9 posts categorized "Secrets I Should Keep"

Thursday, February 14, 2008

A call-out for X, Y and Z. I think. Maybe. Yes, definitely.

Just a heads up - Google  in "Moody Monthlies".  Heh

So.  Being fifty and all, (shut up Linda), and the fact that my period hasn't showed up for months, I was semi-bragging to the old people at the card table that evidently I had the Easiest Menopause of the World, since I had no symptoms.  I experienced 2 hot flashes YEARS ago, before MS even, and that was all.  And as we all know, I've had plenty of periods since then, and we all know because why?  I refer you to the first sentence of this post. 

Where is this post going?  Guess. 

Well, yesterday, I had to Saddle Up for Old Rusty.  A part of me was gleeful, cause surely that meant I wasn't old after all, and I would get to post another entry to my Google-famous oracles.  The other part of me was disgusted because after all, who LIKES to bleed from the lady-bits?  Also, when the old ladies asked me if I was "still doing it", I said nope.  At first, I misunderstood and thought they were asking me if I were still "doing it" as in still sexing it up with boys, and I blushed horrifically, and stuttered "uh uh uh, well what do you think the trips to Reno are all about?  Gambling?"  With that the old ladies cracked up laughing and I thought hmmm, old people CAN have a sense of humor about sex, maybe this being old thing won't be so bad after all.  Wait.  Maybe they have a sense of humor about gambling?  Damn, old people DO like to gamble, this I know, because I used to schedule the trips to Jackpot when I was working for the senior citizen center.  Maybe it wasn't about sex after all. 

So anyways.  In doing my extensive, time-consuming research for the Moody Monthlies, I realized I have 7 more letters of the alphabet to go.  Considering the sporadic-ness of said T-minus and Holding, and that I might be waiting for the Tomato Boat to Come In before the next time I can Take Carrie To The Prom, I figured I better wrap this up, put myself Up On Blocks and consider the Moody Monthlies as have running it's course.  HEY!  Did I just invent my own euphemism - "Running Its Course"?  Awesome.

But by doing so, does that mean accepting the fact that I'm 50, and must commence lamenting the fact of my Weeping Womb?  Or will being 50 become the Wound That Never Heals?  Will I get another Visit From Cap'n Bloodsnatch, and continue celebrating my womanhood and Visitations for the Squeaky Mattress Symphony from SanFranMan? 

We shall see. 

Altho it would be nice to finish the alphabet as promised, it is with some relief that there are no euphemisms for X, Y and Z. 


Just Call Me Woman Hear Me Roar


Sunday, November 25, 2007

This is Happy here, talking from San Francisco

My last nite in San Franciso.  Hate that, don't you?  Of course you do - you want me to be happy. 

I'm pretty sure that when I move here, I'll have to stop driving.  Which is okay, since there's public transportation on every corner.

Yesterday, we went to the beach and Golden Gate Park.  Looked and looked for a coffee place "just around the corner", passing many, many corners until we finally gave up and found a St*rbucks.  Love those Peppermint Mocha's - double shot please. 

The trip out here was fantastic.  I do fly free because my son is employed by the airline, but it is "stand-by".  I got on the plane in Idaho Falls to Boise with no problem.  My son thought the problem would be getting out of Boise to Seattle.  But I got off the plane in Boise and walked straight to the plane for Seattle, which was already loading.  Stand-by's are supposed to wait quietly, hoping to be called when all the paid passengers are loaded.  I started to find a seat, thinking I'd have to wait for the next flight, but the lady called my name - I was the only stand-by, AND there was ONE SEAT LEFT!  I said "You're kidding!", and would have jumped up and down, had I been able to, but that is one of the things MS won't let me do - oddly.  So I flew from Boise to Seattle, got off the plane in Seattle, and headed for the plane leaving for San Francisco - got right on.  I didn't sit at any airport except the first one - awesome.  Which probably means it'll take 4 days to get home.  The dogs are paid up at the kennel till Tuesday, before noon.  I leave tomorrow at 1pm - wish me luck.

I do things here that I don't do anywhere else. 

I'll leave you with that.  Ha.


Just Call Me Satisfied


Monday, January 29, 2007

Serenity serenity, wherefore art thou?

I went "out" today.  To Curves!  Can I quit writing now?  Okay, inside joke.  You'd have to read this post to understand. 

Theresa of Paper Rock Scissors described what I want for myself by going to a Yoga Class.  I don't think Idaho has ever heard of Yoga.  There's one on every corner in San Francisco. 

I'm in a bit of a depressed funk because of SanFranMan.  He made a serious mistake this morning in his email to me.  I don't remember the words exactly but it was something to the effect ... reading one of my  conversations with the dogs (complete with pictures) was a bit... tedious???


For some reason, I just now remembered that I promised him if I ever wrote about him, I'd let him read it first.  Ooops on the K-Y Jelly post.  Well, because of his email?  Paybacks a bitch. 

I'm all over the place today. 

As I was walking down my hallway, keeping my hand on the wall to be steady, as I was somewhat MS'y after my workout at Curves, I thought I don't think about MS hardly anymore.  The only time I really do is when I'm blogging, when I pee my pants, and when I take my meds. 

Blogging:  Damn the title of the blog, what can I come up with today?

Peeing pants:  Damn this.  Now I have to take a shower, and find something else to wear cause I haven't done laundry, and I hate doing laundry. 

Taking meds:  This I do almost by rote when and if I remember to take them.  It helps that I'm taking them only twice a day, instead of every four hours.  I guess because of the pain, I can't really say I don't think about MS anymore.  I'll amend it - I don't think about MS 24/7 like I used to.  Someone told me, when I was squirming about going on Disability, that I would have to make my health become my 8 to 5 job.  At the time, the thought of doing that was beyond my comprehension, because I could barely walk with a can or a walker and the pain was taking over.  But it's true - by walking the dogs 42 times a day, going to Curves and doing Pilate's and yoga at home... I'm taking care of my health pretty much 8 -5.  And it shows.  I've lost a total of 58 pounds last year, and kept it off.  Keeping it off is the challenge, and it's fairly easy for me.  I've got another 20 pounds to lose and then my weight will not be an issue anymore.  It goes up around 7 pounds each month with my period and fun times like Reno  and San Diego, but that's okay, because it's fairly easy to lose it again.  I don't come unglued about it. 

I feel another rant coming on.  Who the hell came up with calling it a "period?"  Another insider story - new readers would have to read the "Secrets I Should Keep" category.  Did I already rant about this? 

Seriously now, about Theresa's post.  I've been to yoga classes and remember the serenity.  I want that back.  During my recent massage, there was soothing music and aroma therapy going on.  I could feel my body relax so easily.  In fact, the masseuse told me that he didn't feel any knots or tightness anywhere.  Between me not being able to feel some parts of it (I couldn't tell what he was doing to my feet or hands) and him saying I was very relaxed - kinda makes a $90 massage a bit too expensive.  But as SFM said, now I've tackled an issue that was troublesome (because of the abuse, the thought of having a massage made me squiggy)   When I went back to my room SFM had set $50 in my drawer cause he wanted to help pay for it.  So, really it was a fantastic $40 massage! 

I want serenity back.  There is none in Idaho.

Monday, January 22, 2007

I'm all a train wreck today

I made a phone call.  Ring ring ring.

Me:  Are you alone?

She:  Yessss.   Why?

Me:  Cause I don't want anyone to hear me crying. 

She:  Okay.......  What's wrong?

Me:  I don't know.  Wahhhhhhh.

She:  (Something.  I don't remember)

Me:  I think I love SanFranMan.  Wahhhhh.

She:  Yea, well....

Me:  I mean, I knew I love loved him, but I thought I didn't love him anymore. 

She:  You mean "in love"....

Me:  Yeaaaaa  Wahhhhhhh

Me:  I don't want to be IN love with him!  I liked things the way they wererrrrrrr, wahhhhhh

Me:  And I don't want to be in Idaho, but now I wonder if San Francisco is the right place after all, wahhhhhhh

She:  (Something.  I don't remember)

Me:  And I'm afraid if I don't go now, I'll never go anywhere, wahhhhhh

She:  I don't know about the SFM stuff, but I know you have to get out of Idaho. 

Me:  And we had SUCH a good time in Reno, but the more 'friends' we are, the more honest he is, he's not trying to impress, so he's more real, but he drinks, and drunk dials and drunk types, and and and he's hilarious, and he told me so many things, wahhhhh, and he's the funniest man, and wahhhhhhhh

Me:  I can't tell you how much I hated coming home.  Hate hate hate.  Hate.  Hate the cold, hate the snow.  Hate living in an old folks home, hate hate hate the cold. 

Me:  And my dogs stink like a French whorehouse, and need a bath, wahhhhhh

She:  (Something.  I don't remember)

Me:  And I had my first full-body massage, wahhhhh, and that was kind of freaky. 

She:  Oh.  How'd that go? 

Me:  It was .... okay.  The hard part was having my hands touched, of all things. 

She:  (Something about being touched during massages)  Ewwey stuff. 

Me:  I don't WANT to be IN love with him, wahhhhhh

She:  Mumble mumble, murmer murmer sympathetic noises.

Me:  And I emailed him this morning to thank him for the great time, and told him that all I could do was cry now in Idaho, wahhhhhh

Me:  And he emailed back, and said it was probably cause I was missing the living large, the living big, the high life we had in Reno, and I was all.... wahhhhhh and didn't email anymore, and pretended it's cause it's freezing cold, and my son just left, and left his damn dog with me, and yea, it's cause I'm missing the bell-hops, and room service and massages and movies and sleeping in late, and not having to walk dogs in the middle of the Ice Age, wahhhhhh

She:  Blah blah blah

Me:  Blah blah blah

Then we get off the phone and I crawled back into my hole. 

Then he called me tonite, and I'm all "fine" and "how are you?" and he's all he's okay, and playing sad music and did I get the Eva Cassidy CD he sent me, and I was all I need to go walk the dogs, and he was all okay, and was I alright now, blah blah blah.  And we hang up. 

I'm all stand-offish because I'll be damned if I love him, I'll have none of it!  Wahhhhhhhhhhhh

And then I discovered I'm all "T-minus 9 months and holding".  Which would explain why the slinky nities weren't quite as slinky as I would have liked.  Hmmph. 

Whew.  So never mind on all that love shit. 


Disclaimer - Portions of this post have been imagined or altered to protect the poster, postee, the reader, the readee, and the various personalities involved.  Thank you very much.

Friday, January 05, 2007

Bong vs. Gong Lesson


On the left - a bong.  Commonly used as vases for flowers.  On the right - gongs.  Tonite's treat was canned yams!  Stuffed inside, along with a bit of plain yogurt, which according to Muttin is a good way to ruin a snack.  Duke didn't like his, so she took his - and liked the yogurt just fine.  Duke is preferring the 10 tennis balls I bought him.  I threw all of them on the floor so that he'd get over being so possessive over it/them.  Pretty hard to guard and protect all 10 of them at the same time, specially since I keep them stirred up all over the floor and at the little dogs.  We're also working on not barking at every little sound he hears in the hallway.  Doing really good on that one.  He's so funny cause he "goes to bed".  Come about 10-11pm, he goes into the bedroom where his dog bed is and goes to sleep.  He gets up and heads that way, but takes one last look back, as if saying "Coming?". 

Gosling, welcome back to the flock.  For some time, India did not allow her into my blog, or if she could get in, she couldn't comment. 

All the outdoor surfaces in my little community is one sheet of ice.  That's a lie.  Our parking lot is a ice skating rink.  Most of us disabled and/or elderly do not wear ice skates.  We wear slippers (when we're depressed), snow boots in the summer (because they're easy to slip on), and high heels in the winter because everyone goes to church more in the winter.  Me - I wear beach shoes.  I slipped and fell flat on my back today because of the ice and broke my cell phone, wet my purse in a puddle that wasn't frozen after all, and broke my glasses. 

Was PISSED.  So I went into the closet that tenants are not supposed to go into and filled a bucket with Ice Melt, and covered the whole damn parking lot.  Several old people were starring out their windows and I'm sure someone will tattle on me. 

BRING IT ON, Landlady. 

It's 9:10pm Friday nite, and I have to "go to work" by 8am tomorrow morning, where I will be doing inventory at a fabric store.  I read the instructions on how to measure the fabric, and realize I don't know what the heck it's talking about. 

'When writing yardage on the tag list yardage with two digits past the full yard.  (this is very important and causes many problems the day of inventory.)  Example 1 yard = 1.00 6 7/8yrd = 6.88 7 3/4 yrd = 7.75.  Use 1/8ths increments'.

Using some punctuation would have been helpful. 

1 yrd = 1.00     I get it. 

7 3/4 yrd = 7.75     I get it. 

6 7/8 yrd = 6.88     I don't get it. 

I'm going to have to glue the increment sheet to the back of my hand.  Measuring station be damned unless I can stand there the whole time - maybe the bolts of fabric could be brought TO me?  Should be interesting.  My hands.... I lam eery, but determined.  I need the money and 3-4 days will get me enough to pay a quarter more of my driving license fines, and have some spending money for a rendezvous in Reno in a couple of weeks.  Rendezvous.  Always wanted to rendezvous!  Me, little Idaho country girl, am going rendezvousing. 

Main Entry: 1ren·dez·vous
Pronunciation: 'rän-di-"vü, -dA-
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural ren·dez·vous
Etymology: Middle French, from rendez vous present yourselves
1 a : a place appointed for assembling or meeting b : a place of popular resort : HAUNT
2 : a meeting at an appointed place and time
3 : the process of bringing two spacecraft together

Yea, baby.  That's us - two spaceships coming together to do our spacy thing.  Uh huh.  So that's what they're calling it now.  I've been out of the boy/girl loop a bit too long. 

Okay, back to work.  It feels VERY funny to say "I'm going to work".  I haven't been able to say that for ... 4 years?  Feels good.  Even tho I realize I should stop typing in order to save my hands. 


Blahg This:  If you work or have worked, what was your favorite job?


Friday, December 29, 2006

Dogs, work, pain, leashes, and dog beds.


Took the dogs walking and threw the tennis ball approximately 700 times for Duke to obsess over.  Good exercise for him, and he's worn out tonite.  And not a single whine.  Me walking 3 dogs on leashes?  Turned out not to be too bad.  Duke is on a short leash, while mine are on their longer one, and not once did it get all tangled up.  Since tangled up usually involves my legs, no tangles is good.  He does pull tho, so I'm thinking I need to get serious about roller blades. 

In other news...I got a job!  It's just doing inventory for a fabric store, so it's short term, but short term is good for me, since I can never be sure of being able to go to work 5 days a week, 8 hours a day.  I'm excited, despite feeling like shit. 

Watching 'Iron Chef America'.  Pureed lobster???

The Panty Painting going on was the reason for the pain these last few days.  Anything that raises my body temp does me in. 

Remember when I said my MP3 player wasn't working?  I gave it to SonOne and explained all the reasons why I thought the battery was dead, blah blah blah and he asked what I wanted him to do about it.  I whined "Fix it".  After giving me a look I'd rather not explain, he fiddled with it for about ... oh... 4 seconds and turned the damn thing on.  It works!  So I've been trying to figure out how to get the music on it.  Would rather do it myself because SonOne is too easily amused by my technology struggles.  I still don't understand CD's.    Vinyl_album Hell, I don't get LP's vinyl albums for that matter.  How music comes off those things is a miracle as far as I'm concerned.  But he likes to laugh at me, and I get frustrated cause I don't know how to explain what I don't know or understand.  And it doesn't help when the manual says "long press" for turning it on, with a picture of the buttons on the front of the player.  What they should have said was "Slide the tiny pinhead size button on the very tippy top of the player to the right".  I took it apart to see what kind of battery it took, and the screws were half the size of the head of a pin I SWEAR.  I had to use tweezers to get the screws back in their holes and luckily I had a itty bitty tiny whiny screwdriver. 

The dogs continue to be hilarious over territorial issues.  My dogs LOVE LOVE LOVE Duke's bed.  Specially Muttin.  In fact, she's downright disobedient when it comes to getting off it when I tell her too.  If I'd known she be happy sleeping on the floor on a big pet bed, I would have possession of one of my couches back.  Brats.  So anyways, after telling her to get off Duke's damn bed for the kazillionth time, she did this:


When I first looked at them, all I could see was Jeffrey, cause she had her head down, and her eyes were closed.  He looked... odd.  With a pained look on his face.  I thought he had swallowed half a cow until I got a second look. 


They stayed that way for more than an hour. 

My dogs. 

They are funny.

Blahg This:  Do you have any animals that do quirky things? 


Monday, October 30, 2006

Will this day ever end?

Doorbell rings, but I think it's the pizza commercial on TV.  Look to the dogs, and they think it's the door.  The seniors and I have an understanding.  If I don't answer the door, it's cause I don't want to see anyone, so leave me alone.  If they ring/knock a second time, then I know it's important and I'll answer it.  Like the time someone knocked twice and when I opened the door, Muttin walked in.  She'd been found in the front parking lot.  Damn that window sill idea. 


Knock, knock, knock.  Oh damn.  It's important. 

Two strange ladies were out there, one about my age, and another who looked like a human skeleton, about 90 years old.  Let's call them Missionary 1, and Old Missionary.  My mood has not improved since the morning walk, and this was like adding salt to the wound. 

Missionary 1:  Laura?

Me:  Yes, well no, it's Laurie.

M1:  Oh yes, Laurie.  How are you?

Me:  Fine.

Old Missionary:  Get down!  (in a very loud voice)

Me:  Mutt, Jeff, get back in here.

M1:  We heard you just moved in and we...

Me:  No, I've been here for over 2 years. 

M1:  It's Laura Anderson isn't it?

Me:  No.  Close tho.  (as I search my memory for anyone who's named that in case I need to send them to a different apartment, but no)

M1:  Can we come in?

Me:  Who ARE you?

M1:  We're missionaries...

Me:  No thank you, I'm not Mormon.  (As I frown, wondering who the heck sic'd them on me).

OldM:  That's okay, we can still visit. 

Me:  No thank you.

OldM:  May we come in?  (As she steps towards me)


M1:  Oh dear, don't be that way. 

Me:  Listen, you didn't have my name right, I'm not new around here, I'm not Mormon, and I said No Thank You twice, politely.  GOOD-BYE.

Me:  Managed to close the door without slamming it. 

Me:  (looking sternly at the dogs)  You guys need to warn me next time.  We'll add "Herding Missionaries Away From Your Master" to your service dog training. 

Muttin:  Well, what do you think we were doing when you told us to come back in the apartment. 

Me:  Don't get smart with me, Missy.  Or I'll See Red, and you'll be Shark Bait. 


Sunday, October 29, 2006

Witch spelled with a B

I haven't walked on a daily basis since I got back from San Francisco, lo, those many (7) weeks ago.  Nor gone to Curves.  I'm mad at Curves but being mad is spiting the nose on my face.  That would be spite-ing, not spitting.  Generally, I try not to spit on my nose. 

But I've lost another 10 pounds since then, so there's that.  However, Muttin is gaining her customary winter weight.  And she is constantly nagging at me to go walking.  C O N S T A N T L Y. 

So this morning, I woke up with the former fire I used to have - the challenge of counting steps and how many miles could I clock in.  I donned pants, shirt, shoes, camera, sun glasses, pedometer and Ipod.  Collared the dogs, which sent them into a frenzy.  WALKWALKWALK they said.  And turned into whirling dervishes, which sent me into a frenzy of frustration, trying to hook the leashes to their collars.  Bad mood begins. 

Walkingstick_4 I grabbed the walking stick that ReikiMan made for me 2 years ago, back when I was a weeble wobbling all the time.  I've been taking it with me so I can protect ourselves from attacking dogs.  And should that happen, then I'm going to use it to attack the attacking dog's owner, I SWEAR.  Because dogs wouldn't be attacking us if they were controlled by their owners.  I snarled at the mere thought of it.  Mood doesn't brighten. 

After much thought, I decided to leave by the front of the building, rather than thru the courtyard like we usually do.  The dogs don't like it when the grass is wet and cold.  Which it is, cause it's 39 freaking degrees out.  I checked San Francisco's temperature... 63 degrees.  Mood darkens. 

Off we go, and the dogs are pissing me off, but I don't have the right to be pissed off because it's my own fault they're so energetic - they haven't been walking in so long, and that's why they're pulling on the leash.  Try putting Ipod ear buds into your ears, when the dogs are yanking your arm out of it's socket cause they want to go, go, go.  So it's pissing me off that I can't be pissed off righteously, and have to remind them over and over please not PULL ON THE DAMN LEASH. 

Okay, can we talk about the Ipod for just a minute?  First of all, the little foam piece that fits over the ear bud is not permanently attached.  Which means they got lost somewhere as I pulled said Earbuds_3 ear buds out of my pocket.  Try looking for little gray foam pieces the size of pennies on gray pavement.  Couldn't find them.  Turns out they're fairly important for keeping the ear buds in your ears.  Slippery things.  Irritating things.  That kept slipping out of my ears every 4 seconds.When one hand has the leash in it and the other has the walking stick at the ready.  Mood crashes past the point off no return.  I start looking for a dog to attack just on principal.  Get them before they get us is my new motto.  I let the dogs off the leash as we walk around the new jail - lots of space and no traffic.  They're in happy heaven and love me so much.  They love me so much that Jeffrey (Jeffrey!) decides to disappear, scouting for garbage lef t behind by construction guys who eat their lunch and toss scraps to the ground.  Stupid men.  I decide to hate all men. 

Who's *(^%$&^*%# brilliant idea was it to put Amazing Grace in the Ipod that's meant to be a fast stepping, high energy way to keep me walking at a fast pace?  With about 20 different artists/versions of it?  And the bagpipe version?  Torture.  Twice.  Somehow I got it on there twice.   Ahhhhhh.... Maaaaaa...... zzzzzzing..... grace...... howwwwwww....sweet ......thhhhhe.... sounddddd.   Ummmm, scuse me while I take a take here on the picnic table at Wendy's.  And then there's Dr. Phil's Weight Loss Solution.... just stupid.  I don't want to be dr. philled while I'm walking - it's a bit over-kill, don't you think?  So shut it, Dr. Phil, I'm bitchy today.  He'll be deleted as soon as I get home.  Just as well, since I now hate all men.  Hell, I'm not even going to watch his show anymore.  Ellen is on at the same time, I'm crossing over.   Snort!  Crossing over....  


Make a note:  Buy a better earpiece system.  Preferably one that stays in the ears. 

Yes, of course I could have switched out of the Amazing Grace series, and found Toby Keith instead.  IF I could have SEEN the damn settings on the Ipod, and known what did what.  I didn't have my glasses on - just sunglasses.  As it was, I was stuck in Amazing Grace Hell.  What irony.  And then?  Johnny Cash came on, singing the song, and it made me stop to take deep breaths, caught in the gut cause of Jorge.  As always, such a sense of loss - him, SFM, and ugly family dysfunctions.  Always I remember something new that I really didn't need to remember.  The frown feels permanent on my face now. 

I was about ready to beat Jeffrey with my walking stick, what with his lagging behind ways.  Twice I had to back track around the jail, cause he wasn't keeping up with me and Muttin.  I yelled "Get your little black butt back here", and didn't even care if the neighbors heard me being racist. 

Gasp!  Did someone change my brain while I was sleeping last night???  Beat my own dog?  Precious Jeffrey?  What the hell was wrong with me?  I decided it was time to go home and hide myself before things got out of hand.  Despite the sunny day, my brain was full of black clouds and thunder.  Plus the pills aren't working. 


Seems I'm Rebooting the Ovarian Operating System


Thursday, July 06, 2006

I went bra shopping and I won!

Bra shopping.  Three days ago.  I finally feel strong enough to blog about it. 

Mine are all to big for me now, because altho I'm proud to have lost weight, two and a half thirds of the weight I have lost has been in the boobies.  Which would imply that I was quite ... chesty, but somehow, that was not the case, either.  Life is not fair, as I have well established. 

So.  I tried on 47 bras.  Yes, I counted.  You may think I counted because I am anal that way.  No.  I counted, knowing that there was a possibility of blogging about it.  You never know what might be blog-worthy, so it pays to pay attention to the details. 

So.  I tried on 47 bras.  Only 6 items are allowed in the dressing room at one time.  I drew the line at re-dressing after each 6 items so that I could go get the next six, asking the clerk very politely if she could take the 6, and bring me the next 6, which were sitting in the cart close by, thank you very much, please.  And oh, please, after I try them on, please place them in the appropriate piles somewhere out there because there's no room in the dressing room. 

1.  Possible, but Have to Try a Different Size Pile.

2.  Possible, but I can't Decide if Purple is really my Color Pile.

3.  Possible, but I can't decide if Flesh-Toned is really my Color Pile.  No wait, that one can probably go in pile # 3.  Sorry.

4.  What was I Thinking Pile.  (The water bra, for one.  The Bare Intimate left alot to be desired.  And the deep plunging one.  There's nothing deep about my boobs, nor do I want any plunging going on).

5.  No. 

6.Oh HELL no.

7.  Yes. 

But wait.  The Yes pile isn't necessarily a done deal.  There is an international law, applicable in all nations, that once a woman has finally found a bra that actually fits, when she goes back to grab a couple more from the rack from whence it came... said law requires that there are none.  Even if a shopper is clever enough to check that there are 20 bras of the same size before she tries one on, the International Evil Bra Snatcher comes along and buys all twenty of them while the poor victim is still in the dressing room, who in her blissful but short-lived ignorance is jumping up and down, celebrating the fact that she's found a bra that fits.

One of the sad facts of my life is that I've never known what bra size I was.  How much of that is due to denial is for my God/Higher Power business to determine.  Way back in the beginning, being a 32AA was a shameful secret, so I'd pretend a 34B fit me better, which it did not.  (I wished it would have been a shameful secret had it not been for the fact that a lady clerk was trying to size/fit/maul my little rosebuds into a training bra and I'm sure she got on the phone and called everyone she knew to say she'd just fitted at 20 year old with a -2AA)  (And what the hell was a training bra all about?  Obviously I got a defective brand, since the boobies stayed small)  Then I blamed the bra manufactures, who decided their own brand was the one true sizing measurement, and who cared if all the other manufactures said a 36C was really a 34B - they were going to make their 36C's really fit 34B's, thereby feeding into that secret shame of being too small.  Pretty soon, all the different manufacturers followed suit, and never again did a Cross My Heart 36B be the same size as a Victoria Secrets 36B.  I've been everything from a 32AA to a 42C.  Did you know there's no such thing as a 40A or B?  Not in any store I've shopped at.  Today I learned that sizes go from 32AA to 54H.  I also Googled how to find your bra size, and was pleased to learn that I had bought the right size.  Plus?  It only took 4 hours to do so.  Score!

We women make the joke about how we don't have any concept of measurements, because our men are contantly telling us 6 inches is really.... 12 inches?  If you know what I mean.  Well, we women also have our numbers shame when it comes to personal anatomy.  Only we get letters to go along with our number, so we get to fool ourselves twice over. 

Speaking of fooling ourselves, we also try to fool the male species.  With padded bras, push-up bras and implants.  Which I never really understood, cause do you keep the pad and the push-up on when you get naked in front of a man to keep the illusion going?  Not to mention the padding gets all crumpled in the wash which translates into wrinkled under the t-shirt.  Not a desired result either.  And fake boobs?  They look fake. 

So anyways, I tried on 47 bras.  (It's all in the details)  The manufacturers must have got their act together, because for the first time ever, I was a consistent 36C.  Evidently I gained 4 inches on the band size (across my back) when I gave birth. 

Twenty-five years ago.