Wednesday, December 31, 2014

It's all about boobs today.

I'm doing a wee bit of catch up work my dear friends and blog readers!  As you peruse this post you may note comments about Halloween.  Yes, it's true. This wild boobie blog was written months ago on my phone while I was impatiently waiting in a doctor's office.  As with most things in my life, it was misplaced in my organized chaos of lists upon lists upon lists.  Finally, something to cross off! Enjoy (or cringe depending on who you are).  Oh, and by the way, Happy New Year! 


It's All About Boobs Today

Last night I went lingerie shopping.  For those of you who personally know me or have been reading my blogs for some time, you may recall that I abhor clothes shopping EXCEPT when it comes to lingerie.  Do I wear what I buy? Hardly.  It just makes me feel sexy shopping for it.  Don't try to understand me because your brain will explode.

Yesterday, I needed, no - wanted is more the word - a bra.  Not just any bra; a bra which would push my middle aged 40DDs up with more confidence than they've dared venture for years.  They indeed found an amazing new altitude. It was invigorating.  The skin beneath my breasts were, for the first time since puberty, sweat free.  Hallelujah!  

Why was I searching for this garment?  For the very word I used in the previous paragraph; I wanted my girls to exude "confidence" in the Halloween costume I'd be wearing the following weekend.  I did not want them to look like a pair of lifeless, deflated balloons beneath the pretty outfit I'm renting.  Yes, my dear friends and blog readers, it all boils down to VANITY.

I've had these two mammary glands attached now since the sensitive age of ten.  I went from being a flat chested little girl to having my breasts measured and special bras made.  I skipped the entire "training bra" experience.  I was a tomboy who thrived on catching frogs and climbing trees, who woke up horrified on Tuesday, April 12, 1977 and much to my chagrin there they were...BOOBS; HUGE BOOBS.  Someone had played a cruel trick on me during the night, wound my arm like my "Growing Up Skipper" Barbie and said, "Here you go honey, now deal with them!" Dammit! What a cruel, cruel thing to do to a kiddo like me. There were no such things as "sports bras" in my youth.  The ones purchased for me snapped under the weight of my behemoths every time I ran drill lines for basketball or on the first drop of Disneyland's Thunder Mountain Roller Coaster ride

There was also a sharp dividing line between myself and the girls who were interested in obtaining boyfriends in my little Catholic school.  I disdained those silly classmates.  I felt they were ridiculous for shoving what little chest bumps they had into tight uniform blouses and into the faces of pre-pubescent boys who were completely oblivious and still watching cartoons instead of what these giggling goofballs had to offer.  Were they crazy?  And then it happened. My realization that the packed gymnasium of screaming young boys watching our girls basketball game had nothing to do with our game but everything to do with the size and enormity of my breasts - not the ball - bouncing down the court. I'm still surprised that the Nuns did not shut us down for the corruption of young minds that I was responsible for.  Come to think of it, there were a lot of Nuns at every game trying to keep the boys in check and we did go to Confession every Friday if that didn't do the trick.

Last year's Halloween Costume was an effort in futility as far as my "girls" were concerned.  Let me explain.  

Young, large breasted ladies listen carefully.  This may be disturbing but you must learn it from someone WHO KNOWS first hand as I've painfully experienced it the hard way.  Our big boobs will, how do I put put this gently..? SAG!  Ugh!  For all intent and purposes they do NOT remain buoyant as some sad daydreamers hope. This is a myth of overwhelming proportions. I have a very dear friend (whose name shall remain well, for the time being anyway, private) and her big boobies are, in my personal opinion, unnaturally high for a woman our age. My love for her is strong - so strong that I have called her a liar and a boobie blasphemer and have gone so far as to accuse her as to having her girls surgically "inflated" if you catch my drift (pardon the pun).  We are like sisters.  She "poo-poo's" me and denies the accusation vehemently but women can smell surgical procedures on each other. We're like cats.  There's no hiding what is...right my sistah?  (I'm grinning from ear to ear as I type this)

Anyway, I digress from my Halloween horror story from last year. I assumed that my barmaid costume would hoist my breasts in tightly without the need of a bra. The outer corset was strapped up so tight my "boom booms" were not going anywhere.  Well, I assumed wrong.  The moment I bent over in front of my first guest (which just so happened to be one of my husband's co-workers), a boom boom went bye-bye. Yes, that's right. I bent down and one slithered out of my top!!  Not even sexily "popped" out but I use the word, "slither" like a wet, full bag of beans..oh my God the memory! Well, I didn't hear a gasp from anyone and as I know the feeling of my girlies and what they're up to, or in this case, down to at any particular moment, I was quick at the drop.  I caught the mishap before anyone else did, went immediately through the back door, up the stairs and slapped those naughty bitches into their five-hooked bra where they belonged. Geesh! NEVER AGAIN!

With this story told, my vanity or pride..yes, Sisters of Notre Dame I do recall it IS one of the Seven Deadly Sins...I will NOT abide unconfident 40DDs in public ever again. If I've lived with them this long, they might as well be comfortable, admired and CONFIDENT!  Father forgive me for I have sinned...

Oh, and by the way, I ALWAYS carry a safety pin now in the event I should just happen across an amusement park with a roller coaster.  With age comes beauty, "confidence" AND wisdom.   Just sayin'...      


Saturday, December 6, 2014

My Real Hero Is..

10 years ago, on December 22, 2004, the last great hero, in my personal opinion, was taken. He wasn't a fighter pilot or a brain surgeon.  He was so much more than that.  His name was Richard Paul Bryant.  He, as you will read, was more important than most men.  He was far too young to die but if you could ask him when he left this world, in his grumbly, inpatient, put-off voice, he probably would have said, "I lived the way I wanted to, God Dammit so let me go already!"  And so, we let him go.

Richard, or Dick - as most his close friends called him - was my father and as I previously mentioned, he was my hero.

He would laugh at this blog.  In fact, with his naughty, Catholic mouth he'd call this post a load of bullshit. There's no other way to begin this paragraph; he was a character in every sense of the word but a sweet character at that.

People who truly knew him knew he had a heart of gold.  He would give his last dollar to a family in need even when his own family of seven, his wife of thirty odd years and five children, were existing on powdered milk and Hamburger Helper.  He worked 60, 70, sometimes 80 hours a week in a metal factory slowly showing that without a college degree he had a mind for business and built that lousy, little company into a multi-million dollar success.  He still bowed and humbled himself to the "big boss" allowing himself to be humiliated behind his back.  For what?  For the security of his family.

From the stories I heard growing up, he went to his father once.  Grandpa was a conservative, WWII veteran who felt no one should have a free handout even if that meant refusing a couple of hundred dollars to his young son with a mortgage, four babies and a below average paying job.  Grandpa refused.  The banks refused.  Somehow dad scraped by.  He never asked for another handout.  Years later I remember my dad putting money down for my grandparent's lovely retirement home in the San Juan Capistrano hills.  I never heard him complain.  He did it out of of love and respect.

Dad, or Papa Bear, as the grandkids lovingly called him, growled and scowled but when he laughed or giggled the entire house was at peace.  He was the nucleus of the Bryant household.  Family members were drawn back only because dad was home - no other reason.  Whether it was to sit and play poker (stop screwing around girls!), watch a football game (be quiet girls!) or to just meet for the latest family outing to the greasiest steak place on the map he was the reason we were there.  AND the laughter...there was ALWAYS the laughter...

We were never allowed to cry in his presence not because it annoyed him but because it hurt him. Anything from scraped knees to broken hearts was mended by dad getting into our faces and blubbering along with us until we laughed.  To this day, crying over anything is difficult but every so often I'll let it loose.  I suppose on the 22nd of this month when I squeeze nasty Easy Cheese on a cracker and slice processed Yard o' Beef in his honor I may weep over the sheer grossness of it.

Twenty years ago, my ex-husband called me and basically told me (drunk) that I was "shit", hung up on me and ended our marriage.  Seven years - over.  With $15,000 worth of combined debt that I took on as my own, I left Colorado and moved back into my parent's destitute and completely lost.  It was at this moment I let out a wail from so deep within me I would never have known it existed.  My dad and I were the only ones home at the time. When he heard it, he reached out for me and said, "Honey, if I could take away all of your hurt, I'd do without ever looking back."  I stood there in his arms and wept for another twenty minutes without saying a word.  That moment, that incredible moment of unconditional love, will stay with me for the rest of my life.

This year was a particularly tough one for me.  I tried my best not once but a couple of times to meet my dad before my time.  It's given me pause, especially during the holidays, to consider what he'd think of my weakness. I wonder if he was sitting beside me during the last attempt? Did he tell me to take the, "God damn" bag off my head!?"  To breathe?  To be strong?

I've also lost people whom I considered my backbones, my rocks.  They've let me down or vice versa. One is hiding away in his own self-destructive patterns, another has proven that she doesn't understand the meaning or value of being a friend and the last needs more from me than I can ever possibly give her.  I'm running out of hands to reach for.  All I can say is Thank God for my husband, Eric and my dad watching over me.

Pop, I love you,  I miss you.  I will be you with one day but I promise not too soon.  Oh, and thank you for the dreams.  Forever, your Rose Bud...Breezy.