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Tuesday, August 31, 2004

Wow, I am so glad the extra job at CMC three days a week has ended. I took a day off --I mean really off -- and did nothing but watch movies and read yesterday.

Even though I've been so busy, I've still been reading a lot, but I always forget the titles of what I've read so I can't talk about those books. The few I'm currently reading are Mainlines, Blood Feasts and Bad Taste -- A Lester Bangs Reader, Are You Really Going To Eat That? Reflections of a Culinary Thrill Seeker by Robb Walsh, and The Dog Listener by Jan Fennell.

I love Lester Bangs. He was such an intense, drugged-out, music critic/visionary. He's funny, intelligent and entertaining, but he's not always 'right' in my book. More often than not he's right, but still, not always. He did have the greatest name, though, but it's only great if said all at once, as in LesterBangs because 'Lester' by itself is just stupid. If I were having children, I would definitely name one of them LesterBangs, hopefully a boy.

The movies I've been watching lately are all classics, except for one. The one that isn't is Donnie Darko. I've watched that again in anticipation of the director's release. You know, when I first stumbled upon this movie one day on HBO while I was bored and home sick, I had no idea what it was or that it had become a cult classic, especially overseas. I only knew after watching it that I liked it and that, while it had some flaws, it was totally different than anything I'd ever seen before. That, and Jake Gyllenhall (or what ever the fuck his name is because I'm too lazy to search it) was in it. Yum.

The classics I've been watching, some for the first time and some for the hundredth, are: The Shop Around the Corner, from 1940 with Margaret Sullivan and James Stewart. This movie is exactly what a romantic comedy should be. I dare you not to fall in love with Jimmy in the last scene, be you male or female; Destry Rides Again, one of my favorite westerns with Jimmy Stewart (again) and Marlene Dietrich. My dad saw this movie in the theatre as a young boy on it's original 1939 release, and he got a crush on Marlene. It remained one of his favorite movies. I think about this when I watch it and smile; Duel in The Sun, a great western in spite of Jennifer Jones' over-the-top preening and shit. This movie offers Gregory Peck at his sexiest, handsomest, most lustful and most despicable; The Strange Love of Martha Ivers, starring Barbara Stanwyck and a very young Kirk Douglas. Most film historians believe this movie started the whole Film Noir genre of the 1940's. Very interesting and very unique; The Petrified Forest with Bette Davis and Humphrey Bogart. A unique gangster/love story/western. It was Bogie's first large roll. The only reason he got the role of Duke Mantee, which made him famous, was because Bette insisted he play the part after seeing him in the role on the stage.

Friday, August 27, 2004

Another Post About Breasts

That fact that women in my family go through menopause early sucks. The fact that we gain at least a cup size in the boobal area during this time fucking rocks, especially for me, the least well-endowed of my whole family.

I began to develop breasts in 5th grade and was one of the very first who actually needed to wear a bra. I thought it was awesome and even slept in my bra (a la Marilyn Monroe) for a while because I was just so glad to have the tiny lumps on my chest. It meant I was getting older, becoming a woman.

Unfortunately, the growth spurt stopped in 7th grade when I reached an A-cup size. If you aren't familiar with cup sizes, it's the smallest cup size manufactured for women in the US. Think gymnast boobs. I was so disappointed. While not wanting huge breasts because I played sports and had also seen how they fall when one gets older like my mother's did, I did want at least a B, preferably a C.

I remained an A-cup until the age of 26. Regardless of my weight or how muscular I might have been at any given time, they never changed an iota. I loved Wonderbras during this period of time because they actually gave me the appearance of some cleavage.

Even though I've always wanted them to be bigger, I have always liked the way my breasts look. I mean, they don't have those huge nipples I've seen on some women, stretch marks or hair, and they certainly didn't fall or droop, and when I laid on my back, they didn't (and still don't) end up in my armpits. I had gotten to the point that I actually appreciated them in all their tangerine-sized glory.

At age 28, I suddenly became a B cup. I didn't believe it. I thought the bra manufacturers had started messing with the sizing to make me feel better about myself. But every time I bought an A instead of a B, it was too darn small. I loved it, but I still felt that with my height, they should be a little bit larger.

Fast forward to 2004. I now have full C-cup breasts which actually border on a D depending on the time of the month. My husband may be happy about it, but to say I'm fucking thrilled is an understatement. I loooooooooooooove them. I can't stop looking at them, jutting them out even further, or looking at them filling out my shirts, making me feel more feminine and attractive then ever before. I love smooshing them together either in my hands or one of my old Wonderbras. I love feeling their weight in my hand. I love how close friends have asked whether my boobs are bigger.

I have even had to stop wearing some shirts I own because they make my breasts too prominent, and they can obviously be a distraction for some people. I can't stand when a man talks to my chest or steals furtive glances. I never wanted them bigger for any man -- just for me!

My new breasts are great, terrific, fun, beautiful, sexy, womanly and wonderful. My tits are fucking awesome! They rock! (Yay boobies!)





Thursday, August 26, 2004

I'm just going to take a few minutes to bitch about something because, even though I may not be able to get satisfaction from the manufacturer, EuroPro, or Target, at least I can prevent a few people from purchasing the same product and getting fucking ripped off.

We purchased a 'Shark'-brand hand vac about three weeks ago from Target. The sole reason I chose the Shark was because it had more power (higher HP) than the Black and Decker model I have always purchased and it came with a detachable handle so one can use the vac without having to bend over.

It is called a 'Shark' because it is painted silver and has a 'mouth' like a nurse shark. There is no problem with the paint, but the mouth is too little to actually vacuum anything up, literally and seriously. The damn thing is useless.

For example: Cat litter -- it just pushes it into a pile while sucking up the little bits that will fit thru the tiny opening. What's the point of the extra HP if the mouth isn't big enough to allow particles to enter? With the Black and Decker, sweeping up the errant littler from around the box took 2 minutes. It now takes 15 and requires the assistance of a broom and dust pan. If I wanted to hand-sweep the fucking litter, I would have saved my money and got myself a fancy shmancy BROOM instead, you lame-ass motherfuckers.

We purchased it at Target with our check card. After said transaction showed up on our account, which my husband checks daily online, we tossed the receipt. I know that Target is a stickler for having a receipt, so I called the company to complain about the product and find out what I could do if Target won't accept the return. They insisted that the filter was incorrectly inserted, even though it is inserted exactly as they described on the phone and in the manual and told me, beyond that, there is nothing they can do for me. I reiterated that the problem wasn't the filter, but the shape of the goddamn mouth and hung up.

If Target won't take it back, I will never buy another thing from Target, and I will certainly never by another thing from EuroPro/Shark. I will take a copy of the charge clearing my account printed from the computer and hope for the best.

Thanks for letting me vent. And for God's sake Don't buy one of these things!



Monday, August 23, 2004

I'm sorry I've not been available to post lately, but I see I've been in good company, anyway. I've been working with the autistic child, Katie, everyday, even some weekend days. I've also been filling in on my other job for someone whose been out on vacation, plus working my regular hours. My down time has been filled with walking, playing tennis, cleaning and doing laundry and, as Tom likes to call it, "hanging around with weird friends." I have also been quoting on some painting jobs, keeping in touch with my mom who had her surgery, going to the beach with a bunch of women, which was a whole lotta fun (who'd a thought?) and believe it or not, watching the Olympics. I haven't even been checking my blog. I mean, the husband had to tell me that people were commenting about where I was. (Thanks for the laugh, Ed.)

Speaking of the Olympics, I am an Olympics ho, bigtime. I mean I DVR the things I can't watch when they're being broadcast and I tune in every night. I love the summer broadcast especially. I mean, how can you not love gymnastics, all of the track and field events, diving, swimming, the marathons, rowing, etc., plus my all-time favorite since childhood -- weightlifting. I know it's odd that I should spend so much time every four years watching these things; I know it doesn't fit with my or other's perceptions about me, but I need to keep us all on our toes and not allow myself to be pigeon-holed into some tiny little box of what/who you all think I am, don't I? Yes, I do.

What's really strange is how emotional I become watching these games. I know it's not patriotism, and if you know me well, you know that too, but I do admire how much time, effort, money and life these athletes have put into getting where they are (see previous post). I feel awful when someone doesn't 'stick' a landing, 'false starts' his way out of a race, knocks down the bar in the high jump or loses control of her bowels when running the marathon.

On the up side, I cried right along with the US silver medalist in the women's marathon, who ran 'smart' and in18th place most of the way in 100 degree heat to get her medal. I cried when Phelps beat Crocker in the 100m butterfly, whom he'd lost to last time. Phelps then graciously gave Crocker the spot on the medley relay, which was a sure gold medal, in turn giving up an extra million dollars in endorsements from a major corporation.

It makes me want to start training for something, to go out and push my body to its limits, to accomplish something physical while I still can. But, as I light another cigarette, that feeling passes, at least until I go in and watch what I DVR'd so far today.

Anyway, until September the 1st, my blogging will be sporadic at best, people.

Tuesday, August 03, 2004

When I was growing up, I wanted to be good at something. Well, not good, exactly. I wanted to be exceptional at something. I didn't have anything particular in mind in which to excel, I just wanted to stand out from the crowd in just one area, like sports or musical talent or academics.

I grew up in a neighborhood with a lot of exceptional children. My sister was an all-star in every sport she played and graduated in the top ten of her class; my neighbor Wendy was the best basketball player I'd ever seen and she eventually made the Olympic team; Eric, next door, was a multi-talented musician. This list goes on and on, like it does in all towns all over the world.

I envied these children and their abilities. I thought God had short-changed me by not making me exceptional at something, anything. I held a lot of resentment toward those kids and God for a long time, much longer than I'm proud to admit, actually, until one day I realized that all of those exceptional people weren't born that way -- they worked for what they had.

My sister studied her ass off and played sports constantly. Wendy practiced basketball all day, every day. Eric practiced playing those musical instruments. I wanted to take 10 piano lessons and play like Liberace. I wanted to practice basketball and pitching softball only when the season came around, and even then, not much, and I wanted to be the all-star. When I put two and two together and realized that to become exceptional at something I'd have to work extremely hard and long, I gave up totally on the idea of being exceptional. I was just too damn lazy.

Seriously, I got to a place in adulthood where I was willing to work very hard at something I wanted to do if I wanted to do it bad enough. I realized that it means more when I have to work for something than when it is just handed to me, as I expected a lot of things to be growing up. I got to a place that I made informed choices as to what I wanted to be and what I wanted to do and what I was willing to work very hard at becoming. Lesson learned.

Recently, I was playing tennis with my sister. We were talking about how some of my shots are powerful while others kind of limp over the net. I remarked that all of hers were powerful, so much so that they sometimes scared the living shit out of me, actually. She told me it was all in the placement of the feet, the footing. She demonstrated, and I agreed. I then remarked how I would like to take some tennis lessons from a pro, as I like the sport so much and would like to put some effort into it and learn the correct footing.

My sister said, "I was told by a pro that proper placement of the feet is something one's born with, not something one can really learn by practice or from someone else."

I just have one thing to say: WHAT THE FUCK???


Sunday, August 01, 2004

I don't waste my time going around the house measuring little one- or two-inch items. I waste my time many, many other ways, but I don't ever waste my time that way. If I have something tiny that needs to be measured, I live life on the edge and estimate. I'm wild that way. I mean, I look at something and say to myself, or aloud even sometimes, "Hmmm. That's about a half and inch long," or I might even go for broke and mentally measure something even larger, like, "I'd say that's about 5 and a half inches."

I got pretty good at this estimating stuff for a girl, after I got past the initial terrifying fear of massively over- or under-estimating. I walked through that fear, with the help of lots of really deep breaths and valium.

After rehab, I learned I no longer had any fear about estimating. If I can do it, anyone else can too. That's why the bookmark I found in my latest library book, Loser Goes First by Dan Kennedy, astounds me.

I mean, library books are always a new adventure. I'm not talking about the adventure and thrills contained with in the story, per se, but the adventure of not knowing who had the book before you and what they might have actually done with/to/on top of the book. Sometimes it can be interesting, like finding a not that reads: Call the Mayo Clinic 1st thing in a.m. Tell them about new cancer treatment I developed on my coffee break today. Other times the adventure can offer just a glimpse into someone else's life, like finding someone's shopping list. Still other times yet, the adventure turns icky, like what is that stuff making all the pages stick together?


But back to the bookmark: It's a laminated 6-inch or 15-centimeter ruler which must have been given out by the American Red Cross because it has their logo on it. It also has the phrase FULL STEAM AHEAD!
next to the logo, a phrase which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever to me, if you're trying to get more people to donate blood. Then again, it was only 1988, as noted on the flip-side calendar, and the world of advertising wasn't as sophisticated as it is today.
I cannot imagine what one would need such a small ruler to accomplish when regular foot-long rulers also show numbers one thru six, as does every yard stick I've ever seen, but at least the person who read this book before me put the useless advertising item to good use. I think I'll leave it in the book for future library patrons to utilize and wonder about.
By the way, Loser goes First is the best book I've read in a long while. Dan Kennedy is almost as funny as Sedaris. Even SarahVowell thinks so, according to her blurb about the book on its back cover.

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