The Very Tragic Water-Balloon-Bra-Stuffing Incident of 1984

When I was a little girl, I aspired to have ginormous boobies like my mom and my aunt Lisa.

They had HUGE knockers with wine colored nipples that fascinated me.

Ahhhh...the benefit of youth...

It is safe to say that the women in my family are a bit short-changed in the breast department...regarding quantity of tissue that is.

My aunt is an astounding A cup and my mom is a ginormous AA cup...

Hey, when you're little, and have breasts in the negative dimensions, a AA can look HUGE!

...Though my Gran was a whopping B cup...but she wore pointy bras that scared me, so I was never too fascinated. Just scared.

When my mom left just before my 10th birthday, she left behind a lot of crap. One such item was a padded AA cup bra. (I have never to this day EVER seen my mom wear an actual bra, but she had them in her dresser drawer.)

I snatched it up and called it my own. I wanted a bra so bad!

I wore it to basketball practice and that was the end of that. One of the 15 evil Sweeney brats (Why can't I remember her effing first name?!?!?) snapped it, called everyone's attention to my newfound boobs and gave me a shiner. Looking back, I think maybe she had a crush on me...but I have been known to be narcissistic.

I put the bra away and I am not sure I ever wore it again. That was 1983.

In 1984 I had settled into a new-and-far-more-prissy parochial school close to my Grandpa's house.

In just that one year things started to happen...to other girls who were not me. Their boobs started growing. Their waists started narrowing. I still looked like a Skipper doll while my best friend literally had a Coke bottle body. (The Coke bottles of then, not now.) I had the Coke bottle body of today back then. Nothing. No shape, easily dented and not very tough.

In our school you were either Italian or Irish. I was both...and a bit too Irish in the boob department.

To make matters worse, my family wanted me to stay away from my best friend because she "looked" like trouble. Tits on an 11 year old? You bet.

It did not help that everyone knew she pretended to be 16 when she met boys at the mall. In retrospect, that was pretty unsafe, but try telling that to some 11 year old bad-ass Catholic girls with pin-up girl bodies...Sure. Give it a whirl.

Then there was me. The mascot. The "little sister" if you will. That's what they told their new boyfriends as way of explaining my lack of breasts. It was either that or I couldn't hang, as my titlessness would blow their cover.

Needless to say, when it came time for Summer camp, no way in hell was I being sent to the same camp as Maria Gallo. They were not having it. Too bad. We would live. They promised.

I cried.

I think I threw a tantrum but it's all a blank.

*blinks angelically*

Sooooo, away I go to an alternate, Maria-less Summer camp. BOOOOO!

One day we have a field trip to the beach. Oh JEEEEEZUS!

Me. Age 11. Flat chested. In front of boys and other "seasoned" Italian girls in a swim suit.

I thought in my head to my very juvenile one piece, tube top swim suit and broke into a panic.

The night before, I scoured my aunt's dresser looking to find one of her 2 piece swim suits and planned on sneaking that on. No luck. Where the hell did she keep them?!?!? Dammit!

Most days at camp I was dressed like a Madonna/Bananarama hybrid with lots of layers to camouflage my lack of breasts. What the hell would Madonna do?!?!?

The Material Biotch would improvise. If I don't have boobs, for the love of Luck Star I would MAKE boobs!

I set to thinking of what I could stuff in that suit that wouldn't get ruined in the water but would also look real...

Clearly this was no job for Kleenex.

I pulled open drawers like a crazy woman.

I opened my desk drawer and saw a bag of balloons.

*hears the faint sound of angels, harps and choirs in the background of young and stupid mind*

I must have tried on 5 different sets of alternately sized balloon boobies.

*Thinks of clinically insane mother at time of incident and makes the bloodline connection*

Do you have any idea how difficult it is for an 11 year old girl to measure the exact amount of water to make her own perfect water balloon breasts while rushing to not get caught and shaking with the excitement that the next day she will have BREASTS?!!??!

Do you?!?!?

*wipes hair from brow*

They were small balloons. Not very filled. They were not stretched much, so not likely to break. The only thing that made them not so much perfect was the fact that...

well...

...they were not boobs...

...and one was bright blue and the other was yellow. My bathing suit was vertical stripes of white and Heather gray.

*pauses to allow reader to get a visual in mind of colors/contrast and fully appreciate the stress of knowing as I type this what is about to happen and did in fact happen*

I wore the balloons. I had no knowledge of lighting or the effects of water on the degree of translucence on a swim suit. Again, I was 11. Science was not my bag.

I played in the water with my friends and older (13 year old) boys I hoped to impress with my womanliness.

*Thinks in head in amazement at having confidence while wearing brightly colored water balloons as breasts and having no pubes to speak of*

(Hey, I had no idea that would one day be hot!)

Well, whatever happened, someone...a girl saw the blue and yellow in my suit, but was unclear as to what the hell it was.

*Who thinks people would stuff their bathing suit with water balloons?!?!?*

Instead of just asking me, she gets a group and approaches me in the water. Her group contains cute 13 year old boys. I wanted to punch her, but we all know I am a bit of a wuss in that department...at least back then.

Eh-hem...

She was direct. She asked me. I gave her the "WhatEVER eyeroll/smirk combo" but to no love. They tormented me all day. I think I may have made a snarky comment about how they were just trying to get me to show them my boobs and tried to sound convincing to the non-believers.

In the end, I just got out of the ocean and lay on my beach towel with my sunglasses on, pretending to ignore them and trying to look cool.

I'm pretty sure I failed....I mean, I had blue and yellow latex tits!

The next day I went back to camp in my normal East Village Wannabe attire and acted like nothing happened. I could see some trying to get a look at my chest, but I was thankful for layers.

Later when the topic was brought up I would giggle with the asker/commenter and joke that "everyone knows I have the tiniest titties" and "I'm sure it was just my bathing suit squeezing my skin and making my boobs look big" and how "I am never wearing that swim suit again."

...and how could I really? I was out of blue and yellow balloons.

The Balance That Isn't

"What did you want to be when you grew up when you were 5," he asked.

I responded with:

"When I was 5, I wanted to be a ballerina and an attorney.

When I was 10, I wanted to be a cartoonist and an attorney.

When I was 13, I wanted to be a fashion designer and an attorney...and a nun.

When I was 16, I wanted to be a U.S. Senator and an attorney.

When I was 20, I wanted to be an attorney.

When I was 28, I wanted to be a writer and an attorney.

When I was 32, I wanted to be an attorney.

When I was 34, I wanted to be a cyclist and attorney.

At 35, I want to win the lottery so that I can ride my bike, paint pictures, save the world and write about it all."

I didn't offer up an explanation. I felt that I had already over-answered.

Between 5 and 10, life had changed enough that I wanted to make it funny and color it to be things it was not. I was no longer secure in simply losing myself to the dance...

Between 10 and 13, my friends hit puberty (and I did not) and Madonna hit the scene and I wanted to design clothes that either made my breasts look existent or hide the fact they weren't. Let me say that this came after the very tragic Water-Balloon-Bra-Stuffing Incident of 1984.

eh-hem...

Connie may also remember a hideous skirt I made in our clothing textile class and understand why I did not pursue fashion design...

When I was 16 I was the vice president of our chapter of The Future Republicans of America. Then Bush 41 ran for President. Do I really need to say more about this?

Between 16 and 20, I learned about survival. About the law. About human nature and the power of greed. About losing. About bleeding, and breaking, and life...loss and creation. Aside from Kindergarten, I learned the most during this cute little era....

Between 20 and 28, I hardened and softened. I cut throats and ripped jugulars in the corporate world. I clawed, kicked and trampled the meek. I had a phat convertible and badass company car. My son thought I was God. He knew I was Santa. My karma bitchslap was an eye-opening, soul shattering, mind blowing diagnosis of cancer. I learned that there are people who enjoy watching other people be sick. I learned that there are people who will ask out of curiosity more than caring. I learned that regardless of chemo, radiation, loss of self-esteem and/or hair, numbers are numbers in certain companies and if you are too weak to fly to Dallas to take a client to dinner and a titty bar, you may get your ass reamed.

Between 28 and 32, I felt invincible and got married and then left. Nothing was funny anymore. I wanted nothing recorded. The writing, the painting, the dancing...all stopped. I forfeited my identity to another because it was easier than fighting for myself day in and day out with someone who did not care who I was and only desired a trophy to show to his friends. My employer was wildly excited about the time I was willing to dedicate to my job rather than deal with the impending doom of my marriage. I sold out....for a minute or two.

Between 32 and 34 I rediscovered who I was and what I love. It involved my kiddos, my bicycles, all dogs, gear, and shoes. It did not involve my former spouse, so that was the end of that.

Between 34 and 35 I took time off to get healthy and regroup. It became easier to not play the game. I stopped caring what people think and started caring more about how people feel. I stopped giving a crap as to whether my view was the popular one. I stopped caring that my nipples are crooked and my car is a greedy gas guzzling whore. I let go of people who hung on and people who drained me. I got the reputation of being sweet and awful, kind and cruel, altruistic and cold, fun and boring, wild and a prude.

If that's not balance, I don't know what is.

The Rabbit and the Kitty

It goes without saying that my kitty loves my rabbit...

That being said, since moving from the Fantabulous Townhouse to the single level Cantankerous Condo, my rabbit has gone mostly unloved and neglected.

My new bedroom is next to the bedroom of my not-entirely-headless teenager, soooooo there's that.

You may recall that recently I discovered the delicious delight of that fantastic mint chocolate chip magical cream...

Ummmm....yeah.

Last night I decided after a glass of wine and a really awful day that maybe my rabbit would like to share the cream too and that my kitty would certainly be pleased with such a treat.

The teenager was busy drawing and had his iPod blasting in his ears...

Hmmmm....

I went to the "special" drawer where my pretty little rabbit has laid sleeping since the Spring of 2007 (Holy crap!)...

I took her gently in my hands and looked lovingly at her like a childhood toy found years after not realizing you even missed it. (...and how sad is that....REALLY!?!?)

Just as I was imagining the fun we were about to have, a moth flew out of the drawer...

YIKES!

The moment was gone but the symbolism remained...

I sighed and thought about how I have neglected my rabbit and kitty and made a resolution in the name of Lent *snicker* that I would pay them both more attention...

...Ummmm when I get my NEW rabbit, as much like an old husband, once the image has been tainted one cannot go back or receive pleasure from that source any longer. *double snicker*

Message From a Previously Dead Vajayjay

OK, so let me start by saying that I went to a "slumber party" Saturday night.

It was fun and fantastic and the host was a bit brilliant by planning a mixed after-party...just in case any now-horny gals wanted to rub all up on some very lucky fellas. (OK, that didn't happen.)

(Sucks for one of the dudes that he is always an obnoxious ass who thinks he is witty when really he is more douche than duke.)

...and ummm, he is also not pretty enough to be such the aforementioned obnoxious ass/douche. I think he killed the horn-buzz that many of us had, as we had previously sampled some magical balm that made everyone of us squeal (yes squeal) with absolute delight and then immediately select the product on our order forms.

Each lovely lady had skeptically gone into the ladies and sampled their flavor of choice of x-scream.

X-scream is fabulous flavored arousal balm. (It says so right on the cute little jar!)

As I am not easily aroused, I raised an eyebrow... (I do this a lot, yes?)

...until Raquel came screaming out of the bathroom.

*thinks in head, "Holy Shit! Did her hoo-ha catch on fire?!?!"*

Then I see she is giggling and bouncing and squealing!

The next lady comes out much the same...

*stares of open-mouthed amazement all around*

Then Maddy comes out of the bathroom. Tiny, adorable, un-shy. She says nothing but has a knowing look in her eye. She quietly sits down and makes her selection.

I jump up to try it!

I go in and use my sample of mint chocolate chip.

I feel nothing.

*crap!*

I must really be dead on the inside after all!

I zip up and wash my hands.

*sighs*

Then...

...just as I turn the doorknob...

I feel heat...

...and tingling...

...and heat...

...and coolness...

...and tingling...

Oh my!

It was like those freaks in the old York Peppermint Patty commercials!

I was beyond happy!

I bit my lip and tried not to look happy. (I was H-A-P-P-Y!)

Holy Trixie on a Triscuit!

Oh yes! Mama must have!

So, I get my little jar o'fun and wear a secret smile all night...

...and a little the next day too just knowing it is in my purse.

The idea was to wear a bit at the office.

I couldn't wait for Monday morning!

I get ready for work and dab a bit on and off I go...traffic be damned!

It hits me before I am even down the stairs.

I wiggled my ass all the way to the office...

About halfway there I am trying to mentally will it to stop because at some point soon, I will need to walk...normally.

I do some yoga breathing and my hoo-ha flips me off.

*bleep bleepity bleep bleep!*

I get into the office and go right to my desk.

Thankfully, my boss is busy, so I set up and then run to the ladies.

Let me say, I am thankful that there are private bathrooms here!

I swear to dog that I flicked my bean more before 10am yesterday than I have all year...and possibly 2007 too!

Between the wiggling in my seat and the constant runs to the restroom, my boss must have thought I had the runs or a UTI. Jeeezus!

Later I had to run a company errand so I hopped in my boss' Escalade EXT, cranked the music and rubbed one out...

That done, I washed it off and went about my day...but there were lingering effects...

I was aroused all damn day!

...and quite a bit happy!

So fellas, if your wife or GF has stopped putting out and you are CERTAIN that it is not your fat ass or wookie bush (or the fact that you are a complete tool) that has created such a lack of arousal from her, get her some of this cream and she will go friggin' ape shit!

Stupid Cupid

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"Bret Michaels Is SO Relevant!" He Cried

Here's the set up:

I went on a group hike with 44 other people. Of the 44 other people, there were 2 that instantly put me off. I'd say that's pretty fair. There's just no way you're going to get a large group together and everyone is going to bond and jump into a chorus of "Cum-bay-ya". Give me a break.

One of the two who put me off was more on instinct and observance of his inappropriate hiking attire and not yet proven. I don't care enough to verify and as he was harmless and silent there leaves only the other complete tool to comment on. He was part of a group of us who lunched post-hike.

The visual on the tool:

Fat-former-football-player-type whose greatest days were back in college and still wears his team shirt as if mentally willing the observer to believe he is muscular and athletic and not simply fat.

Why this is bad:

It's not his weight. It's his fat head. And no matter what Judd Apatow and Seth Rogen have attempted to portray in their wildly successful films, fat assholes are still in fact assholes. These types of men are always the biggest douches. They think they are the shit because possibly, once upon a time, in a place that no one can confirm, they may have possibly gotten laid...or at least achieved an over-the-panties pet. He played the part perfectly.

I was once a cheerleader but I don't run around at 35 in my effing uniform...though I have been known to make up inappropriate cheers for entertainment purposes on slow days at the office.

His saving grace:

He announced that he was fat and ugly...though he blamed Pittsburgh for that. As my best friend is from Pittsburgh and is neither fat nor ugly and not an ignorant fucktard, I took offense on his behalf.

Why his confession is bad:

He did not admit that he was as dumb as soup and moronic and quite a bit "off". Not to mention that the self-deprecating nonsense of calling yourself fat and ugly to a table of mostly strangers is sad, tired, and over-used. Sadly none of the women spoke up and said, "No you're not!" (Poor little head case.)

OK. Now that you have the back story I'll go on.

The group of us were constantly engaged in interesting and sometimes inappropriate-for-the-table conversations. Things like vibrators, dictionaries of deviant sex, and Miley Cyrus.

...Actually...

The Tool brought up Miley Cyrus.

...and how grown up/hot she is.

*throws up in mouth at visual of fat older man masturbating to a picture of wide-mouthed, illiterate daughter of Mr. Achy Breaky*

I'm pretty sure, "EWWWWW!" escaped from my lips.

Someone started talking about something else and as soon as there was a pause in dialogue, The Tool asks if we have seen "Rock of Love".

We all look around at each other without a clue as to what he is referring.

He then starts with how it is a reality show with Bret Michaels (from Poison "fame"/notoriety).

*eye rolls from group majority*

Some are confused as to who Bret Michaels is and I mention that he is some "once was" who thinks he's still in a rock band.

This pisses off The Tool who says, "Well clearly he still IS in the band!"

(...as if having a reality show on VH1 lends to some rock star credibility...Yeah sure. Ask Jessica & Nick about that.)

"Right. So they never dissolved the band," I say.

"They sold like 30 million records!" he exclaims.

"So did Milli Vanilli..." someone else says.

We laugh.

"Britney Spears sold like 25 million her first time out," someone else says.

"Yeah, well....he's STILL relevant!" The Tool assures us.

I'm pretty sure I had that one look on my face. I'm not certain he has ever heard the word "fucktard" but I'm sure he read it on my raised eyebrowed, smirky little face.

Now, I know that musical taste is musical taste and everyone has their own. However, liking something and it being relevant are quite different.

When I think of relevant musicians, I assure you few people name Bret Douchebag Michaels as a pioneer or relevant....except perhaps a few select members of Poison, though they aren't exactly known for getting along.

The Beatles. James Brown. The Grateful Dead. Aretha Franklin. The Rolling Stones. The Who. Led Zeppelin. Blah, blah, blah...you get the point.

Ummmmm....Poison?

Seriously?

They were the N'Sync of the 80's!

I mean we all listened to their crap back in the day and no doubt some of their songs remind us of our days of scrunchie socks and mall bangs...but relevance?

Then it dawned on me...

HE is Bret. He is still living in his glory days and thinking that he is a far bigger deal than he is or ever was and clinging to an idea of greatness that never came.

One couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for him for a moment...

Then I remembered his perversions about a girl who turned 15 in November and how his fat ass made fun of my fruit crepe while he shoveled grease and lard into his fat-lipped mouth and in my mind I kicked him in the shin and gave him a swirly.

To the Buttcave, Fartman!

OK, sooooo this happened a while ago...

...and I had totally forgotten...

...and I had threatened Ally after it happened that if she didn't write about, I would...

That was mid-September.

No blog from Ally.

Her BF frowns upon flatulence...

Ally thinks flatulence is hilarious...and natural.

And it is.

She popped my cherry on this little fact one time last Summer when she came over for one of our chick-flick slumber party nights and let one fly.

I recently re-paid the favor...something she undeniably never thought would ever happen.

*remembers look on Ally's face at re-payment and bursts into fit of hysterical giggles*

So, now that we were both "christened", all was easy breezy.

That's why when one night while we were on the phone chatting while she waited to pick up her car from the mechanic, she was fine telling me of the physical events that unfolded during our chat.

Ally, sitting alone in the waiting room of the auto shop, lets one fly. No doubt a pretty serious SBD ('silent but deadly' for the completely headless).

I cannot remember if this lady walked in or was already innocently sitting there too when the butt bomb dropped, but...

She most certainly smelled it...

...and she most certainly left the room...

Which prompted Ally to exclaim to me, "To the buttcave, Fartman!"

...she did the voice and everything...

...and I got to hear it!

It was pretty fantastic...

...It's still pretty fantastic...

...if you stop to imagine the scene in your head...facial expressions and all...

...and Ally owning her fart.

*sighs*

...maybe you had to be there...

Dog Damn, I love that girl.