giving everyone "the eye" all day long

Welcome Future Minions!

I'm sure you have all heard of people who have feet that are two different sizes. It makes sense. Humans aren't perfectly symmetrical. And there are websites and clubs and places that people can meet others with the same problem and find their opposite and trade shoes. Clever, huh?

Well, my boobs are two different sizes.

No, it's not small and large, it's large and larger. Every day I am faced with the challenge of stuffing that extra half-pound of funbag into the cup. Folks, it's like trying to cram a Big Mac into Calista Flockhart. It's either that or I walk around with an extra dollop of cleavage. It's like I'm giving everyone "the eye" all day long.

Most guys I've talked to do not see this as a problem. Of course, the conversation usually goes something like this:

Me: "Did you notice my left is bigger than my right?"

Him: "... ... ... Huh?"

Or this:

Me: "Did you notice my left is bigger than my right?"

Him: "...motorboat"

Most of my girl friends wish they had this problem. This should be the worst problem I ever have--and yet, it bothers me, enough to think up possible solutions:

Maybe a select-a-size bra, sort of like buying bikini separates. You could buy the individual cups and snap them into a support structure with straps.

Or some sort of stick-on spandex flexible panel to augment the existing structure.

How about some sort of velcroed gusset in the bra--when you need a little extra, you could just open it up. This would come in handy too for Evensies (my name for balanced women) when they are retaining water and the bra just doesn't fit right.

All good possibilities. I'm counting on you, Future Minions. Your Domi-Goddess needs a solution!

This is one time, dear minons, that I don't have the answer.

Welcome Future Minions!

This news story sparked a rant in me that cannot be contained--hence, the double edition.

Parents using surgery and biomedical technology to keep their developmentally disabled child from reaching physical maturity.

Unsettling.

I understand their reasons for doing it. I absolutely understand that they want to be able to continue to provide care for their child and still find a balance between what she needs and will need and the physical toll it will take on them. They want assurance that their child will be taken care of in the best possible way, and they want to do it for as long as they are able.

And yet I am still made uneasy by it.

Where could this lead us in the future?

Maybe parents who wanted a boy will engineer one from their baby girl.

Maybe a boy who takes after his short mother could be subjected to limb-lengthening surgery and growth hormones, so he'll be big and tall like his dad.

Maybe a girl who gets a little too curvy when she hits adolescence will be stripped of the sources of the hormones driving her development.

You always wanted a gymnast in the family? We'll keep that girl petite and small-breasted with long arms and legs.

You always wanted a linebacker son? We'll grow a big one, with shoulders wide as train tracks and an extra-thick skull. We can even shorten the tendons around his joints, for extra strength.

This child is not perfect? If we can't fix her, we'll keep her small and easier to manage, so she'll use less resources.

You wanted a light skinned child?

You wanted a child who looks less ethnic?

You wanted blue eyes?

Maybe we should step back from all the wondrous advances our keen collective intellect has brought forth and allow nature and Darwinism to take its course. Maybe we should choose to focus our efforts on other areas that need attention, like curing cancer and AIDS, and putting a halt to human and animal abuse, and cleaning our environment, and PREVENTING birth defects, not fixing them.

This is one time, dear minions, that I don't have the answer.

But my gut tells me bio-engineering isn't it.

five random thoughts

Welcome Future Minions!

My friend is being all dark and disillusioned with blogging, so to cheer him up, I offer a few gems from my treasure chest.

The Olsen twins--Mary Kate and Ashley. They look kinda like life size bobble heads.

It would be really easy to substitute Black Sabbath's "Iron Man" for "Here Comes the Bride". Same tempo. Hum it to yourself. See?

How hungry was the first guy who ate caviar? Maybe it was a dare.

Riding on a hospital gurney makes me feel like groceries in a cart.

Maybe there used to be jobs available as philosophers. Maybe that's why you can get a degree in philosophy.

Maybe I emptied his panty drawer into the crisper bin.

Welcome Future Minions! Help yourself to another tale of online dating woe courtesy of your most lovely future leader.

This future ex-boyfriend I met on a personals site we'll call...Wahoo. Again, a seemingly normal guy. With two notable exceptions.

First, he was a nevernude. He wore jockeys AND a pair of swim trunks with the mesh liner to bed. And a t-shirt. He couldn't shower if his cat was in the bathroom with him. He took his clothes into the bathroom and immediately dressed upon exiting the shower.

Okay, so once or twice I snuck in while he was in the shower and stole his clothes. And towel. And hand towel.

And maybe once or twice I hid all his little colored briefs--brighty tighties, I call 'em. Maybe I emptied his man-panty drawer into the crisper bin in the bottom of his refrigerator where he'd never think to look for them.

(It was only years later while watching Arrested Development (brilliant but cancelled) that I learned it was a Very Serious And Real Condition.)

Here's the other notable exception to his seeming normality.

He liked to wear women's shoes. Liked it meaning it gave him a big stiffy.

And the way I discovered this was I was poking around his closet looking for my Christmas presents, and I found these thigh-high cream colored glove leather stiletto boots. Big ones--like size 13. And I came out of the closet and said "Honey? Who's shoes are these?"

(Him) "They're mine."

(Me) ...

(Me) "Do you have other women's clothes to go with them, or is this it?"

(Him) "Just shoes."

(Me) ...

(Me) "Okay."

And it WAS okay. I get it--some guys get turned on by not-your-usual-sort-of-thing. In the grand scheme of things, wearing women's shoes is pretty vanilla. It's not like he owned a series of hamsters or anything.

So how did it end, o wonderous open-minded goddess? Well, I'll tell you. He bought a motorcycle.

Let me clarify. He bought a crotch-rocket. Never mind that he said he couldn't afford to drive up and see me, so I had to come see him every weekend. Never mind that the insurance and storage was going to cost him an arm and a leg.

He didn't know how to ride a motorcycle. He had never even sat on the back of one.

So I think the moment our relationship took a turn for the worse was when I let him know how ridiculous and asinine it was to buy a $10,000 motorcycle when he didn't even know how to turn on the ignition.

Apparently, he took offense to this.

Meh. I was running out of hiding places anyway.

My sad three dollars.

Welcome Future Minions!

Let me share with you a tale or two from my adventures in on-line dating. I met this seemingly normal guy (and yes, they all start out as "seemingly normal") on a website--let's call it...Catch.com. We emailed, we chatted, we laughed, we made a date.

I broke my usual rule of meeting him somewhere for a first date and gave him directions to my apartment. The person who showed up at my door a half-hour early was NOT the person I saw on line.

(Of course we ALL use pictures that are flattering to us. I choose not to post the picture of me in seventh grade when I cut my own bangs and ended up with a two-inch square patch of crewcut in the very middle front of my hairline--oh, it was sexy--but I do post a full-body picture of me so there is no mistaking me for an Uma Thurman lookalike, either, and I don't lie about my age.)

The person who showed up at my door was at least ten years older and five inches shorter than he had stated. At this point in time, I again deviated from my usual pattern of calling him on the obviously misleading description and breaking the date because I absolutely cannot stand lying about something as stupid as one's age or one's height. Instead, I began to plan how to get myself out of this date without hurting his feelings.

He wanted to go to Outback--a two and a half hour wait for seating. I suggested that we go to one of my favorite restaurants, a local italian place that was run by some friends of a friend and only about five minutes from my place. I had been there a few times and was flattered that the staff always remembered me, and the food was good. He agreed.

Then I broke another of my rules. I let him drive. Thinking back to the long hours my therapist and I put in to crafting and setting these rules, I am a little bemused by the ease of which I tossed them aside. I blame my parents for raising me to be considerate and wanting to avoid making scenes.

The restaurant was lovely. We were seated in a great area with one of the best servers who zipped over right away with a basket of fresh baked rolls (six of them--this is important later) to take our drink order. The drinks came quickly and our orders were taken promptly.

And then our salads came.

The croutons weren't right. They weren't garlicky enough. They were Not Like The Croutons at Outback. The cheese was all wrong.

Our server came right away when beckoned. She listened attentively to his diatribe of hatred for their homemade croutons and graciously brought him a different salad. Without croutons.

At this point in time I mentioned that I had felt a migraine coming on all day and I took two Tylenols I had in my purse.

They cleared the salad plates before bringing the entrees. The plates were too hot. The sauce was too tomato-y. He emptied his glass and had to wait two minutes before our server appeared and had the nerve to ask if he WANTED another refill. Of course he did. Why ask? They took too long to clear his empty plate. They brought the leftovers packaged up neatly without him asking for them. They didn't bring fresh rolls at the end of dinner. (I ate one, he ate the rest.)

While waiting for the check, I mentioned that my migraine was getting worse.

I offered to leave the tip, but he said he would take care of it. To my horror, when we left the table, he stiffed the server.

HE STIFFED THE SERVER. THE BEST SERVER AT MY FAVORITE RESTAURANT RUN BY PEOPLE WHO KNOW ME.

Thinking fast, I said I had to use the ladies' room and he should go pull the car up. I figured when I came out I could zip over to the table and put some money down. I shut myself in a stall and sat down to count my money.

I had three dollars.

Only three dollars.

It would have to do. I washed my hands and slipped out of the ladies' room. And there he stood, talking to the manager.

I sidled over to the hostess and in my most hushed and best spy voice, I said to her, "PleaselistencarefullythisguyisatotaljerkandhestiffedthewaitressandshewasreallygoodallIhaveisthreedollarspleasegiveittoherI'mreallyreallysorrythankyou." And I pressed my sad three dollars into her palm as she nodded up at me with eyes full of merciful understanding.

And we left.

While walking to the car, he told me that he had complained to the manager about the poor service and bad food. Then he suggested we go for a drink. I asked him to please take me home, as my headache was much worse.

I wasn't making this up anymore. I really did have a rather severe headache, probably caused by my not telling this jerk what a sonovabith pompous girlie pantywaist complaining jackass he was. That's the sort of thing that causes massive strokes if you don't let it out.

We got into the car. He asked if I didn't want to go for drinks because he complained to the manager. I said no, it was because of my headache. My mother would be proud.

He drove about a half-mile and started to argue with me, saying that he had just bought dinner and the least I could do is go for a drink with him. (Please--my catholic mother can't guilt me into things. I am practically immune. And his amateurish attempts to do so were making me mad.) I again said that I had a headache, I wanted to go home, and that if he didn't want to drive me home, he could drop me off at the nearby mall and I would get a ride with a friend.

About two minutes later, we pulled up to a stoplight. The light turned green, the traffic started again, and so did he.

I got out of the car.

Oh yes I did. I got out of the car, I walked across the parking lot to the food court, and I called my sister for a ride (another in a long list of the strange events of my life into which my sister has been drawn). While I was waiting, he left me a couple voice mails, telling me I was crazy, I was psycho, I was an ungrateful cunt.

Yeah, and?

And you think that your opinion matters to me, you rude insensitive anal retentive lying prepubescent looking impotent sweaty ballsack? Oh, shall I forever be wounded by your insults? Shall I take them to heart and change my wicked, accomodating, be-nice-to-the-waitstaff ways? Shall I, as you suggested, go see a fucking therapist for serious meds?

Oh ho ho. You, my slimy slug ass who was lucky enough to be granted a brief glide through the glory of my sun, you are but a pigeon fart in the jet engine of my life.

Thanks for dinner!

Birds are flying WEST, people.

Welcome Future Minions! In the spirit of the new year, I thought I'd share a few resolutions we all could make. No namby-pamby "lose those ten pounds" or "get on eHarmony and find love" promises here!
1. Let's get serious about the environment. BIRDS ARE FLYING WEST FOR THE WINTER, PEOPLE! THIS IS HOW EVERY 90s ENVIRO-DISASTER MOVIE STARTS OUT! NOT GOOD! This global warming thing is getting out of hand, so if we all started doing one little thing, like recycling, or choosing the recycled option when there's a choice, that would be five billion little things, and that's pretty good. So you have to leave your latex paint open on your back porch for a year. Big deal. Get over it, you shmuck.
2. Be nicer to each other. It's okay to disagree. It's not okay to make your point by, say, flying a plane into a building, or invading another country to enforce your way of thinking. Terrorism, genocide, testing bioweapons on indigenous populations: all very bad things that cannot be allowed to exist. But democratic governance is not the only solution. That sounds suspiciously like the missionary work that eradicated the Native American cultures, and we all know that was a big collective "my bad".
And stop judging people by physical attributes. What's wrong with you? Remember that shy woman you slept with? The one that after YOU were done you told she was too fat to date because your friends would make fun of you? Some day she may finally grow into the redheaded voluptuous world-leading vixen she was meant to be, and she doesn't forget things like that.
And while I'm at it, stop worshipping people who exhibit bad behavior. Terrell Owens, Bobby Knight, Allen Iverson, Mel Gibson--these men are jerks. Anyone who spits at people, hits people, uses racial slurs, or is involved in criminal activity does not deserve anyone's respect or money. And that goes for anyone who hurts children, too. Hello? Vatican City? It's your wake up call.
3. Stop smoking. Seriously. IT'S BAD FOR YOU! Is there any--A N Y research that shows that smoking DOESN'T kill you? No. So stop. Idiot.
4. For pete's sake, racism is just about the stupidest thing ever. Knock it off, doofus.
5. Be honest, but not mean. Who tells these American Idol people that they can sing? Why avoid that guy when you should just tell him you are not interested? It's just not right.
6. Be nicer to animals, too. They aren't warm moving furniture. They're living creatures, and they were here before us.
Birds are flying WEST, people. Time is running out.