Cutlets

I'm not sure what is going on lately. I seem to be walking towards many women these days who are bra-less. These women are not young hipsters. They are well over 60 and very well endowed. I'm sure at one time, back in their 'hay day', they had a beautiful bosom. But now...

Ok, I should back track a bit. I'm a boob girl. I can't help looking at other women's cutlets. I think I became that way because, well, I am very petite in that department. One might say - self-conscious. One could conclude - jealous. There is a reason. 8th grade. I was one of those girls who would not sprout. When the entire gym class were in training bras, I was in, well, nothing. No...this is not my big scarring moment that made what I am today. Other girls, let's call them bitches, during lunch would circle around me and sing to me. Ah, the sweet serenade that they heard on TV during commercial breaks. Band-Aids. Remember that song? "I am stuck on band-aids, cause band-aids stuck on me!"

This became my theme song. Guys would pass me in the hall humming it. Tragic, scarring. It followed me everywhere. A guy I dated, ok, my EX-fiance, gave me a sweet pet name, "Little Hooters". He even tried to convince me to get a boob job. Ah, he was a keeper...a keeper of the compost pile!

So...this is my obsession with boobs. I notice them. I envy them.

Hugenormous (a word my 6 year old nephew uses) boobs seem to be popping up in front of me a lot these days. The boobs are seriously sagging past their waist. Is it too much to ask for them to hoist them up? Do I have to see the watermelons banging up against each other underneath shirts? Why can't I look away? I am a deer caught in headlights. I just stare, wondering, doesn't that hurt? Doesn't it hurt when they knock up against your knees?

Maybe I should be a bit more forgiving. Maybe after so many years of strapping those baby's down you just loose patience and you let it all hang out. I just wish I didn't have to witness it. It's like witnessing 2 greasy pigs trapped under a tarp trying to squirm their way out...

So...if I had to make a choice between greasy pigs bumping up agains my knees or always and forever passing the pencil test, I choose the pencil test.

Rotten Eggs

Not sure what is up with my stomach but it dictates my life. Food is never far from my mind. I freakin' love food.

Except oysters, the slimy bastards. I would rather vomit than eat oysters. In fact, I might throw up if I do eat one so let's just skip that whole experiment. The other thing I hate is egg yolks...also makes me throw up. When I was a kid my dad often made fried eggs. I would only eat the whites. Well, one day Pops got offended at my snub of the yolks and insisted I eat my yolks. I started bawling and screaming "I'll throw up, please don't make me!!!!!!!!" My dad wasn't going to let this one go and said, "Eat the damn yolks." (swearing added for effect) I do the dirty deed...sobbing like a drama queen...and then proceed to project bile all over the kitchen table.

Payback's a bitch.

I have a very active gag reflex. If I see someone tossing cookies the gaging starts and one needs to stay clear of a possible chain reaction. My 'loving' husband loves to test this out on me. His favorite trick is to dry heave in my presence just to watch me gag and heave involuntary in response. Ah, stupid human tricks. We are a great team at a slow party.

Well, I started out writing a completely different blog but all this talk of vomit has stolen all of my creative juices...so to speak.

Until next time...

Balancing on Noodles

I can't move. I blame the gym.

I have never been one who likes to exercise. As a child, between the age of 6 - 12, I was a huge swimmer. And I don't mean my size. I think I weighed all of 20 lbs wet. I was a maniac swimmer because my mother wanted her daughter to go to the Olympics. I had a 'backstage' mom of the swimming world.

What does a 8 year old do at swim practice when they are training to be an Olympic swimmer? Swim...swim, run, run stairs, lift weights...yes, you heard correct, lift weights. I can't remember what I bench pressed at 8, but I am sure I could have whipped your 8 year old ass. I digress...

I don't like to exercise. I didn't at 8...I don't now. But as a health conscious adult I know that it is best to keep a healthy heart by pumping some extra blood into it. It also keeps me from tripping on a flabby, saggy ass.

I haven't been in a long time...a very long time. I am the queen of excuses of why I can't go...I'm too tired, my stomach hurts, my knees ache, I just washed my hair...but, the Gods spared me of all excuses today and I went.

As bedtime is approaching I am wondering how I am going to step into the shower without a step ladder. I look forward to resting the weary body in my delicious bed. And as I wake tomorrow I will begin to think of every excuse that will take precedence over my presence at the gym.

Manicure anyone?