Welcome Home

Where have I been? Oh, getting a decent night's sleep, reading an honest-to-goodness book with paragraphs consisting of more than 3 sentences apiece, cleaning up our back deck which was about to be featured on the cover of White Trash Home and Garden, just to name a few things....

Larry came home from a week-long business trip today bearing gifts. Not having recovered from the sardine incident in April, I was a tad leery of what he would bring me. True to form, he pulled out of his suitcase a box of chocolates shaped and wrapped to look like 6 Swiss Army knives. (Undoubtedly an improvement over dead fish, but still...) Apparently, my giving away the chocolate sardines to the loser at Bunko last month had not sent him the right message.

"Ha, ha!" I said, trying to be a good sport. "Funny! So, uh, did you get anything else?" Larry handed me a square, thin black envelope that contained a thin slab of chocolate. Really, it looked like chocolate rations you'd hand out in a POW camp. Something in me snapped.

"Look," I said. "I'm a girl. You're supposed to bring me things that are pretty."

"I thought you liked chocolate," he said.

"Yes! But pretty chocolates. Men are supposed to bring girls pretty things. After 20 years, you don't get that?"

Larry, flustered and confused, rummaged in his suitcase some more and pulled out a plastic container filled with a variety of little chocolates in different colored wrappers.

"Okay!" I said. "You're getting the idea!"

Just then Susie came upstairs. "Daddy!" she said. "You're home!"

"Hi, honey! Look what Daddy brought you!" said Larry, holding up the T-shirt he'd picked out for her. Susie burst into tears (I know that is a cliche, but really - that's what she does).

"I don't like that! It's ugly!" she cried.

That apple didn't fall far from the tree, now did it?

Art Linkletter Was Right

Today? Was the moment of truth.

90 degrees

Sunny

Nothing to do

"Let's go to the pool!" the bored children cried. And, realizing that delaying yet another week would not make me any thinner or the varicose veins on my legs any less prominent, I said, "Okay! Let's go!" with an enthusiasm that I believe bordered on the heroic.

I proceeded to pack up towels, locate the sunscreen, order the children into swimsuits, and accomplish all the other myriad tasks required for an aquatic pilgrimage with kids. At one point during this flurry of activity, Susie walked into my room. "Are we going yet?" she asked.

"Pretty soon, sweetie - I just have to get changed myself," I told her.

"Yes," Susie said, in a sage tone not usually employed by a 5-year-old, a tone replete with an appreciation of the challenges of middle age. "You have to try and squeeze into your swimsuit."

Well...um...yes, that's one way to put it. I just didn't think the effort was that noticeable. I mean, the squeezing part....

I guess kids do say the darndest things.



[Fat Lady image credit: Lost in Suburbia]

Nostalgia: Not All It's Cracked Up To Be

We've come a long way, ladies!

[Thanks to The Obnoxious SAHM for finding this gem.]

7 Quick Takes: IPhone Envy

It's still Friday, right? Well, let's get going then....

I told Larry that we should get IPhones for ourselves. Because they are fun. And then I wouldn't lose my grocery list. Stick-in-the-mud that he is, Larry pointed out that it doesn't make economic sense for us to spend over 1500 dollars a year for cellphone service. I hate when he gets all rational like that.

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How come the IPhone plan is so much more expensive than the other phones with touch screens and other fun stuff? Anyone out there in Blogland know the answer to that?

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Not that it matters - Larry is perfectly satisfied with our current "plan" - pay-per-minute cellphones which cost us all of 100 dollars a year per phone. Frugal does not equal fun, in case you were wondering.

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My bout of stomach flu 2 weekends ago produced a 3-pound weight loss at my next WW weigh-in. That gave me enough incentive to keep on starving for another 7 days, after which I once again stepped onto the Weight Watchers scale confident in the knowledge that I was even more svelte than the week before.

Only, I wasn't. The receptionist told me that I had gained a pound and a half. At which point I informed her that there was no way I had gained weight, I felt too hungry. Apparently no novice at dealing with irrational fat people, she said, "Well, maybe it's just the humidity."

My thoughts exactly...

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Oil spill? Can we come up with a better phrase? It's not a spill so much as an explosion. An explosion that just won't quit. And for those of you wondering why the federal government hasn't managed to stop it yet, it's because they can't. No one can. We shouldn't have been drilling a mile underwater in the first place. It's hard to believe that no one foresaw this scenario.

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Oh, and Governor Jindal? If you are so convinced that building those barrier islands is the right thing to do (and, heck, that plan sounds better than doing nothing), stop arguing over who is going to pay for it and get started. Over 40 miles of the berms have been approved by the Army Corps of Engineers already. While you're building them, you can argue over the other 60 miles and who is going to foot the bill. But don't stand there and do nothing and blame the federal government. As you yourself have said, "The strength of America is not found in our government. It is found in the compassionate hearts and the enterprising spirit of our citizens."

Quibble over the bill later, my friend. This oil spill is going to cost millions one way or another.

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I know! Yet another bit of breathtakingly astute commentary by this armchair activist. What can I say? The world is lucky to have me.

G'night all, and pop on over to Conversion Diary's 7 Quick Takes - she doesn't waste your time with useless maunderings over the state of the nation the way I do.

[IPhone photo credit: phonecasestore]

[Oil rig photo credit: Daily Mail]

Size Matters

You need to know (well, maybe not, but I'm going to say it anyway) that I am a weird size, with very narrow shoulders, but a lot up front. In fact, if I followed all those complicated measure-yourself-for-the-correct-bra instructions, I'd end up shopping for a 28G. Which doesn't exist. Therefore, it takes me just a few minutes short of forever to find the right bra. It has to minimize, it can't produce unsightly bulges, and - most important - it cannot be pointy. Dear Lord, why are all these pointy bras out there anyway? That look hasn't been in since the original Star Trek.

Naturally, once I find the right bra, I am devoted to it forever. I believe in commitment, the until-death-do-us-part kind (oh, who am I kidding, I want to be buried in it, actually). I have my style number memorized, all right? It's vital information, right up there with my social security number and blood type.

Alas, if only brassiere manufacturers displayed this same sort of loyalty. But, no, they don't. Every few years I will walk confidently into the lingerie department of JCPenney's or Kohl's and find, to my utter horror, that my style no longer exists. It's gone. Poof! Just like that.

Or, even worse, I find that my style number is still there; but things are, sadly, not the same. The shape of the cups have changed, say, or there isn't enough coverage in the chest area. Not to name names, LILYETTE MINIMIZER, but a while back I bought 3 of your stupid brassieres in the style that I had been buying for years; and none of them fit. MAY YOU ROT IN HELL!

Oh, dear, just excuse that little outburst, will you? It's just that this is such an emotional topic for me. Do you know how demoralizing it is to stand practically naked in front of a dressing room mirror, trying on bra after bra after bra in assorted sizes, all the while being treated to an uncensored view of a body that is, to put it kindly, not what it once was? A body, in fact, that you saw on your best friend's mother when you all shared a hotel room when you and your friend were 12, and you thought that her mother looked okay for an old lady?

I've just got to take a few deep breaths here. Give me a sec.

Okay, I'm back. All this to say that I feel well-qualified to give bra shopping advice for us hard-to-fit types. In other words, all you chicks with your cute little A and B cups who can just grab any brassiere off the rack at Target without trying it on with 3 different shirts to check its containment potential can just run along now. There's nothing for you here.

Are they gone? Good. I hates them with their sexy little shelf-bra camisoles. Life is so unfair.

Advice For Women With Something Extra

1. Do not go bra shopping with the children. Not only will they not allow you nearly enough time to go through the entire collection of minimizers available, but they will also make frequent and loud comments about what they are seeing in your dressing room. Believe me, you only have to hear, "That makes you look like Grandma!" once to understand the wisdom of this rule.

2. You get what you pay for. At one point I rebelled and said, "Why can't I spend 10 bucks or less on one of these fun-looking sport bras at Target? My children deserve to go to college same as the progeny of those small-breasted tarts." I wore my cheap-o bras for 2 full months; because this happened in the days before digital cameras, and 2 months was how long it took me to get my rolls of film developed into pictures that showed just how awful I can look without the proper support. The day I got those photos back? A very bad day indeed. But eventually I crawled out from under my bed and went to the store, where I plunked down everything I had for the deluxe containment model; and I've never looked back.

3. If you have a D or larger cup, anything less than 3 rows of hooks in the back is the manufacturer's idea of a joke. A joke, meaning that you look pretty darn funny with your boobs dragging down to your navel as the back of your bra creeps up toward your neck. Gravity, folks - it's not just a good idea, it's the law.

4. You need to put aside your fantasies when you step into that lingerie department. Do you see all those dainty lacy bras and teddies and camisoles? Just avert your eyes - they are not for you. You will always have to wear something that looks as if more engineering went into it than into the Eiffel Tower. It sucks. Get used to it. (I sound bitter, don't I? Damn right, I'm bitter.)

5. Don't assume that nursing will be easier just because you are so well-endowed. First of all, none of the pretty nursing bras come with enough rows of hooks (see #3). Second, when the baby's head is smaller than your boob, the nursing logistics get a little tricky. Where am I going with this? I don't know.

6. Do not even get me started on bathing suits. I just thank the good Lord that I can order 2 different sizes for top and bottom from Lands End. (And, hey, marketing folks at Lands End, if you want to send me a free swimsuit for that little promo, you know where to find me...)