I Made a C!

Poet John Greenleaf Whittier said: “And a nameless longing filled her breast, - A wish, that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known.” Who would have thought he was talking about my breasts?

I’m not real big in the tits department. Bigger than mosquito bites or golf balls, but not quite more than a handful. I liken them to medium oranges without the texture or firmness. They’re small enough not to sag, though, so they give the illusion that they’re still perky. And they are fairly far apart. Like neighbors with an empty lot in between. When I lie on my back they’re closer to my armpits than they are to each other. Cosmetic surgery inquiries confirm that no natural looking implants would give me cleavage. That’s how far apart they are. Not that it looks freakish. My chest isn’t that wide to begin with.

Now, I could go into detail about my perfectly-proportioned nipples, lament the fact that I didn’t breastfeed my kids long enough, and go on about why mammograms are more uncomfortable for me than for anyone else, but I won’t. This is not a story about my tits so much as it is about appropriately padding them for display. I can go braless and no one notices unless I get cold. That’s why I need to dress them up.

After years of torturing my titties with ill-fitting bras, usually irregulars I found on the clearance rack at Ross, I decided one day to treat myself to a retail-priced bra or two from a real mall department store. So I gathered up an armload of cute bras I thought might fit. I had always thought I wore a 34B or 36A, so that’s what I was going to try. A salesgirl asked if I needed any help, and as I always do, I said no thanks. No matter where I am or what I need, my first response is always a stupid “No thanks, just looking” even though I am indeed looking for something specific. And even if I’m in a hurry. In fact, especially if I am in a hurry. I don’t need some salesperson slowing me down. Like a man who won’t ask for directions, my pride as a shopper won’t allow me to ask for help. I want the challenge of finding it on my own. I want the uneasiness of continuing to search for something that isn’t there like staring into a refrigerator hoping a meal will materialize. I have to get really desperate or pissed before I’ll ask someone for help and even then, they are rarely all that helpful except maybe after I chase down someone in an orange apron at Home Depot and ask what aisle the A/C filters are on. (Then I can’t ever find the filter size I need or even remember what size I need, but that’s another story.)

Anyway, there I was in the dressing room wishing I was trying on shoes or sunglasses or even swimsuits instead. Each bra was as expensive and uncomfortable as the other. Then I heard a little tap at the dressing room door. It wasn’t the polite knock I might have expected from the twentysomething salesgirl. It sounded more like a weak peck from a bird who wasn’t sure he wanted what he was pecking at. It was only a decibel or two louder than a fingernail scratch on a Formica countertop. Somehow I knew that an old lady had to be behind that sound. Sure enough, I heard the voice of somebody’s leathery grandmother ask, “You all right in there, hon?” While I was far from all right, I was not about to ask for help. I made the mistake of cracking the door open to recite my no-thanks-I’m-just-looking. As I said, my boobs aren’t that big, so that one-inch crack in the door was all grandma needed to see that I had no business trying on bras without her help. Before I knew it, this formerly meek door-scratcher had her gnarled arthritic fingers all over my torso. Mind you, this was not a modesty problem on my part, for I have very little of that. It was simply a personal space issue. When I reject salesperson’s help, it is usually from a safe distance. This gal had bullied her way right into my dressing room and insisted that I accept her help because she was an expert. Indeed, I no longer felt violated when I glanced at her name tag with an official-looking ribbon on it proclaiming Edna to be a Certified Bra Fitter. Show me a badge or buy me a drink, and you are free to fondle my breasts.

She shook her head disapprovingly and said, “Oh honey, these need some help.” Her sharp nails scraped my armpits as she cupped my bare breasts in her veiny wrinkled hands and pulled them toward each other, saying, “You’ve got a lot of good breast tissue here that you’re not making any use of.” I immediately drifted into an out-of-body experience as soon as I felt this strange elderly woman’s paws on my mammaries. “You’re a good C-cup, little lady,” she announced. I then felt like I had won the lottery. I went from creeped out to awestruck in less than 30 seconds. She was my fairy godmother. Her teeth clacked unnaturally as she ordered me to wait right there. Then she ambled off to get me the perfect bra.

While I waited, I gathered up all that breast tissue that I had theretofore thought was just chest fat, and realized that she might very well be right. I could indeed put all that into a bra and call it boobs. She reappeared much sooner than I thought humanly possible, even for someone half her age. I was entranced by the array of C cups hanging from her claws, and could not wait to fill them up with all this newfound breast tissue.

I thought she would leave me alone so I could start trying them on, but no. Another thing I learned about bras is that you have to know how to put one on. After she released the first bra from its hanger like a magician pulling a dove out from under a scarf, I hesitantly took it from her and began to hook it around my waist. Not since giving my last urine specimen had I experienced such performance anxiety. As I twisted it around me and pulled it up, I looked at her like a child taking his first steps. “Is this OK?” I asked. That was all it took for her roll her good eye and manhandle me some more. “Honey, you gotta lean forward and pour that breast tissue into the cups. It ain’t gonna find its way in there on its own.” I did as I was told. As I stood up and looked in the mirror, I felt tears of joy begin to well up in my eyes. Like Dorothy chanting, “There’s no place like home,” I could hear my inner voice shout, “I do have big boobs; I do have big boobs!” Edna looked at me like Michaelangelo must have looked at David and said, “Well, I think my work here is done.”

Mr. Whittier would be glad to know that I probably spent a few hundred dollars on bras that day. Not counting the hefty tip I left in the dressing room.

Thirty-Seven

I wrote this not long after my 37th birthday. Some people have a hard time with 30 or 35 or 40. Those didn’t bother me like 37 did. Thirty-seven was my wake up call. In fact I think I look and feel better now at almost 45 than I did then. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that by the time I hit 37, both of my kids could finally wipe themselves.

I’ve never been good with numbers. When a doctor recently asked my age, the number escaped my mouth just in time to see a betrayed spirit stage a walkout on its body. My inner self is still a “10” in a size five. But on the outside, I’ve become more like a “5” in a size ten. While I was busy clipping coupons or sorting Legos from Lincoln Logs, my chronological age began to exceed the age of my inner hottie. This condition gives me delusions that I’m better looking, thinner, and cooler than I actually am. (Is cool still the word for it?) When did this 22-year-old, 115-pound sex object morph into a flabby, elastic-waistband-wearing ma’am? A girlfriend contracted hers somewhere between mortgage and minivan. I think mine sneaked up on me in an SUV at a Home Depot parking lot. There is no known cure for this insidious disorder, and alcohol intensifies its effects. While it has been known to masquerade as confidence, it can progress to something pathetic if left untreated.

After a trip to Home Depot for a toilet ballcock (that’s what they’re called), where a pierced-eyelidded clerk told me I look like his mom, I headed for more torture at the mall. In the Juniors department, oblivious to the whispered jeers of cheerleaders and sorority girls, clueless that the saleswoman must have hoped I was shopping for my daughter, I tried on a size ‘M’ dress only to find that I’m an ‘S.’ Apparently for Sausage. The dress would’ve been perfect for a Jerry Springer appearance, but unfortunately, my suburban life doesn’t allow for that much deviant behavior. Then I boldly considered thong underwear when I knew full well that I (and my cellulite) would be much safer in a girdle. Who am I to think I can get away with butt floss? I wondered. Why not just move the pantyline down to my thighs with a sturdy foundation apparatus instead? I then decided to go somewhere that made me feel pretty. Like Wal-Mart.

They say the success of Sex and the City and Desperate Housewives made 40 the new 30. (Right. And chartreuse is the new black.) They don’t know desperate. Desperate is struggling over wardrobe choices in hopes that your kids’ babysitter will approve of your outfit. Desperate is when you think you take up a relatively small amount of space until your butt brushes against something you thought you could clear by a good six inches. (Does that mean I need bifocals? Now the marketers call them progressive lenses. Sounds like the kind of folk music I listen to.) Desperate is singing along with Muzak versions of ‘80’s dance hits while browsing the Wal-Mart shoe department. After scoring a pair of slippers from a clearance rack and using a coupon on a new pore-defying skin renewal system, I treated myself to a carwash.

My self-image (positive though it may be) serves me well until I pass my reflection. I’ll catch my face in the window of my SUV and think, Dang, where do I get off thinking I could even approach hotness anymore? Did I just flirt with that cute carwash boy? He knows I’m driving a Suburban with two carseats in it. I’m sure he’s noticed the radio set to my favorite a.m. talk show. Did he see the Bed, Bath & Beyond coupons next to the antidepressant prescription I left in the front seat? Did he see the REM’s Greatest Hits and Sarah McLachlan CDs? He wouldn’t care to know that when I was his age I was sexy and cool and wild and that if he were to meet the 20-year-old me in a bar, he would flirt with me and try to ply me with a sufficient number of drinks before offering me a ride home. The sad thing is, I’m having an erotic daydream about someone who could technically be my son while he’s vacuuming french fries from sticky floormats.

Did I forget to mention the short-term memory loss? Is it some age-related obsessive compulsive disorder? I smell my armpits to make sure I put on deodorant. Okay, I did that like two minutes ago. Did I take my vitamin this morning? Did I take my gingko biloba? Apparently not. Have I already had lunch today? If so, what was it? After eating a second lunch at around 2:00, I remember the first one I had at 11:00. Did I turn on the dryer after putting wet clothes in it? That one is embarrassingly verifiable. Did I put my kids in the car? Though I hear them screaming, I have to turn and check.

Is it already too late for me to age gracefully with dignity and class? I might as well prepare my kids now for the kicking and screaming that will ensue when they strongarm me (as they feign assistance with my hesitant gait) through the nursing home doors. I hope to reject any injections or plastic surgery that would no doubt leave me with that Picasso-esque Joan Rivers-drag queen quality that just adds insult to agery. But don’t quote me on that one.

George Bernard Shaw said that youth is wasted on the young. It took me 37 years to get that. No one told me back when I spent hours doing my hair and make-up that I could really use that extra time now. No one told me that one day my body would need more for breakfast than Pepsi, Tic-Tacs, and cigarettes. Or that Ramen noodles and beer for dinner every night could one day destroy my metabolism. No one told me that all that sunbathing would make my neck look more wrinkled and droopy than your average scrotum. No one warned me that all the drugs I did in college would damage brain cells I would so desperately need now. No wait, I think I was warned about that one. Yes, youth was indeed wasted on me. And, ironically, I think I was wasted during a good bit of that youth.

How did this happen? Fourteen years of marriage, two kids, three dress sizes, and I'm still trying to do the math.

Smooth Operator

My grandmother would have called it “female problems.” (Ovarian cyst, really, I think it was.) That’s why I had to have a trans-vaginal ultrasound. It’s not like the standard ultrasound you get when you’re pregnant or have something else growing inside you. It’s a little more invasive and intimate than that.

Do men appreciate the fact that all of their genitalia are on the outside? Absolutely. In fact, “appreciate” is an understatement. It’s a matter of pride. Sure, women have external stuff. When my daughter was a pre-schooler, she called it her Tinkerbell. I found that moniker adorable until, in the middle of a long check-out line at SuperTarget, she grabbed her crotch and screamed like a banshee, “My Tinkerbell is itchy!” Better than vagina, or vulva or for Christ’s sake, labia coming out of a four-year-old’s mouth. I’m all about euphemisms. Kids just don’t need to say words like testicles or clitoris. That’s just inappropriate. I was taught twat and tallywhacker and I turned out okay. For the most part. It’s not like I didn’t know the real words. In fact, I still prefer the slang.

This one time? At a junior high dance? A boy pressed himself against me and for years after that I thought that they were always hard. If they aren’t, I think they always want to be. (They being their peckers.) Unless it would call attention to itself, like while exchanging vows or while getting a legitimate massage or pedicure. I remember thanking God that I wasn’t a boy. How could a person be comfortable carrying something with a mind of its own between their legs all the time?

The problem with female stuff is that at least half of it (or more) is on the inside. And that’s always where the doctors and technicians and boys like to poke around. Seems like there’s always something that wants to get in there. If it’s not a man or a doctor or a tampon, it’s a yeast infection. So anyway, I went in for this procedure. I won’t tell you where this happened so as not to get anyone’s license suspended, but it was a few years ago, and I’m sure the perpetrators are successful upstanding medical professionals today.

I found myself sitting on a paper-covered vinyl examining table in a pathetic excuse for a robe. Not the nice high-thread-count cotton ones with the snaps and the softness of an old sheet. No, this one was made of something akin to a paper towel. I felt like a two-stick Popsicle in a cheap napkin. It came with a sassy so-called belt that I tied in a fashionable knot that I then tilted at a rakish angle. Of course I was cold and nervous, so my shaking rattled this crumply gown. Not since a taffeta bow-butted prom dress had my attire made such a racket. They always give you a good half-hour to change. It took only a few seconds to get out of my clothes, but I was glad to have the remainder of the time to figure out how to unfold and don the glorified Handi-Wipe. I have shopped with kids long enough to be able to grab an outfit, find a dressing room, undress, try it on, and purchase it in less than a fraction of the time they gave me for the luxury of this gowning.

So the cute technician did the little courtesy knock before entering. His name was something like Chad or Justin or some other name popular for boys born around the time I graduated from high school. It was the first time I had been semi-nude and alone with a younger man since my son was a toddler in the shower with me. Because my pregnancies sucked away what little sense of modesty I started with, and because the ensuing childbirths at teaching hospitals managed to destroy my ability to even pretend to be modest, I found myself harboring only an odd sense of this is probably inappropriate and a normal woman might feel uncomfortable. Then the lawyer in me woke up and said, “Dude, isn’t someone else supposed to be in here?” (Yes, I was like 40 and yes, I said Dude. For emphasis, of course.) Then, in a perfect Homer Simpson, he blurted, “D’oh!” and said, “Hang on, Ma’am. I’ll get us a chaperone.” That sounded all kinds of wrong. Ma’am? That really pissed me off. Is that what I amounted to? And chaperone? Like I might molest him? (I bet I could have.) As he left the cold room, I left my feet in the stirrups to be ready for the ride. I tried to relax as I listened to the soft rock of the 80’s, 90’s, and today, that they pipe in all over this unnamed medical facility. I was in the middle of singing along with Chicago’s You’re the Inspiration and remembering my high school sweetheart when I heard another courtesy tap on the door. As if I might have been in the middle of something that I needed to finish up immediately. So in came cute Chad with his adorable supervisor who looked all of 24. He said, “This is Hunter. He’ll be our chaperone for the day.” No amount of eye-rolling or sighing could have communicated my bemused chagrin. Either they really were clueless, or they thought I was. I let it go. As I said, any modesty on my part is predominantly false.

Finally, the procedure could begin. I knew this kind of exam involved some sort of insertion, but no one told me that it would be the insertion of something not unlike an industrial size and strength vibrator. With gloved hands, they lubed me up and shoved it in about as gently as a mechanic handles a dipstick. I could sense their discomfort and I tried to avoid eye contact with either of them, but, in my misguided effort to ease the tension, I joked, “I think this is the first time I’ve been alone and half-naked with two guys probably since college.” They chuckled politely as they eyed each other probably thinking either, What a skank or We should pray for her or both.

As Chad swirled the vibrator in every possible uncomfortable direction at every possible painful angle around my humiliated vagina, the soft rock station began playing Sade’s Smooth Operator. “No need to ask, he’s a smooth operator, smoooooth operator, smooth operator, smoooooth operator. Coast to coast, L.A. to Chicago, western male. Across the north and south to Key Largo, love for sale.” I looked at my new boyfriends and smiled. “Perfect background music, right?” I watched them stifle laughter as they probably thought about what they would do when I asked for their numbers. That, and how glad they were to have all their junk on the outside.

So Your Truck has Balls? Well my Car has a Vagina. So There.

One day on my way to work, I saw a vehicle I've noticed a few times before. Each day, both morning and evening, I travel the same highway at the same time with most of the same drivers. But I only recognize as familiar the cars that stand out. You know, the unique luxury models or the vintage Subaru Brat or the hoopty with former windows covered with duct tape and plastic, or the 1984 Honda Prelude with a spoiler to keep it aerodynamic. I notice the ones with personalized or out-of-state plates, those with an overabundance of Jesus fish, rainbow stickers, or entreaties that we “coexist” or something like that. Not to mention the other weirdos who like to advertise how crazy they are. Of course, at Christmas time, I always thoroughly enjoy the vehicles (commonly minivans) adorned with festive wreaths, Rudolph noses, and antlers (that are only useful for donning a single jingle bell or a tiny bow and could never win a fight with a real buck over some hot doe poon).

My exhaustive (and exhausting) internet research (yes, I choose not to capitalize “internet” even though someone somewhere decided that it deserves capitalization) yielded pictures of a car wearing a party hat (not sure if it was on its way to a party, home from a party, or if the party was actually in the car), a car wearing a thong (they wear bras, so why not panties?), a car wearing what looks to be a full-body hazmat or leisure suit, and a car with a big ugly butt. I’d like to see a Mercedes SLS AMG in my driveway wearing a big red ribbon, but enough about my fantasy life.

Anyway, the particular car that inspired this post was a Toyota Sequoia with a big brass nutsack.
I have seen them on big trucks that are obviously dealing with masculinity issues, but I had never seen them on an SUV. “Come on, kids, time for soccer practice. Watch out for the Sexquoia’s scrotum when you load the back end.” (You will notice I had the courtesy to redact the license plate number from this picture so as not to embarrass this car owner (any further than he has on his own) by plastering his vehicle’s big partial genitals all over the internet. It’s one thing to show your stuff in your hometown, but I’ll leave it up to them if they want to be identified with it worldwide.)

I am deeply troubled by this invention. This automotive scrotum. “Truck Nutz,” they call them. According to one very serious website, “BullsBalls.com” was the original creator of this gift to the road, and don’t you dare accept any substitute scrote for your ride. After some cursory research, I can tell you that prices range from about $15.99 to $36.99, plus shipping. And handling, of course. These wizards of American capitalism also make Biker Ballz for your castrated Harley or Harley wannabe. I discovered that these nuts are already illegal in Florida, which tells me that they were a big hit with the rednecks there. I think offenders get hit with a whopping $60 fine, which is well worth the risk, I say. Someone, probably inspired by his wife’s dildo, invented these and no doubt created a prototype to entice investors. I can see him in his workshop jacking with his hardware to fashion just the right dimensions and dangle. I see him working his tools to create the perfect strap-on method. He thoughtfully tested various metallics and festive colors and certainly thought that brass or blue would be extra funny. He surely had his creative juices flowing when he came up with the natural-looking wrinkles and veins, and when he had the courtesy to offer them up so majestically manscaped. No one wants an unsightly hairy sack defiling their bumper, for Christ’s sake.

I look forward to Golf Cart Gonads, Taxicab Testicles, Winnebago Huevos, and School Bus Rocks. I want to see Jeep Junk, Civic Stones, Corolla Cojones, Taurus Teabags, Mercedes Marbles, and Family (Car) Jewels. (By the way, I have copyrighted, patented, and trademarked the preceding terms and will assert my rights to any royalties from the unauthorized use of them.) Can a hybrid or a crossover wear these or would such hermaphrodites be prohibited by false advertising regulations? Can Bicycle Berries be far behind? Mini versions for your kids’ Power Wheels? Little Tikes Testes, perhaps?

There is no better way to alert other drivers to your car’s sexual side (and relative power) than by displaying its genitalia. Every Pontiac Vibe or Dodge Ram needs an appropriate accessory. Now that the trucks have nuts, they just need a big Pickup Pecker to match. I could dazzle you with my list of assorted car cock monikers, but I don’t want to be vulgar here.

Because I am all about equal rights, I plan to invent a Vehicular Vagina. I have also trademarked these names: Volvo Vulva, Beemer Beaver, and Cadillac Clitoris. I’m still working on the ins and outs of how one might safely drill an opening into a standard rear bumper.

Additionally, prototypes are in the works for Toyota Tits, Nissan Nipples, Beetle Boobies, Minivan Melons, Jaguar Jugs (perfect for the cougar in you), and my favorite, Hummer Hooters. The breasts are to be worn on the headlights, obviously, and should soon be more popular than those silly false eyelashes some cars have tried to get our attention with. Eyelashes. How lame. What car needs eyelashes when it has big tits? We all know that once a woman has some nice sweater puppets, eye contact goes out the proverbial automatic window. In addition to the purely ornamental Car Cans, I plan to create a Range Rover Rack that might actually serve as a rack for equipment such as beer coolers and barbecue grills. Again, all these names and ideas are copyrighted, trademarked, and have patents pending. And let me take this opportunity to remind you that I am a lawyer who is not afraid to use such slang in fancy notarized legal documents.

For the drivers who are a little more modest or want to keep their car’s gender a mystery, I am working on a universal exhaust pipe Automotive Asshole. A Bumper Butthole, if you will. It would come in handy to alert other drivers that there is another asshole on the road. And honestly, the only thing prettier than a dangling scrotum is a nice tight anal sphincter giving you the evil eye as you sit at a red light. Again, don’t steal this idea without paying me a substantial bribe to not make your life a living hell when you have some Chinese sweatshop children start making and packaging these highlights of the highway.

After I transform every Explorer, Expedition, Excursion, Escalade, Escape, and Xterra into Sexplorers, Sexpeditions, Sexcursions, Sexcalades, Sexcapes, and SeXterras, my next project will be piercing and tattooing all these vehicles’ naughty bits. Pretty soon, I’ll be able to buy myself that Mercedes and dress it up any way I want.

The Backstory Makes This Nasty Letter Even Funnier

So, I just paid a few bills we got in December. The one from the kind folks who pick up our garbage showed a one-week credit of $4.55 which just about covered the tax charges on that bill. I thought, "Hmmm...I wonder why they gave us a credit?" The holidays, and the fact that I had, as they say, slept since then, caused me to forget one of my most awesome "D'oh!" moments of the past few years.

See, back in November, we had some trouble getting our trash picked up. I had called the customer "service" number, but after sitting on hold a little bit longer than it takes to cook regular oatmeal (which is as long as my patience will allow on my best day), I decided to send them a friendly, grammatically-adequate e-mail instead.

Here's what it said:

To Whom It May Concern:

Our trash usually gets picked up on Fridays. I left town this past Wednesday for Thanksgiving and left our trash can at the curb so it would be there for Friday's pick up. It was windy that morning, and since I knew the container would be sitting there for two days, I put a couple of rocks on top of the lid to keep it from blowing open and to keep animals out. I came home that Friday evening only to see that everyone else's trash had been picked up, including that of our neighbor right next to us whose trash can was maybe three feet away from ours.

Apparently, your pick-up crew thinks that rocks on top of a lid means "We want to keep our trash. Don't pick it up!" If this is what that means, let me know and next time I will post a sign with an explanatory drawing that makes it clear that we would indeed like to have our trash picked up.

Anyway, my husband called your office on Monday and someone told him the trash would be picked up the following day (which was this past Tuesday). It is now Thursday, and still no one has picked it up and, bonus for us, animals did get into it.

I left a voicemail with your office this morning. I assume that now that pick up day is rolling back around for tomorrow, you won't bother to come get it all until then. That is fine, but we are not going to pay for last week. Please adjust our bill to reflect that we will not be charged for that week.

We switched to your company because the other service in our neighborhood did such a crappy job. We have been extremely satisfied with your service for a long time, and I hope that this was just one unfortunate incident. Please respond to this message, or you can call me at [...].

So, after I hit the "send" button, I got a call in response to my voicemail. No one had read my friendly e-mail yet. The most helpful Bangladeshi girl (probably calling herself "Courtney") proceeded to inform me, quite politely, that the reason our trash was not picked up had something to do with the fact that I had neglected to pay our bill. I immediately checked the prior month's elaborate accounting spreadsheet (in my case "spreadsheet" literally means "sheets (of paper such as bills) spread about my desk in no particular order.") Sure enough, she was right. I paid the bill by credit card over the phone immediately as I tried to dream up a good story to tell my husband when he asked what they said after I gave them a piece of my mind.

I wanted to retract the nasty e-mail and follow it up with one called "My Bad," but never got around to it. How embarrassing to think that my sarcastic lecture is probably posted on their break room bulletin board with a handwritten Post-It note that says: "This one didn't pay her bill. Stupid bitch!"

BUT the joke was on them, apparently. Because we got our discount anyway. That $4.55 credit really took the sting out of any remorse I may have been carrying.

The moral to this story is: If you want to write a nasty letter, be sure your account isn't delinquent. But if it is, the perceived incompetence you complain about may indeed become a self-fulfilling prophecy and you may yet get that discount after all.