Tag Archives: boobs

You can stash your pie crust in there!

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I survived another Thanksgiving!

I wonder how I always lose food in between my boobs.

Just had to have another nibble of pie crust, but I managed to miss my mouth (yes, I had beer first.  But, this is still a problem for me.  I’m not a graceful beast).

I excused myself from the table and went to the bathroom (right next to the dining table) where I locked the door, reached into my bra and attempted to remove the sugary bits (by now, somewhat glued to my skin) into the toilet. Much to my delight, in walked my daughter, demonstrating the apparently non-functioning door lock. Fortunately for me, I wasn’t taking a post turkey dump; unfortunately for me, I am pretty sure the position I was in was equally disturbing for any passerby, bent over at the waist, head over the toilet bowl.

No, I don’t have an eating disorder. Yes, I do have boobs. And they catch food from time to time…more the older I get. I’m not sure if this is my body’s way of storing calories in case of emergency or simply an effect of too much skin. Either way, I kind of like storing pie crust in my bra. Other than the inevitable itching factor. Pie crust smells nice.

 

I guess if the 2012 prophecy is true, you might want to be my friend. When apocalyptic survivors are busy hunting for food, I’ll simply be reaching into my own bra. It’s like a food-storing camel-back, on your front. You should get one.

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Poop-hole, Pee-hole, and a Third One, Too?

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My captor handed me a blue cardboard box and told me to read the directions.  I wanted to vomit, not read.  I sat on the cold toilet lid.  I read the fold out directions by the glow of the cheap flourescent light.  I held them upside down. What was this a drawing of?  It was like a Rorschach ink blot test.  I see an elephant, with an inside-out trunk.  Wait.  This is supposed to be my body?  Is this supposed to go in your butt? In your pee hole?  Oh. Wait just a minute.  I have how many holes down there?  That can’t be right.  It was like an entire sex-ed class, completed in 20 minutes, by myself, in my bathroom.  There I sat.  Sweating. Locked in.

Scared.

Disgusted.

Confused.

Maybe more information would have helped?  Like a chat with my mom?

I’m not sure what happened to my parents.  In the seventies they were crunchy, growing their own veggies in Oregon, probably growing other things, too.  They talked to us about our parts.  They showed us pictures even.  And then, I guess they figured we had it because I don’t recall any refresher courses between the ages of 5 and 13.  And, damn, if I couldn’t remember what I’d learned.  Guess I should have listened, instead of playing with my stupid Barbie, the one whose hair we had cut off to make our own Ken doll.  Gender modification at it’s finest. Anyway.  They were plastic and didn’t have to worry about this stuff.

So there I sat.  I drummed up the nerve to give it a go.  It took at least 5 tries.  And then, I think it was only about 1/4 of the way in.  I hobbled around for the rest of the day, doing all I could to avoid eye contact with my dad (I had overheard my mom telling him, “She got her period!” – giggle giggle giggle).  It shouldn’t have alarmed me after the bra purchasing experience I had survived the summer before.   It was like some big practical joke, and I didn’t think it was very funny at all. My sister wasn’t even around to help, she had abandoned me for Catholic boarding school.  Besides, she was cool and probably only had her period at night or something.  That’s how cool she was.

I’d never felt so alone and uncomfortable (mainly because I didn’t have it in right).

I had heard about this evil period thing before.  Girls in junior high told stories of some nameless pathetic creature who had come before us, wearing white pants, and discovering that “Aunt Flow” doesn’t give a crap if you have to stand up in front of the class… she’s coming to town anyway!   I heard about methods, like if you sat up really really straight, it wouldn’t come out.  I had the greatest posture ever in 6th and 7th grade.  I heard that you could get out of gym, weekly, if you made the poor middle-aged gym teacher aware of your “condition.”  I couldn’t imagine telling a soul.  I was going to pretend that I was the first girl on earth never to get her period – not because there was something wrong with me, but because I was amazing.  I could control such weakness with my mind.

FYI: I went into childbirth with much the same ignorance.  But, at least by then I had learned about that other hole.

I had a great friend who I would visit with in the states, every summer.  We would watch MTV and talk about boys, tell ghost stories, and snuggle with her dog.  And then one summer all of that changed.  She brought this book in for us to read. I was so excited, we had flashlights and comforters and I was expecting a great Edgar Allen Poe type of scare fest.  Bring it!  And then she started talking about “Menstruating” and “Puberty.”

A big piece of my heart died right there, on her living room floor, twitching and gasping in the glow of our flashlights.

“I can’t wait!  I am so excited to get my period,”  said my friend, who I was starting to think was actually one of those aliens from “Invasion of the Body Snatchers.”

What.  the.  hell?

“Really?  It sounds gross and awful,”  said ME, in my infinite wisdom.

“No, no.  It’s so cool.  Once we get it we will be WOMEN!  We will have boobs and boyfriends (I guess those two – or three – things were connected somehow) and it will be amazing.  We’ll fall in love and get married…. SIGH!”

“Um.  Do you have any other books?”

“C’mon!  Let’s look up questions we have.  It will be fun!”

Suddenly, that summer, I realized that we were really different people.  We were both blonde.  That was where the similarities stopped.  In their tracks.  She was boy crazy, for REAL boys!  I was only crazy for the ones in movies.   She was starting to look more like Julia Roberts, and I was starting to look more like a dork.  She was looking forward to this woman thing, and I was totally denying that it would ever happen.  Some people always want to grow up, and sure I had my moments where I fantasized about being Simon LeBon’s wife (or even mistress), but I really had no desire to go through puberty.  I was terrified.  I thought I’d just pass on the boob option, too.  Those seemed like a lot of work.  I was my father’s daughter.  I was going to be tom-boy forever!

Well, guess what.  No one asked me!  I begrudgingly became a “woman,” that day, sweating in my air conditioned bathroom, working harder than I needed to – and I wasn’t happy about it.  I wanted to stay  a kid for a while longer.  I think that’s where I could have used more than a pamphlet.  I would have loved for someone to tell me that even though I was growing up, I could still be a kid.  Just because there was a hole that I hadn’t been aware of before, didn’t mean that I had to suddenly act all grown up and stop reading Trixie Belden, suddenly switching to Glamour questionnaires and worrying about getting married.

I could still be a kid, even now that I knew where the tampon was supposed to go.

The story of Boobs McGee

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Bad massages make me sad.  I’m sure I’ve given 1 or 2  in my 14 year career, but I promise you I have never ever ever given a CREEPY massage.  Well, I did play Prince during a massage once. That may qualify as creepy.

I have had a creepy massage, but not the creepy that some people pay for.  This was creepy in a  I might stab you in the back when you get relaxed sort of way.  And dispose of your body in the basement.  THAT kind of creepy.

I met Boobs McGee at the gym that I exercise at.  The first thing she said to me was, “You’re such a great swimmer, were you in the Olympics or something?” Well, hello flattery (and complete inaccuracy).  Ask anyone on my college swim team.  I was the slowest person on it.  I didn’t race, I gently floated to the wall.  So, I took that compliment as a golden nugget and chewed on it for the rest of the day.  I finally shared it with my husband.  He laughed.  He laughed hard. “You’re a great swimmer, but an Olympian?  C’mon.”

HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR dee HAR….etc.

I saw Boobs again the next week at our local park.  Should I explain why we call her Boobs?  Well, she has huge knockers and she seems to like them to be well documented.  I can see her, sitting poolside, striking the pose of the playboy bunny silhouette on the trucker mud-flaps.  She’s confident.  That’s a positive, but I’m gonna call her Boobs anyway.  Makes me feel better about myself.

So, there she was, at the park.  We began to chat.  I thought she was odd, maybe a bit hyper, but entertaining as hell.  She was OUT THERE! We exchanged phone numbers and emails.  Then I mentioned to a friend that I had met this woman.  She knew immediately who I was speaking of (Boobs) and warned me to steer clear.  I thought, well that seems a bit judgmental.  After all, she told me I swam like an Olympian.

Yes, I am a naive fool.  It’s true.

Turns out she’s a former massage therapist.  I don’t think I asked enough questions about what that meant to her.  She emailed me to see if she could give me a massage so that I could tell her if her space (in the dining room of her rental house) was adequate, and give her some pointers on her technique.  By this time, my instincts have started sending me little twinges of doubt about Boobs.  I stall.  She asks again.  I am busy.  She asks yet again.  I am working.  She just keeps asking, and in order to stop the endless requests, I accept.

Never ignore both your instincts and your friends.  That’s just dumb.

I show up at her house.  She lets me in and asks me to undress and get on the table.  I must admit, she had set the room up nicely, but I did still have a weird feeling about being next to the kitchen.  I lay face down.  She says, “Now, I know that you’ve been doing this a long time.  Feel free to tell me how my work is. I mean, I haven’t been doing it lately, so it’s not going to be a good as yours, and my hands aren’t that strong yet, and I know that it’s not up to par, but this is just for practice, so just let me know.”

Obviously, she didn’t want me to tell her anything.

She began, fingernails scraping my skin.  She was chatting.  I was chatting (you should always try to win over your captor).  She told me about her “muse.” This is a word that I am only familiar with from my art studies – a creepy old dude trying to bone down on some young naked model. That’s what’s called “inspiration” to the masters.  Her “muse” was a lifeguard, about 22 years her junior.  Did he know he was her “muse?”  Good question. She showed me a picture of him in her locket.  It was a profile picture from his Facebook page.  She had printed it and cut it out, into a nice little heart.  Around her neck.  Um.

My radar is going off.  Damn delay.

Creepy massage continues, with a nice twenty-minutes of “rubbing” my butt cheeks.  I know, our asses are compiled of huge muscles.  They need some manipulation.  There is a difference between massaging the gluts and rubbing a butt.  Trust me.

At this point I am really regretting my choice to come here.  I am vulnerable, mostly naked, with a crazy lady.   And then she asks me to roll over.

She mentions how much she misses her “muse.”  He has not called since he moved to Arizona.

I am wondering to myself, “Is Arizona code for your basement?  Is he locked in there?  What’s that noise?  Is he scratching on the floor?”

Her story has sparked a memory of mine about a woman who had a restraining order against her because she was stalking one of the lifeguards.  Oh crap.

Boobs is a stalker.

And she is giving me a rub down.

Surprisingly, she didn’t murder me.  She finished the TWO HOUR massage and I got myself dressed faster than I’ve ever dressed before.  As she walked me out through the living room to her front door, she showed me some more pictures of her “muse.”  All from Facebook (note – check your privacy settings!).  For a hot summer day, I sure was shivering a lot.

I still see her.  My least favorite encounters are  in the locker room.  It’s always when I am bending over, trying to quickly get my underwear on, and there she is, right behind my bare ass.  “Hi!”

So unnerving that she recognizes me from my butt.

The last time I stupidly made small talk at the gym, I said to her, “Gee.  That poor swim instructor.  Someone should tell her that her swimsuit is completely see-through.”

She replied, “Awww. Why’s it always the girls?  I want to see a guy with a see-through suit like that.”

Creepy?  Well, in my bubble – YES!

Beware of the Boobs McGees.  They are out there and they WILL rub your butt, if you let them.

(what’s that noise?  oh.  probably just the wind.)

A nubbin and a wart. Sexy me.

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I was pregnant about seven years ago.  Actually pregnant exactly seven years ago, but didn’t realize it until New Year’s Eve.  That was when it was still just a secret, no one could tell, I didn’t feel like crap, it was MAGIC!  And then I began to grow and grow and feel more like a heffalump than anything remotely magical.  And, since I must talk about boobs in almost every post I write, let me tell you that my boobs also grew.  The got heavy, like big tender water balloons.  My husband was happy.  I was not.  I would find things in my cleavage, like part of my breakfast, or a small dust bunny of dog hair.  It wasn’t pretty.  I also couldn’t see all of my body anymore, because the milk makers were blocking my view.

One day I lifted one of my beastly breasts.  It was an effort, but I did it.  Just wanted to make sure there wasn’t any food under there either.  Something was rubbing against my giant bra, and it was annoying me.  I found a mole.  I didn’t remember having that mole before, and if you haven’t had the pleasure of being pregnant, you don’t know this: “everything” expands!  Even your moles.  They even seem to move as your skin stretches out.  It’s like watching an ever changing constellation of stars.

Mole stars.

So, I was a responsible person and called my dermatologist.  They checked my moles.  Nothing seemed suspicious.  Then I asked my (fortunately female) doctor to look at the sneaky one under my giant gonzaga.  She looked.  I held my boob up.  She got closer and looked again.  I kept holding my boob.  She put on her magnifying glasses and looked EVEN closer.  My boob remained up in my hand, a ways higher than nature ever intended.  I started sweating.  It was heavy.

“Oh,” she said, in a calm tone.

“That’s not a mole.”  hnuh?  What the fuck is it then?  Is it my partially reabsorbed twin?  Is it a tumor?  Is it a crumb that has become imbedded in my skin?

“No, no, not a mole.  That’s a third nipple.”

I snorted and exhaled and laughed all at the same time… dropping my boob in the process.

Thunk.

A third nipple?  Are you kidding me?

I said, as my face became more and more red, “Do you mean to tell me that I have a nubbin?”

She smiled at me, obviously feeling pity for the pregnant circus freak before her and said, “Yes.”

She proceeded to tell me that it was just bigger now that I was pregnant, and it would shrink up again after all the crazy pregnancy hormones retreated.  And so you don’t picture me needing a three cupped bra, let me just clarify, it was still a tiny thing.  No baby would have thought it was a nipple, trust me.

I don’t ever go to dermatologists with normal things.  What would be the point?  I find it much more entertaining to present them with something disturbing, that totally embarrasses the patient (me).  I do still go though, because having a yearly skin cancer screening is MUY IMPORTANTE!

I just went again, to the dermatologist.  It was a new one.  That’s good because if I saw the same one all of the time, they would probably be writing their own blog about me.  Yesterday, I went for a skin check.   AND to have another suspicious spot looked at.  This time it was on my butt.  Oh lord… I hope it’s not another nipple.

She (oh thank you powers that be for allowing another FEMALE dermatologist to enter my world.  I would have walked out if it turned out to be a man) asked me to pull down my panties.  It wasn’t on my cheek so much as just west of my butt crack.  Can this get any more mortifying?  Urgh.  So, there she is, with her high powered glasses on, staring at my ass.  I am attempting to go to my happy place.  It’s not working.

“Oh.  That’s not a mole,” she says – as I am overcome with deja vu.   I mean, I am happy because I don’t want skin cancer, but what the hell is it?  My second brain?  Figures it would be on my butt.

“That’s a wart.”

A WART?  On my BUTT!??!  I have never had a wart in my entire life, and I get one on my bum?  How unfair is that?

After she used her can of wart freezing miracle stuff, she shook my hand and said farewell.

“Have a Merry Christmas!  Thanks for coming in today!”

I smiled and said, “Thanks for freezing my butt wart!”

Nearly one year ago, my husband’s best friend was diagnosed with Melanoma, Stage 4.  He was 25.  This past July he died.  Melanoma is highly aggressive, but the earlier it is detected, the better your odds.  In my bubble I am fortunate.  I lived in the sun.  I am fair skinned.  I do not have skin cancer.  I do, instead, have a third nipple, and a now frozen off butt wart.  I’m embarrassed, but I am alive.  Keep your bubble alive, too.  Go see the dermatologist!

BOOBS (made you look)!

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I have boobs.  A number of women do.  Some men have boobs.  I don’t know how I feel about that, but I am guessing since I am not an owner of the man boobs, perhaps I shouldn’t discuss them.

When I was in high school, I didn’t think much about my boobs.  They were just kind of attached to the front of my body, sometimes collecting crumbs from my pizza, sometimes getting in the way of soccer balls, sometimes being grabbed awkwardly by boyfriends. They really weren’t that obvious to me, though.  Until senior year.  A certain boy passed by me in the hall.  I was wearing a dress that I absolutely LOVED.  It was perhaps a little low-cut, but nothing too flashy.  This boy… eyes ogling, eyebrows wiggling, and probably all sorts of other things happening that I didn’t see… said to me,

WOW!  You have HUGE boobs.  I mean not just big, but HUGE!

I’m not sure what I did at that moment.  If the thirty-something woman who I have become could flash back in time, I would’ve commented on a part of his anatomy that appeared to be quite small, but we can’t go back…until next year.  High School Reunion time.  Oh please be a fat ass, oh please please please.

Anyway, I cried.  I felt terrible.  I hid my boobies under baggie t-shirts and plaid flannels for years.  Teenage girls are sensitive!  The worst part?  I never wore that awesome dress again.

Some people have big ones, some have small ones, some are fake, some are saggy (that means they’re real) and some are squished uncomfortably into a mono-boob type formation in a sports bra.  I still don’t get the whole obsession over them.  If I want to wear a tank top to exercise, I will!  My bubble is supportive and can double as a sports bra!  But, it doesn’t mean I’m trying to show them off.  It means I am hot (as in, sweaty).

This brings me to a recurring bubble violation: the infamous BOOB TALKER!!!

This is a person who is unaware that you have a face, a mouth, even eyes… they may not even notice that you are speaking, because they are fully and completely consumed by your boobs.  It’s like you are just breasts with feet, walking through the world, waiting to be complimented or squeezed or drooled on.  Sure, no problem.  It’s not like I was talking about anything important.  In fact, I am having trouble speaking because I am just a boob (or two) and I have no mouth!! It’s a good thing I’ve figured out how to type.

Men (and Women):  …or rather Men (and Women) who talk to Boobs:

Listen Up!  WE CAN SEE YOU! You would know this if you ever looked at our eyes! We immediately think WAY less of you.  If you have to look below our chins, because for some strange reason it is required by your genetic makeup, please be a bit less obvious.

In my shiny pink bubble, my boobs are somewhere below my eyes.  They are happy there. If I wanted you to talk to my boobs instead of me, I would have put them on my forehead.