Friday, May 21, 2010

Does Size Really Matter?

I sympathize with the writer who struggles with a small chest. Boys can be cruel. Especially those idiot ones in high school. I was a barely budding high school senior, so you can imagine the horror I went through. I was so self-conscious of my chest. My sister was the complete opposite of me: tan, full of curves, radiant. I very much resembled a stick. With a potato for a head. My sister was worldly and knowing where I was awkward and clueless. My sister had bras from Victoria's Secret where the only things that fit me were those cotton training bras from ShopKo. (I took off the little pink bows to make them appear more womanly.)

One summer day, my sister and I lounged lazily around the family room flipping through magazines and television stations. I picked up a Victoria's Secret magazine, studying the plethora of choices. (Yes, plethora, noun: overabundance; excess.) And the multitude of sizes... sizes I had never seen before. HUGE sizes and -  ...small ones.

What's this? I thought. It says also available in AA. What is AA exactly? There's an A and  then there's an AA. How would I know if I'm an AA versus an A? There has got to be something in this catalog that defines it.

But I couldn't find the definition. Great. If I really wanted to know I'd have to ask my sister. Who would probably laugh at me because I'm not as worldly in the art of bra manufacturers as she. I sucked it up and asked:

Hey - what's the difference between just an A and a double-A?

"Oh," she replied, matter-of-factly. "A's are shorter and fatter; double-A's are long and skinny."

I must have sat staring at my chest for twenty minutes before I realized she was talking about batteries.

Monday, May 17, 2010

Yes, These Dots Certainly Can Be Connected

To start off with, I was totally congratulated on my pregnancy. A big, excited, "I see congratulations is in order!" complete with extended arm finger pointing at my paunch. Except I'm not pregnant. And it's unlikely I ever will be if Cletus keeps up the Every Hour Through The Night I'll Scream Out In Obvious Pain And Then Keep Screaming While You Comfort Me For The Next Twenty Minutes shit he's been pulling lately. Not that I blame him. The kid's stuck in a cage. With teddy bears doing somersaults all the way around him like some sort of Grateful Dead Infant Tribal Dance. I'd take the bear crib bumper out of there but I can't. The sitter gave it to him. She insisted that he needed something "for a baby" in his crib, that the eco-friendly breathable crib bumper (that matched perfectly with our decor) was not encouraging happy slumber. Now he can't sleep because he thinks he pissed off Jerry Garcia and he's about to be attacked by bears. Except I don't know that for sure since he can't talk. But I know the sitter can talk and she'd feel sad and we really love her and so if we have to sacrifice our nights with the crazed bears scaring the hell out of Cletus, then so be it. As long as she continues to do our laundry, clean our house and make us dinner on the days she watches Cletus. Have I mentioned how much we love her? So you see where we're at.

Anyway. I'm not pregnant, I only look like I am, which explains why I ran into Big V's truck while backing out of the driveway. First of all, Big V can't figure out how to park on one side of the driveway or the other. He parks not quite in the middle which is his way of getting back at me because I can park in the garage and he can't. But it's not my fault that he can't park in the garage. He's just too lazy to put things back where they belong: like the lawn mower, tools, grill, sweatshirts, bats, and Gatorade bottles, so there's a burial mound of items blocking his access. As soon as he puts his things away he'll have room to park his truck. He thinks I'll clean it up, like I do his dirty socks in the living room, but I won't, because I don't care what the garage looks like because I'm not sitting in it watching television. He's being petty when he parks his truck deceivingly over the center line (which I've tried to paint in the driveway, but he kiboshes every single time I drag the paint can out).

I knew his truck was more than likely parked where it shouldn't be, so as I was backing out of the garage I jockeyed back and forth to somehow get around the truck which was very difficult to do. Well, you can imagine all the torso moving and self-talk that goes on - "twist right, look over your shoulder, back towards the left - watch the mirror, slowly... check the rear view mirror, over to the right again, make sure the back quarter panel clears the truck, back to the driver's side mirr -- what the heck is that? Oh my gawd!! I am fat!! Look at my gut!!!"

And just like that the passenger side mirror of my car screeches across the side of V's shining bright red truck leaving a long, jagged black scuff mark ... just like the giant black scuff cut into my self esteem from the guy who congratulated me so excitedly on my nonpregnancy. I blame him. I'm pretty sure that his insurance company will agree with me once they hear what he did to cause all this damage. More than likely they'll pay for V's new paint job and liposuction for me, because it is just not okay to act like that and people need to learn.