size they are. they love ‘em all.

Life Lesson Two: Its all about confidence & good body image.

DUH. thanks epiphany for coming way late, but at least i figured it out. eventually.

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