Sport Bras

Wanting to lift, separate, or enhance my bust line became a ridiculous notion when my bust line became my new waistline. The time had arrived to throw away the pretty bras with the push up features, underwires, and straps from hell. The time had arrived to buy a sport bra. Sport bras look like the beginner bra you started out with. They are called a 'sport' bra because it is actually a sport-like endeavor by just putting one on and then removing it later.

Most sport bras are one piece - no back hooks or adjustable straps. They are made of a stretchy material, so, if you are a well endowed woman you need to make sure you buy the bra with individual cups, otherwise, two boobs squish into one middle boob and you will have no place to safely store your cell phone, cigarettes, lighter, car keys and wallet. You must also be trusting of the manufacturer's size guide because these bras look like they might fit your cat, or a small dog.  I suggest you buy two with your first purchase (the reason for two will follow in a later paragraph).

Instructons  (this is where the 'sport' begins) :

From experience, I must tell you not to pull this garment over your head if you have already fixed your hair and carefully applied mascara and lipstick. You WILL look like a clown by the time you have the bra stretched into place. Over the head, however, is the safest way to put on the garment, unless it gets twisted when coming over the head.  Damage to one boob, if inserted into one side before the other side is untwisted, is possible. Imagine what a rubberband castration might feel like.

If you prefer to step into the sport bra, and pulling it up, it is best if you can see your feet while standing. If not, sit down and tug it up some before standing again.  Be very careful; no one wants to find your face planted on the floor with a stretchy garment that looks like it can fit a cat, or small dog, around your ankles! Pull this garment up slowly. If you have a big butt, be prepared to feel a mighty jiggle as you pull this further up your body, so, be gentle.  Once the garment is in the former waistline area you should be able to get your arms through the straps and the girls into place.  Hopefully, you purchased the proper size and can breath.

Removing this garment is also tricky.  If you struggled with the initial application (a true sporting event), you may be a little bit sore. You have options for the removal.  Option 1 is to pull this over the head. To avoid the clown look, please remove your makeup first. Important: if you do not remove your earrings and you yank this stretchy sucker off quickly, be prepared for a slingshot reaction. You may possibly lose a loved one or have to replace window panes. Option 2 is to step out of this torture device. This is the least dangerous removal method, however, pulling this down too quickly over a big ass will cause it to snap you behind the knees and knock you off your feet. I cut the first garment off (Option 3) after I regained consciousness;  I forgot about the big butt rule and flipped myself across the room (this is the reason you buy two).

Wearing a sport bra really is a sport - it has rules and injuries  -  and winner's cups!

The Christmas Elephant

When I first started dating I was invited to the home of my boyfriend’s grandparents for an early Christmas dinner. I was sixteen or seventeen years old. No one in attendance that day will forget how I ruined Grandma’s big day; I know I never have.

We were running a little bit late and had to park down the street since so many relatives had already arrived. There were no sidewalks and we cut across a few front yards before entering the house. I was escorted through a large festive living room and into the kitchen to meet some of the family. Shortly after being introduced to the parents of my friend we heard a commotion in the room we had just walked through.

Grandma was having a very non-festive conniption fit and non-festive gagging was erupting from others who had ventured into the living room to inquire about the problem. It turned out that I was the reason for the problem.

My size tens had stepped in a very unpleasant pile of poop that had obviously been dropped by a Christmas elephant. I had tracked it across sixteen feet of plush, new, beige carpeting and into the kitchen. The mortification nearly killed me. The mess, and smell, nearly killed everyone else.

It should not come as a surprise for you to learn that I did not stay for dinner. The carpet, my shoes and my relationship with my boyfriend were ruined. Beige has since been my least favorite color, the shoes were really cute, and the boyfriend was just so-so. I missed the shoes more than the boyfriend.

Granny was so pissed that I bet she changed her will.

To this day I will not cut across yards and I always wipe my feet, twice, before entering a home.

I ALWAYS keep a keen eye out for Christmas elephants.

The Cow with the Purple Butt

It is very difficult to pour paint into a balloon. It is not like making water balloons from a water faucet; there is no pressure to force the paint into the balloon. Also, once you do get the paint into a balloon it does not throw straight; it wobbles.

Several years ago I was very, very, proud of the flower bed in front of my house. It was a mixture of beautiful colors, all sizes of blooms, many different varieties of rampant blossoms. I diligently maintained it. One of my neighbors leased a large area of pasture behind my place. No matter what kind of fence, or how often it was replaced, one particular cow could get through it and would head straight for my flower bed. I would go to bed with a beautiful blooming garden and the next morning wake up to just stalks and mounds of meadow muffins dropped off like a calling card. I hated that cow. The owner did not believe it was his cow. I asked him if I painted its butt purple if he would believe me. He said yes. This is the reason I put purple paint in some balloons (and accidentally up the mini blinds above my kitchen sink. I was preparing for bovine war.

The next step was catching the cow. I put up motion sensor lights in front of my house with one light placed to shine through my bedroom window so that I would know when the cow arrived. The lights worked, but I could not throw the paint balls straight enough to hit the rump roast! It was not unusual to see me, at two a.m., running like a crazy woman, chasing a cow across my pasture and badly throwing paint filled balloons. After a few weeks the cow thought it was a game. She would wait for me – at my front door – then start running as soon as the screen door opened. I swear I saw her grinning. Damn, I hated that cow.

I called the owner daily, sometimes more than once a day, to complain. He quit answering the phone. Finally, one night, I was watching TV with my son and the sensor lights popped on; the cow was waiting for me at my front door. My son had a staring match with her through the screen door while I went out a back way carrying my bucket of purple paint. I walked slowly up behind the cow and poured the paint across her broad back side. She plopped me a steaming caling card in return and then ran. I called the owner. Mission accomplished.

You know how cows tend to bunch up together? Evidently the paint did not dry very fast and this cow visited friends. A few days later the neighbor called to tell me I would no longer have trouble with the cow; he had found the one wearing purple paint and she was residing in his freezer. That night she returned and helped herself to my remaining flowers. As I watched her I called the neighbor and told him I was looking at the ghost of his cow chowing down in my flower bed. He began to sob. Aw, crap!

I planted shrubs in that flower bed. I no longer chase cows or do anything that resembles running. The color purple is permanently banned from my home, although, I do still have a pasture full of purple painted rocks. I eat chicken.

The Last Water Ski

One of the dumbest actions in my life was done in front of my Dad and several of my brothers. I was very athletic in my youth; I guess most people would say I was a tomboy. I played softball, volleyball, basketball, ran track, walked fences, climbed trees, etc. I loved to water ski but I had bad eyesight and skiing was the one sport activity that limited my comfort and ability to excel. As I moved into my high school years I became reluctant to ski because the lake seemed to have too many people on it and I just did not see well enough to feel safe. If I did ski I refused to fall out of fear. Dad would keep going until I would leave the wake, swing around to the side of the boat, and signal I was ready to stop. Dad would find a good place for me to let go; I would know the spot by him slowing the boat.

  The last time I skied I was a senior in high school. After school one afternoon Dad came home early, we loaded up the boat, and headed out to Lake Grapevine. My brothers were all very good skiers. My brother, Steve, was a clown on skis and on this particular day I felt a little bravado after he skied and made us laugh. When it was my turn I decided I would goof around and make the guys laugh a little bit, too. I was on two skis and thought it would be funny if I bounced my butt up and down on the water and pretended to be a skiing drunk.

  The second I lowered my butt into the water I knew I had made a mistake. The fact that my arms were nearly yanked off of my body was the first indication – but I held on. The second indication was that my bathing suit bottom rapidly filled with water, and from the drag of it, I had also picked up a bass and maybe a carp, or two. I could not stand up. No matter how hard I tried, I could not stand up again. I did not dare let go of the rope because I could not see where I was, nor the boat, because a plume of water was coming up between my legs and shooting into my face and over my head making visibility a tad bit more difficult. I held on. The bathing suit bottom took all it could and then settled into a place I had spent most of my life keeping undergarments out of. Did you know that you can blister your butt cheeks if traveling bare assed at a high rate of speed across water? I could not move out of the wake to go around to the side of the boat as my signal to Dad that I was ready to stop skiing. I nearly drowned, while still on two skis above water, and being dragged around the lake, at least ten times, before Dad just stopped the boat. My hands had to be pried from the rope handle. Dad told me he was afraid he was going to run out of gas before I got too tired to stop. I think that is what he said; it was hard to tell through his laughter.

I know what you are thinking. I have brothers, and trust me, I heard all of the jokes that crudely relate to a ‘summers eve’.

I never skied again.

The Wrong Cart

I went to the Dollar Store Friday after work. It sure was warm in there because their AC was on the fritz. I pushed my cart through anyway since it was the Dollar Store and you just never know what new dining experiments have been placed on the shelves since the last trip.  I placed cat food, Diet Cokes, strawberry PopTarts and a bunch of other grocery items in my cart before running into a neighbor that I had not seen in several months. I turned my back on my cart and gossiped with her until it became too unbearable in the store to just stand there. We said our goodbyes and I turned and grabbed the cart and went to stand in the check out line FOREVER while one of the two checkout ladies worked at a pace that would put slugs in a coma. The second checkout lady was flirting with the Pepsi delivery guy and was having a wonderful time although he did not appear to speak the English language – he just stared at her and nodded his head and looked more uncomfortable than just too warm because the AC was out. Finally! It was my turn to check out!

The only items I recalled putting in the cart were the dog food, Diet Dr.Pepper and the Wild Berry PopTarts.  Wait a minute… I could not recall getting the fungal toe cream, the Tinactin Fungal spray, the Fixadent, Beanie Weinies, baked beans, Kosher pickles, or white bread. White bread? I have not bought white bread in years! I’m a little bit slow but it did dawn on me that I was pushing the wrong cart. I was just too darned hot and tired to admit it! I could feel Naked Saturday beginning to stir and I had to get out of there quickly.

I bought everything but the Fixadent; it was not on sale and I still have at least eight of my own teeth. I tried the Wild Berry PopTarts this morning and they aren’t bad, however, the Diet Dr. Pepper would probably taste better with some of the fungal cream squirted in it. Speaking of fungal cream… a single gal just never knows when she might meet a guy that needs both it and the Tinactin Fungal spray; they might come in handy some day. (The older we get the less picky we get with our choices.) Tonight I will dine on Beanie Weinies, baked beans, Kosher pickles and will butter a slice of white bread; I just have to remember not to light any candles. The cats will eat the dog food, they are outside cats and will eat anything except the field mice they were placed out there to catch and dine on.

 I hope I can handle the excitement of my meal tonight and will be able to return to work on Monday. I would hate to have to call in because Sophie, the Chihuahua, refused to sleep with me.

Unicycles & Homemade Skateboards

Thursday, at an office luncheon, some of my table mates were discussing their childhood, the way they were raised, and the toys they had that made them happy. Horses were spoken of and I told them that I rode a unicycle that I dearly loved. They turned and quietly looked at me - so, I added that I was a poor child and could not afford the whole bike. I also mentioned that homemade skateboards were very popular when I was a kid. I explained that they were just scrap wood with old metal skate wheels carefully attached (screwed on by hand – we did not have the new fangled battery operated screwdrivers waaayyy back then). These boards did not have the sophistication of the boards kids buy today; they were not pretty and were very difficult to maneuver. Part of the excitement of riding very fast down a steep hill was not hitting mailboxes, parked cars, or, slow moving pedestrians as our friends watched us. I flew off of my share of homemade skateboards by just hitting curbs…and the occasional mailbox or parked car.

When I went to bed last night my mind wandered; I reviewed the week and remembered the conversation at the luncheon. It then wandered on to my lack of having something to do on a Friday night and it suddenly struck me that my lack of a love life and old unicycles and homemade skateboards have a lot in common. With a unicycle you ride alone – you cannot share a ride unless you hold a circus union card, and I was never quite that talented. With a homemade skate board you look until you find a suitable piece of wood and change it (we women like to change things). When adding the wheels the screwing part is important - the age of the wood is a factor - and you can eventually run into obstacles that knock you down. When you are knocked down too often it gets harder to get back up. Traveling uphill after a fun ride can make your chest hurt. 

If how you play as a kid is going to turn into the life you lead when you are older, I regret that I did not learn to play the banjo. Damn. I could be pickin’ and grinnin’.

Limping Along

I have recently had the misfortune, and difficulty, associated with limping due to an issue with my right leg. When you are an elderly, zaftig, woman with a limp, there are some realities that you absolutely must face:

1)      Hunched over, while pushing a walker really does make your butt look bigger.

2)      It is very important to wear a good bra; swinging to and fro will throw you off balance.

3)      Swinging to and fro will remind you of the song, ‘Do your boobs hang low, are they swinging to and fro?’ As hard as you may try, you will not remember the rest of the words to that stupid ditty, but the tune WILL be stuck in your head. Forever.

4)      It is impossible to hold in your stomach and limp at the same time.

5)      If you really need to pee your leg will hurt worse.

6)      On a bad leg your knee high stocking will drop down and pool around your ankle. You will not give a damn.

7)      With a bad leg, sitting down in a bathtub full of water will remind you of Sea World.

8)      With a bad leg, getting out of a bathtub full of water will explain the phenomenon of beached whales.

9)      With a bad leg you do not have to comb the back of your hair because anyone behind you is just going to be noticing that your butt looks bigger as you slowly push your walker.

10)   And finally, if you have a bad limp, no one really wants to hear your explanation of why, unless you smile and say, ‘during sex’, at the beginning of a huge lie.

Lighter Load

Anyone who walks with a cane, walker, or, steps gingerly for any reason, knows that any object carried can offset the balance and ease of safely moving forward. Last Friday afternoon I could not complete the walk to my car when leaving the office. My rescue involved someone else carrying my purse and opening my car door.  After giving this some thought, I decided to lighten my load; my purse was where I started (I never begin a diet when I do not feel good, or on any week that has a Monday in it).

I have carried this particular purse for one short month, but the weight of it has become a burden.  I sincerely hope the person who carried it for me last Friday does not have any lingering aches and pains, or a hernia. I dumped it out in an effort to lighten the load.

Items dumped:

A three pound piece of petrified wood I promised to give to my great nephew, Gabe.

A large Leatherman in a genuine leather case.

A huge wallet, which carries every coupon I ever clipped and forgot about, gift cards (all empty), watch batteries, car key fob batteries, earring repair kit, old driver licenses, expired insurance cards, receipts, grocery store discount cards, pictures of hair styles I have desired (and never received) and thirty seven cents.

Seven peppermints (also petrified).

Makeup bag, approximately five pounds.

105 loose nickels.

110 loose dimes.

127 loose pennies.

16 loose quarters.

Two weeks of mail; Spring catalogs for Home Depot, Finger Hut, and Catherines included.

I dark chocolate Hershey bar.

4” X 4” square flashlight.

1 Bottle of muscle relaxer and two bottles of ibuprofen (100 count).

Two sets of car key rings which also have a house key, and 8 unknown for what keys attached.

Four sets of earrings.

3 french fries (also petrified)

I began to carefully reload my purse. When I was satisfied that I had lightened the load I had two french fries, four unknown for what keys, one week of mail (catalogs included), two tubes of lipstick I no longer wear, one piece of petrified wood, four sets of earrings, two peppermint and one Hershey bar wrappers, and sixteen expired coupons sitting in front of me. I was hesitant to leave out the petrified wood.

I realize that I need to make some more adjustments. I am going to use the loose change ($19.67) to buy a bigger wallet. That should do it.

Cat-astrophe

The morning started out rather normal. I hit the snooze alarm more times than I should have and was running behind by about fifteen minutes. I usually leave the house one and a half hours before I need to make the seventeen mile trip to work - just in case of bad traffic or a long line at the donut shop.

About two thousand feet into the drive down my street I heard a cat meowing. It appeared to be coming from under the hood of my car – so I stopped and popped the trunk (don’t ask). Since a neighbor saw me stop and pop the trunk I had to open the trunk and look in it. I did not find a kitty and was no longer hearing one, either.  I got back into the car, started it up and began to drive. The kitty began to holler again.  I went another five hundred feet or so and stopped again. This time I popped the hood and got out and looked. Nothing…and no meowing.  There are about four miles of country road from my house to town and I stopped every half mile. There was no sound when I stopped, but as soon as the car would start moving the cat would begin making pitiful sounds. I called a friend who laughed his ass off and gave me no support but provided a multitude of innuendoes about ‘kitties’, although he did not use the word kitty, and told me I had no choice but to drive on.   When I arrived in the metropolis of Haslet I stopped at a new home construction site and three Latinos were working on the foundation. They walked over and gave me a, “Que paso’, and I replied, ‘El Tigre de nada vamoose.” For those of you who do not speak Spanish they asked, “What’s up, good looking?” and I replied, with much gesturing, “There is a damned cat under the hood, it has been with me for ten miles, and it will not get the hell out of my engine compartment!”  They were of no help, but smiled a lot (obviously impressed with my Spanish) so the cat and I drove on to the 7-11 about another mile away.  People pumping gas heard the cat when I pulled up but everybody was in a hurry and no one even looked under the hood, except me. No noise erupted while the engine was off. That damned cat was playing games with me. I called my boss and told her the cat, and I, were having so much fun that I was thinking about taking it to the zoo next. I pulled out and, sure enough, the yowling began. I even changed the radio station in case it was objecting to talk radio. Nope. I spotted the fire department ahead and pulled in.  They like to rescue cats, right? And they would not even have to climb a tree!  I noticed as I pulled up that there were a lot of vehicles behind the station so I know there were firemen in there just ready to rescue me..uh..the cat.  I opened the hood and walked around the car, patting the sides of it and talking sweetly to the kitty. Evidently, firemen can look out a window and if they see a chubby old lady hunched over and patting her car and talking to it they do not find it reason enough leave the building. I waited about twenty minutes and started to dial 911; I figured that would get somebody’s attention! Just as I hit the last 1 a Constable drove slowly by and I waved him down. He pulled up, rolled down the window, and asked, “What seems to be the problem, ma’am?” I told him there was a kitty in the engine, I could see it but could not get to it and no firefighters were in the mood to help. He rolled the window up, called his dispatcher and then laughed robustly. I rapped my knuckles on the window, he rolled it back down, grinning. I told him I knew what they were saying and had already heard all of the innuendos and did not find it funny the first time!  He was still smiling as he got out of the car. Being as he looked like he enjoys doughnuts as much as I do, he could not get down and look under the car either. It would have to be jacked up for him to crawl under it. I take that back…it would have to be on a lift. We could now see a small gray kitty sitting on the frame under the engine near the left front tire. It was just sitting there and blinking at us. The Constable took a stick and poked it and it jumped to the ground and just sat there. The officer told me to start the car and slowly drive backwards; he KNEW neither one of us could reach under and grab the kitty.  I told him that if I ran over the cat after all we had been through for fifteen miles (okay, I exaggerated a little about the distance) and stopping every half mile, I would hold him responsible. He said not to worry. He could tell I was agitated because my hair was standing straight up and my eyes were beginning to roll wildly. I’m hoping he did not notice the drool. As soon as the car was no longer over that sweet, baby, gray, kitty it ran into the bushes by the front door of the fire department. The Constable and I looked at each other, smiled, and quickly agreed that it was now the responsibility of the fine Haslet Fire Department. He told me he would call them and let them know about it and we drove off. I was late getting to work, and fretted over my wild hair issues; nobody messed with me. I was also exhausted. I cannot remember the last time I got in and out of my car twenty times on a single morning, unless it was that neighborhood garage sale I found in Saginaw a couple of years ago.

I sent the fire department an email. I told them who I was and thanked them for their help (not!). I suggested they name the cat Smokey.

I probably should not have signed my name.

Fake Parts

When I first got mine I felt so different! How could such phoniness make a woman feel so sexy, so noticeable, so empowered?  I just loved to show them off and was very dramatic in my fashion choices to make them more noticeable. Sure, it was a big expense, but the results were fascinating!  People stared and some folks even commented about them. I loved the attention! Unfortunately, after several years they became a burden, my aging did not help - they pointed in different directions. I eventually had them removed and in doing so I felt a little less feminine and, at first, going out in public made me very self conscious about the lack of flamboyance they had previously inspired in me.

When my sister got hers they were not as flashy as mine, nor as big. When Mom (MOM!) had hers done I was kind of surprised, but like my sister, she went with a smaller, less noticeable, set.

I have been considering doing it again. Not as ‘out there’ as before, but just as a subtle lift to my self esteem.

It is really quite amazing how fake fingernails can change the way a woman feels about herself.

Naked Saturday

My favorite day of the week is Saturday.  On Saturday mornings I begin a ritual of a day of nakedness that I have lovingly named Naked Saturday. It is a wonderful day of freedom from the ‘bindings’ of the work week.  Here are a few rules and tips:

• Socks are allowed in cooler weather – but only on your feet.
• If you order a pizza for delivery you will need to provide a HUGE tip.
• No ironing! Nipple burns do NOT heal quickly.
• Kittens are forbidden pets.
• Do not fry bacon (same reason as in no ironing).
• In the winter time, folding clothes fresh from the dryer may create ...uh…warm feelings.
• Stay away from mirrors!
• If someone asks you to do something on a Saturday that you do not want to do you can honestly reply, “I’m sorry, I have plans on Saturday.”
• No drinking of alcoholic beverages because it is highly possible that you may take the trash out without thinking about it… or move a water sprinkler…or lock yourself out of the house.
• And most importantly; if visitors should unexpectedly arrive you must be prepared to never see them again.

 Easy rules and great tips! Try it out! Let me know how it works for you.

I just LOVE Naked Saturday!

60 is the New 50 - Only MUCH Worse!

·           If a mustache on a woman is a joy of aging I guess the fact that my age and my hips being the same number should make me exuberant!

·           The joy of aging defines an ‘afternoon delight’ as a nap.

·           The joy of aging keeps me from driving after dark, or on the freeway, or with my left blinker being on.

·           It’s a good thing I am a natural blonde or the joy of my aging would make me look like the missing link.

·           With the joy of aging ‘doing it '3 times last night’ now refers to peeing.

·           With the joy of aging you do not have to count sheep to fall asleep… you can count the Presidents that have been elected in your lifetime.

·           The joy of aging is discovering you can’t dye the gray hair ‘there’ because it burns!

·           The joy of aging means understanding the value of titanium.

·           The joy of being happy when you get older requires only a minor adjustment to your medication.

·           You actually start looking like the Troll dolls you used to collect.

·           The joy of aging can keep you busy for hours trying to figure out the meaning of the abbreviations the youngsters use in their Facebook posts.

·           With the joy of aging I can read a best selling novel four of five times a year because I cannot remember how it ends… or that I ever read it.

·           The joy of aging is first believing in Santa Claus and then having his figure...and maybe a few of his chin hairs.

·           The joy of aging makes looking for your car in the Wal-Mart parking lot the old folk's version of Looking for Waldo....Looking For Volvo.

·           With the joy of aging you get to remember when your belly button was not in the middle of your cleavage.

·           The ‘Golden Years’ is a crock. It’s more like the ‘Stiff, Leaky and Smells Funny Years’.

·           To me, my joy of aging is not just saying what the hell I want and getting away with it.  It is not remembering that I said it and getting to say it again.

·           To me, my joy of aging is not just saying what the hell I want and getting away with it. It is not remembering that I said it and getting to say it again.

Clothes Shopping As An Adorable Large Old Lady

I was once told to broaden my horizons. I misunderstood and bought an eight pack of Hershey Bars. My horizons are so broad now that I no longer like to shop for clothing.

While wandering through stores over the past few months (in search of a stylish tent) I really became aware of the clothing and layout of the stores selling fashions. Have you seen the stuff they are selling young women, teenagers, now? OMG! The department signs should be changed from Juniors to Tarts.  The stuff they sell in Misses, for the 20-30 somethings, should be called Wannabes or Tarts Plus. You do not see much in selection for Maternity wear since wearing clothing too small and stretching the Tartwear so tight you know the sex of the unborn child is popular. Then there is Womens clothing. This department is for the woman that cannot be a Tart or even a Wannabe.  Plus Sizes (heavy sigh) is for fat girls that will settle for anything that fits. I think young, skinny, women (or straight men) walk though fashion warehouses and pick out the ugliest stuff there and order it to sell to overweight women. Since there is nothing fashionable out there for us we wear the ugly stuff and get a bad rap for having no fashion sense. Just because we like Hershey Bars is no reason to punish us with ugly clothing! We are doing our part to keep people making candy and candy wrappers working! It’s a better jobs plan than we’ve seen over the past decade! I’ve said before that the signs saying Plus Size is demeaning – might as well say Wide Load. I had a friend (keyword here is ‘had’) that told me the brand name of the jeans of fat girls should be Gravy Boat Jeans. He went on to mention a back up beeper should be installed in a rear pocket. Since he is now an old guy, and probably wears jeans with a ‘scootch’ more room in the crotch, I suggest his jeans should be called Limp Dick Jeans, or possibly All Balls No Action Jeans.  (Sorry, I got side tracked for a minute there.)  But speaking of the ‘scootch’ more room jeans…the older ladies could use a little help with a ‘scootch’ more bra strap length. When we were younger it was a pain to keep adjusting the straps to keep the girls lined up properly. As we get older the good news is that the straps are let out all the way and need no adjusting. The bad news is that if we raise our arms we ooze out the bottom of the bra! I do understand that an extra yard of bra straps could be difficult for the younger set. We need our own age related garment. Bali brands should make bras for the gravity pull on older women and call them Baliho. The possibilities are endless…just as the bra straps should be.

The fashion industry is behind the times We keep hearing on television that this is the fattest generation of Americans, ever.  Large ladies pants have the waist size of a thirteen year old anorexic. Large ladies do not need front pockets in their slacks…the slack settles in the pockets. Why do they put Disney characters, or Tweety Bird, on t-shirts for older women?  We do not need breast darts in our blouses for where our boobs used to be – they need to point down now. There should be a Federal law against size 10 thong panties. We know we are large – there is no reason to add an ‘X’ to our clothing sizes. An ‘O’ would be more of an incentive to lose weight ... as in “Oh, crap I’m bigger” instead of the nasty X which usually indicates multiplying - we do not like doing math while shopping! Give us some flattering styles without the stupid ribbon under the former boob location. Quit pushing sleeveless tops on us, we have upside down muscles! 

Great. I have pissed myself off.  I now vow, in writing, to quit shopping at Wal-Mart. They obviously do not hire gay men fashion buyers that adore large, older ladies.  

Static Cling & Chubby Girls

Well ladies, the weather is getting cooler and that can only mean one thing: static cling!  This seasonal horror is twice as nasty for chubby girls; big girls just seem to produce more static than skinny girls. We must carry the economy size Static Guard in our purses to battle this demon.

Chubby girls do not like to show their curves and static cling enhances the bumps and rolls that we try so hard to hide. There is nothing more embarrassing than getting out of your car and walking into a building with your skirt clinging above your granny panties, especially if you only shave to just above the knees.  The damned skirt will not pull down because the static lifts it again with each move of the arms and legs. This phenomenon only occurs in crowds, which leads me to believe that skinny women throw off some sort of static energy that attaches itself to the largest warm female in a room.

Static turns a nice hair cut into zombie mode. Large girls usually have nice hair because it is easier to manage than losing weight. I like to rub my hair with a lavender scented dryer sheet before styling. I believe there is just something more loveable about a chubby girl with nice hair and the sweet aroma of lavender!

Although it can produce moments of personal pleasure, it is not planned for the thighs of a large woman to throw sparks as she walks across a room.

I recently read an article of helpful hints that said that a safety pin in the hem of clothing will keep static cling away. This is soooo bogus!  You will never find a hefty gal without half a dozen safety pins on her, somewhere, holding elastic together or giving an extra inch where the button and the button hole refuse to meet. These gals still have the static cling problems! I bet a skinny woman wrote that helpless hint. 

To sum it up…the scourge of the season is upon us. Static Guard will sell well because the big girls of the world have budgeted for the extra weekly expense. What a shame it does not come in a nice lavender scent.

The Highways of My Life

When I was a kid it took forever to make a trip from Fort Worth to my maternal Grandmother’s house in Garland.  I guess I was about eight years old when the Dallas / Fort Worth Turnpike, now Highway 30, opened and the trip was much easier. There was not much traffic. On one of our first trips we had a flat and a courtesy truck quickly arrived to help us out. I have not seen a courtesy truck in years.

I was also very young when Highway 35 North opened. It made the trip to Gainesville, to my Granny Lemons house, much quicker. There was no traffic and the scenery was basically trees and pastures between north Fort Worth and Gainesville. On the way back I watched the horizon for the Saginaw feed mills; it was an indicator that I was almost home.

When I was still in elementary school Loop 820 opened. There was not much traffic. The loop around Fort Worth was a great idea until too much was squeezed inside the loop.

When I was in high school the Airport Freeway began to open. It was still under construction as they built the DFW Airport, and yet, there was not much traffic.  Highway 183 changed to Highway 10, in places, and Airport Freeway. I am still confused.

At the end of my senior high school year Highway 635 opened. So many lanes and no traffic!

All of these highways are like my life. There were many new roads with a flat or two along the way, but the new roads made life travel more quickly. Traffic began to build as the years passed. I developed some potholes, could use a little resurfacing, and my shoulders slope a little bit.  Every now and then I suddenly dip when I do not expect it and I need some bridge work.  Detours taken have gotten me lost and I’ve had to turn around and start over several times. I am reluctant to enter the on ramps and often miss the off ramps. Too much is squeezed inside my loop. I still look for the Saginaw feed mills to know that I am almost home. My median is wider and new lanes have been added.  I pass with caution.

Time, like a highway, changes, stalls, backs up, detours, stops, speeds up, and then slows down again. When…Oh, crap! I just noticed that I have had my turn signal on for the past ten years! Damn.

The Scary Blind Date

Have you ever been on a blind date? No, not the kind with a seeing eye dog, but a date that a friend (who usually ends up as a former friend) has set up for you because they think they have found the perfect mate for you? (Pam, if you are reading this it is not about the many that you set me up with. Those were not dates. I consider them practical jokes.)

This is a true story without embellishment – does not need any.  The names were not changed to protect the innocent. I do not remember who set up this date. It is said that when you have a traumatic experience you tend to forget much of it.  All I remember about the name of the date is that his last name was Lynn. He was a former neighbor and I vaguely remember his younger sister who was a few years ahead of me in school. Our planned date was for dinner out and a Casa Manana play.

He arrived about half an hour late and looked frazzled. He said he had lost his car keys and was driving his old farm truck. I told him I knew about farm trucks and did not mind riding in one.  I was wrong.

The year of this date was somewhere around 1975. The truck was about 25 years old at that time, white in places, and had demolition derby characteristics. Not so bad, huh? Oh…but wait! The passenger side door panel had been removed in order for a rope to be looped through part of the door frame. The other end of the rope was tied to the steering wheel. This rigging was to hold the door closed, and I assumed, attached to the rest of the truck. I reluctantly climbed in the driver side door. Dinner was involved. I was hungry.  Farm Truck Lynn instructed me to hold the rope, tightly, as he removed one end of it from the steering wheel, so that he could drive. I asked him what he did when he was driving alone and he said he tied it to his seat belt. At this point I should have just said, “Let’s do this some other time,” but I did not, I was determined to enjoy dinner and a play. I was optimistic, or just stupid.

Do you remember the Bonanza Steak Houses? They were the blue collar cafeteria style steak houses that catered mainly to the lunch crowds, older folks, young families, and were inexpensive. Farm Truck Lynn had a 2-for-1 coupon. 

At Casa Manana we were informed there was a delay due to a stage malfunction. The stage at Casa Manana was rotund and rotated during plays.  I do not remember the play we were there to see (trauma forgetfulness). The delay was long enough that I had to go pee twice, so it must have been about an hour wait.  The play started and about forty-five minutes into it the stage blew a fuse, or a hundred thousand, and the show was cancelled.  Farm Truck Lynn was disappointed but I was not; the theme from the TV show Bonanza had begun galloping through my stomach and I was ready to go home. 

It was about eleven o’clock when we pulled into my apartment parking lot and the rope burn on my right hand was beginning to sting. Farm Truck Lynn turned off the truck engine, placed both hands on the steering wheel, bowed his head and said, “Lord, please forgive me for what I am about to do.”

This was probably the first time, maybe the only time, that I was not a typical dumb blonde.  I dropped the rope, kicked open the door and ran for the hills. I did not look back to see if the truck door stayed attached. I made it inside my apartment and bolted the door. He banged on my door for awhile and said he just needed a drink. I hollered to go home to get it. After a few minutes the elderly man living next door opened his door and said, “Son, I think it’s time you go on home. Now.”  Farm Truck Lynn left.  I never heard from him again but always kept a close watch out for his truck while I lived in that apartment.

I had one more blind date that was a bad one where I was not able to get home as quickly as I wanted. (Pam, this one was the last one of your practical jokes.)  To this day, I will meet a first time date at our destination so that I know I have safe transportation home when I am ready to go home. I do not worry about them following me home because I cannot see to drive at night and I get lost a lot. A twenty minute drive can take two hours to complete. It is also probably why I very seldom have a second date. Damn.

Undesirable Husband Prospects

Sometimes us old, single, women will think about looking for a husband. Tonight, I thought about it after reading a book about a group of older women who finally found the men of their dreams. They knew what they wanted and set out to find their guys.  I began to wonder what kind of man I would want to pursue if I were to start looking around. I could not come up with anything other than someone who would mow the yard.  As it often does, my mind wandered (okay, guttered) and I began thinking of the professions, or hobbies, of men and how this could relate to the time in the bedroom. Here are some professions I find undesirable as husband prospects:

Pro Bowler.  A thumb placement that was not expected, and highly unappreciated, could lead to jail time if you beat the living crap out of him afterwards. 

Pro Golfer.  There are moments prior to sexual coupling that a woman enjoys. Yelling FORE and then swinging for a hole in one are not the moments we are looking for.

Shoe Salesman.  This is sad. After fooling around once, the pillow talk involved the words, “You have nice feet for a woman your age.”  These are not the pillow talk words an older woman wants, or expects, to hear immediately after having sex. There are times when a whopper of a lie is preferable and acceptable!

Race Car Enthusiast.  These guys probably arrive fast, make a pit stop and leave in a hurry. Be wary of skid marks.

Football Coach.  The whistle blowing would probably get on your nerves eventually.

Used Car Salesman.  A swift quick kick in your spare tire to check you for stability might create a blow out, or a leak, that would definitely kill the mood.

Oil Change Franchise owner.  I made myself laugh out loud thinking about this one, but I can’t make myself type what I thought was so funny.

Computer programmer.   These guys expect unrestricted access and when they talk in their sleep you will never understand what they are talking about. Ctrl Alt Delete.

Political Advisor.  Oh, HELL NO! You should never date a political advisor. Immediately shoot him. If he happens to be a Democrat shoot yourself, too, because your mama has already changed her will and you needed the money.

Damn. This list could go on forever. I think I will just get another cat. 

Cleavage: Surprise!

Women who are blessed with ample bosoms are also blessed with cleavage. Having cleavage

is comparable to having a second purse, only without zippers, snaps or Velcro. The last time I

went to a casino I did not want to worry about someone stealing my purse and I was able to place

my wallet, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a tube of lipstick, a small mirror, and my phone in my

cleavage. Although I lost my shirt at the slot machines I did not lose a purse containing any of the

aforementioned items.  Losing a $40 tube of lipstick when a purse is stolen can be very painful. 

Having cleavage also enables a person to have a surprise every evening when removing the torture

device known as ‘the bra’. Today, I found a cricket in mine. It was no longer among the living,

I do not know how it got there or how long it had been there, but I was surprised to find it.  I have

found popcorn, supposedly lost earrings, Cheerios, peanuts, pencils and pens, leaves, a pacifier

(this one is kind of ironic), and among various other items, a couple of acorns. The acorns were

from walking along a sidewalk near someone mowing under an oak tree. Surprise!

My little dog, Sophie, likes to hover at my feet while I undress. She is always on the look out for a

sudden snack. She was not impressed with the cricket.

My most memorable surprise was when reaching for something and accidentally boob-friction-

flicked my Bic lighter while it was nestled. Whoa! THAT was a huge surprise! Fortunately, I no

longer have to worry about chin hair. The most expensive surprise was when I forgot I had stashed

my phone, removed my bra, and when everything sprang forth the phone jumped into the toilet. I no

 longer undress anywhere near water.

The most disappointing surprise of having cleavage is how far everything falls when freed from the

bra. It does pull out a few wrinkles from the neck up, though.  I cannot, however, prove the wrinkle

removing comment without getting fired, or arrested, since the only people I am ever around are at

the office, the gas station, or the Dollar Store. (I really need to widen my social circle. Maybe I

should go to Wal-Mart tomorrow.)

Yep, women with cleavage are blessed with a true treasure chest.

I Wish I Could Still........

As I get older I miss being able to do what I took for granted in my youth.  Not a day goes by without my missing out on some of the simpler things, such as:

·         Being able to bite my toenails. Not that I ever did….I just wish I was able to do so if the urge was there. Today I have to wait for a ‘good’ day just to touch them and that’s when I am sitting down.

·         Hopping on my unicycle and just riding for miles. The little kids just loved to see me ride by. Today they would ask their Mama why that old lady has a bicycle wheel sticking out of her butt.

·         Dancing. When I do that now parts of me don’t stop when the music does.

·         Wearing pretty shoes. Dr. Scholl’s fashion sense sucks.

·         Climbing a ladder. Just the thought of moving a ladder today requires a nap.

·         Jumping rope. Can you picture double chins and boobs slapping each other silly?

·         Going braless and wearing a tank top. To do that today the tank top would have to be knee length. A windy day could be very revealing.

·         Joining the neighbors in an impromptu game of baseball. I could still do that if the other players are my age and the bases have wheelchair ramps. Nine innings could take three weeks to complete because we might have to call the game every now and then for a funeral.

·         Being able to see a yo-yo on its way back up. WHACK!

·         Belly laughing without having to change my drawers.

·         Remembering if the person talking to me in the grocery store is a neighbor, someone I used to work or went to school with, or a cousin. Or even remembering why I am in the store in the first place!

·         Being able to go anywhere willy-nilly, without waiting for a laxative to work.

·         Sitting on the floor…on purpose.

There are so many more ‘wish I could still do’ items to be listed here. I just don’t remember them all. Tell me some of yours…and you should probably add if you are a neighbor, someone I used to work or went to school with, or a cousin.

I Paid for Hypnosis

Approximately twenty years ago, an advertisement appeared in the newspaper for a hypnotist that could assist people with losing weight. He was going to hold a session at the Holiday Inn and for fifty dollars the weight would drop off after the miracle of his hypnotic rendering. 

I have had a weight problem my entire life. In that particular decade, and several subsequent decades come to think of it, I was highly addicted to Blue Bell chocolate ice cream, particularly Rocky Road. Honestly, any variation of chocolate ice cream would do. I could not seem to eat enough of it, but I really needed to be cured of my chocolate addiction.

I signed up for the class and eagerly awaited the big night.  When it arrived I entered the conference room along with two hundred of the biggest women in Fort Worth. The hypnotist began to speak of how great we would soon feel after he changed our lives forever. He told us that some people would not go under his hypnotic spell, but that the majority of the room would. He asked us to look at our watches, remember the time, and then close our eyes. I was a little bit suspicious so I placed my purse on the floor and put my feet in it. It was 7:15 p.m.

He asked us to think of the comfort food that we felt was our downfall.  That was easy…chocolate ice cream.  He asked us to consider the color of it…okay…brown. He asked us to think of something else the same color, in a similar container, or on a favorite plate, and it had to be something gross. Hmmm.  Pint. Similar container. Brown. Gross. OH!  Worm dirt! I chose worm dirt as my gross substitute.

All I remember after that is the hypnotist telling us to look at our watches again.  It was almost 9:00 p.m.!  He told us that the next time we took a bite of our comfort food it would trigger the thought of the substitute and we would no longer have the desire to eat it. Ever.

Lucky me. What are the odds? It turned out that I actually LIKE the taste of worm dirt!  Damn.