Yesterday’s teeth-gritting rage has settled into a profound and far-reaching disappointment in my fellow humans. I don’t know what it is about folks, but it seems that no matter how low I set the bar, so many still have an uncanny ability—nay, need—to bang their shins against it.
My closest friend local to me has desisted in returning my calls. Sick of trying to figure out what, if anything, I might have done to alienate him or what, if anything, is the matter with him I have decided that I can not really be bothered to care. Shit, usually only people I’ve slept with avoid me like this. If I needed this in my life, I’d go back to having one night stands.
So, THAT annoyed me.
Then, after completing a week of work that was about nothing but trying to contain the idiocy and incompetence of others, I arrived home to care for the beasties and get ready for an evening out. Who then should call but someone from my other job!
Not just any someone, but my least favorite co-worker, the one who talks so much like the Chicken Lady from The Kids In The Hall and who, from all evidence, is actually incapable of doing anything more difficult that exchanging carbon dioxide for oxygen. Dimwit was calling to verify that I was working this evening. I suppose it is as well that she did because I am not, in fact, working tonight. Just. Not. I don’t know why exactly these fuckers are incapable of writing and disseminating a schedule that actually works, but after careful consideration I’ve concluded that it is not my fucking problem. Fuck it, fire me. Please.
The conversation was too ridiculous for reproduction here, suffice it to say that I believe this woman was actually shocked, SHOCKED, that I would have the audacity to decline another evening with a phone glued to my ear, trying to figure out which resident in my lobby needed a bath.
Then. Traffic. Which while it pissed me off, was followed closely by beer and then gin, so that was okay.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Extreme Stupidity Challenge, Personal Edition
Sometimes, you just feel kinda bad.
There is no reason. Nothing is really wrong. The bills are paid. There is a little money in the bank. Weather is nice. The iPod is regularly spitting out music that is simultaneously unfamiliar and good. You’re just in a funk that you can’t fully shake.
So, what’s the stupidest thing you can do?
Look up your ex-husband’s name on My Space. For no fucking reason except morbid curiosity.
The bright side? His new baby is ugly. And they gave her a stupid name.
There is no reason. Nothing is really wrong. The bills are paid. There is a little money in the bank. Weather is nice. The iPod is regularly spitting out music that is simultaneously unfamiliar and good. You’re just in a funk that you can’t fully shake.
So, what’s the stupidest thing you can do?
Look up your ex-husband’s name on My Space. For no fucking reason except morbid curiosity.
The bright side? His new baby is ugly. And they gave her a stupid name.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Extreme Stupidity Challenge, Current Events Edition
So, I am finishing waking from the comfy nap that was my vacation and I am finding that, perhaps predictably, people did not get smarter while I was gone.
*sigh*
Let’s take a cursory glance at a couple of national, local, and not-quite-news stories from the past few days.
People Who Are Too Stupid Read Things Face Housing Woes
Certainly, everyone by now has heard that the housing market is circling the drain and that late mortgage payments and foreclosures are on the rise, especially among sub-prime borrowers, now that people’s adjustable-rate mortgages are beginning to “reset.”
Duh, motherfuckers.
I mean, come on. You have crappy credit, or don’t make enough to easily afford to buy a too big house in Whitehaven or some other exurban hellhole, so to get what you want you take on some incredibly stupid and risky loan. THEN, instead of addressing the problem by rebuilding your credit or selling a kidney or something, you expect a miracle to come along and fix your problem for you. Because, yeah, double digit percentage growth in home values is an historically common occurrence.
Look. I’m sure there are scumbags who lied outright about the terms of these loans. I am certain to my toes that there were tons of irresponsible mortgage brokers/loan officers/bankers/loan sharks who sold these loans to unsuspecting rubes without adequately explaining the terms. That said, though, who signs a document promising to repay tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars without at least a cursory understanding of the terms?
It’s not important that you know what the “LIBOR index” to which your fully-indexed mortgage rate will be tied is, but it is pretty fucking important that you get that your sweet “teaser rate” will only be guaranteed for five years, and that after that it is going be tied to this other rate, which is almost certainly going to cost you a metric crap-ton of additional greenback dollars every month.
Back when I was married, and we had ARMs on our houses, I had a decent grasp on what was going on with my home loans. I knew the time frame for the expiration of the teaser rates (one was five years, one was 7); I knew the adjustment periods after that (one was once a year, one was six months); I knew the adjustment caps (2% max upward adjustment for each); I know that the 5/2 could be locked after the first adjustment into a 30-year fixed (which would have still left us forever with an APR below 7.5%); and I never intended to have the stupid loans that long, anyway (and didn’t).
How many people didn’t even attempt to grasp any part of that fairly simple information? When I worked at a mortgage broker, how many times did I hear her explain to people to whom we were giving subprime loans that they needed to rebuild their credit so they could get out of those loans at the conclusion of two years? How many times did I see the words go into one ear only to drift, like dandelion fluff on an April breeze, out the other?
Whatever. Yes, it’s a shame that folks are getting into trouble, and I’m sure that some have been legitimately deceived. Self-deception doesn’t count, and an inability to see the writing on the wall is not a legitimate handicap. It’s just stupid.
St. Louis City Schools See Writing On the Wall, But No One Can Read It
The Missouri Department of Elementary and Secondary Education has revoked the accreditation of the St. Louis City Schools. No one who has been paying the least bit of attention is the tiniest bit surprised.
There was a protest at the DESE meeting, complete with some teenager shoving a cop, then running, then getting maced, which makes me think this kid’s social studies’ teachers probably did an inadequate job covering civil disobedience and non-violent protest.
After the melee was quelled, the DESE Board predictably voted to, I don’t know, draw and quarter the school board and replace them with Muppets or whatever. Yes, this is terrible. The alternative? Immeasurably worse.
So, what’s noteworthy about this? Two things.
A current St. Louis board member called the decision, among other things, a move toward “regentrification” of the city, an attempt to make it more white. Huh? First of all, I don’t think “regentrfication” is a word (and neither does Microsoft Office). Second, saying that the district is grossly failing students and needs to do better—that’s a white thing? This woman should be forced to sit in room and write her inane statement 500 times as punishment for her all-encompassing idiocy.
Then, because I had not suffered NEARLY enough on my morning commute, the leader of the union that represents the St. Louis teacher’s union stood up and said that their primary concern was making sure that the state didn’t do anything to alter the current teachers’ contract.
Oh. My. God.
I hope this woman’s face rots and her brain falls out *splat* onto the sidewalk. That has got to be the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard said by anyone who wasn’t trying to talk me into taking off my panties. Shouldn’t, oh I dunno, the miserably failing students be the teachers’ primary concern? Just maybe? Just a thought . . .
(This link might include the two above statements...like I said, I was yelling at my car stereo. Listen to the MP)
Mom Apparently Fattening Son For Slaughter; State Intervenes
I’m sure that you all saw the link to the video of the woman in West Virginia who is at risk of having the state take her 7-year-old son from her because he weighs more than 250 pounds. Okay, um, wow. I usually don’t watch these things, but this one got my attention. I gave it a gander.
Jay-sus. One of a few things is going on here:
1. This woman suffers from some neo-Krispy Kreme- Munchausen-by-proxy abuse thing. She’s intentionally fattening this kid up for some twisted purpose of her own. Sometimes, folks is just CRAZY.
2. This woman is a serious idiot, who despite what she has been told by the various doctors to whom she has dragged this poor kid, just doesn’t understand the basic principles of nutrition.
3. She’s dim, and the doctors she’s seen have been either weak-willed morons educated in offshore backwaters who have either failed to adequately educate this woman, or have failed to test this kid for some kind of awful disease or hormonal imbalance or something. Let’s not rule that out as a possibility.
I’m leaning towards numbers 1 or 2, and here’s why: If you watch the video, it shows at least a partial list of what she feeds this kid in a day. First is breakfast, which consists of “ 4 eggs” and some other stuff.
What? WHAT? FOUR eggs? This kid is SEVEN. I’m 30. I’m 5’10, and curvy, and even at my most hung-over; plummeting blood sugar; been-out-all-night-drinking-and-dancing so feed-me-before-I-gut-you morning time starvation the most I can choke down is three.
For a moment, let’s give this woman the benefit of the doubt and assume she’s not fattening this kid up for slaughter or something. If that’s the case, before the state further screws up this kid by yanking him from his mom, they should do the following (clearly, I feel all list-makey today):
1. Send a nutritionist to his house who will throw away all processed foods of any kind and re-teach Mom how to cook.
2. Hire a trainer to Mousercize this kid’s ass.
3. Repo the video games and disconnect the cable.
*sigh*
Let’s take a cursory glance at a couple of national, local, and not-quite-news stories from the past few days.
People Who Are Too Stupid Read Things Face Housing Woes
Certainly, everyone by now has heard that the housing market is circling the drain and that late mortgage payments and foreclosures are on the rise, especially among sub-prime borrowers, now that people’s adjustable-rate mortgages are beginning to “reset.”
Duh, motherfuckers.
I mean, come on. You have crappy credit, or don’t make enough to easily afford to buy a too big house in Whitehaven or some other exurban hellhole, so to get what you want you take on some incredibly stupid and risky loan. THEN, instead of addressing the problem by rebuilding your credit or selling a kidney or something, you expect a miracle to come along and fix your problem for you. Because, yeah, double digit percentage growth in home values is an historically common occurrence.
Look. I’m sure there are scumbags who lied outright about the terms of these loans. I am certain to my toes that there were tons of irresponsible mortgage brokers/loan officers/bankers/loan sharks who sold these loans to unsuspecting rubes without adequately explaining the terms. That said, though, who signs a document promising to repay tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars without at least a cursory understanding of the terms?
It’s not important that you know what the “LIBOR index” to which your fully-indexed mortgage rate will be tied is, but it is pretty fucking important that you get that your sweet “teaser rate” will only be guaranteed for five years, and that after that it is going be tied to this other rate, which is almost certainly going to cost you a metric crap-ton of additional greenback dollars every month.
Back when I was married, and we had ARMs on our houses, I had a decent grasp on what was going on with my home loans. I knew the time frame for the expiration of the teaser rates (one was five years, one was 7); I knew the adjustment periods after that (one was once a year, one was six months); I knew the adjustment caps (2% max upward adjustment for each); I know that the 5/2 could be locked after the first adjustment into a 30-year fixed (which would have still left us forever with an APR below 7.5%); and I never intended to have the stupid loans that long, anyway (and didn’t).
How many people didn’t even attempt to grasp any part of that fairly simple information? When I worked at a mortgage broker, how many times did I hear her explain to people to whom we were giving subprime loans that they needed to rebuild their credit so they could get out of those loans at the conclusion of two years? How many times did I see the words go into one ear only to drift, like dandelion fluff on an April breeze, out the other?
Whatever. Yes, it’s a shame that folks are getting into trouble, and I’m sure that some have been legitimately deceived. Self-deception doesn’t count, and an inability to see the writing on the wall is not a legitimate handicap. It’s just stupid.
St. Louis City Schools See Writing On the Wall, But No One Can Read It
The Missouri Department of Elementary and Secondary Education has revoked the accreditation of the St. Louis City Schools. No one who has been paying the least bit of attention is the tiniest bit surprised.
There was a protest at the DESE meeting, complete with some teenager shoving a cop, then running, then getting maced, which makes me think this kid’s social studies’ teachers probably did an inadequate job covering civil disobedience and non-violent protest.
After the melee was quelled, the DESE Board predictably voted to, I don’t know, draw and quarter the school board and replace them with Muppets or whatever. Yes, this is terrible. The alternative? Immeasurably worse.
So, what’s noteworthy about this? Two things.
A current St. Louis board member called the decision, among other things, a move toward “regentrification” of the city, an attempt to make it more white. Huh? First of all, I don’t think “regentrfication” is a word (and neither does Microsoft Office). Second, saying that the district is grossly failing students and needs to do better—that’s a white thing? This woman should be forced to sit in room and write her inane statement 500 times as punishment for her all-encompassing idiocy.
Then, because I had not suffered NEARLY enough on my morning commute, the leader of the union that represents the St. Louis teacher’s union stood up and said that their primary concern was making sure that the state didn’t do anything to alter the current teachers’ contract.
Oh. My. God.
I hope this woman’s face rots and her brain falls out *splat* onto the sidewalk. That has got to be the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard said by anyone who wasn’t trying to talk me into taking off my panties. Shouldn’t, oh I dunno, the miserably failing students be the teachers’ primary concern? Just maybe? Just a thought . . .
(This link might include the two above statements...like I said, I was yelling at my car stereo. Listen to the MP)
Mom Apparently Fattening Son For Slaughter; State Intervenes
I’m sure that you all saw the link to the video of the woman in West Virginia who is at risk of having the state take her 7-year-old son from her because he weighs more than 250 pounds. Okay, um, wow. I usually don’t watch these things, but this one got my attention. I gave it a gander.
Jay-sus. One of a few things is going on here:
1. This woman suffers from some neo-Krispy Kreme- Munchausen-by-proxy abuse thing. She’s intentionally fattening this kid up for some twisted purpose of her own. Sometimes, folks is just CRAZY.
2. This woman is a serious idiot, who despite what she has been told by the various doctors to whom she has dragged this poor kid, just doesn’t understand the basic principles of nutrition.
3. She’s dim, and the doctors she’s seen have been either weak-willed morons educated in offshore backwaters who have either failed to adequately educate this woman, or have failed to test this kid for some kind of awful disease or hormonal imbalance or something. Let’s not rule that out as a possibility.
I’m leaning towards numbers 1 or 2, and here’s why: If you watch the video, it shows at least a partial list of what she feeds this kid in a day. First is breakfast, which consists of “ 4 eggs” and some other stuff.
What? WHAT? FOUR eggs? This kid is SEVEN. I’m 30. I’m 5’10, and curvy, and even at my most hung-over; plummeting blood sugar; been-out-all-night-drinking-and-dancing so feed-me-before-I-gut-you morning time starvation the most I can choke down is three.
For a moment, let’s give this woman the benefit of the doubt and assume she’s not fattening this kid up for slaughter or something. If that’s the case, before the state further screws up this kid by yanking him from his mom, they should do the following (clearly, I feel all list-makey today):
1. Send a nutritionist to his house who will throw away all processed foods of any kind and re-teach Mom how to cook.
2. Hire a trainer to Mousercize this kid’s ass.
3. Repo the video games and disconnect the cable.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Vacation, Part the Second
Today was my first day back at work, and all I can say about that is that work is not nearly as much fun as vacation.
As for relating the rest of my vacation stories . . . well, I was drunk. And my friends were drunk. And I got a sunburn which is okay because it didn’t hurt that much and when I came back to work it was perfectly obvious that I had gone SOMEWHERE, which is half the point, isn’t it?
But really, there isn’t much to tell that would be at all amusing to outsiders. Was it fun? Duh, stupid. I had a wonderful time, but there are not really any stories of the “First, and then, and then, and finally, the end,” variety, you know? Not much can be said about sitting around getting drunk and laughing into the night, except that it is one of the truly marvelous human activities.
As is late night swimming in a too-cold ocean. At some point, clad in a bathing suit and a liquor wetsuit, I decided to go for a midnight swim. It was amazing, there is no other word for it. Just me and the water, laughing under a huge, black sky. It will be one of my favorite memories of this vacation, and it’s one I didn’t really share with anyone (even though poor Greg did come out to check on me, but he chose not to continue his swim because I wasn’t drowning and the ocean was too cold). Somehow, that almost makes it cooler. I had some shit I needed to say to the ocean and the stars, anyway.
Now, back to the world . . .
As for relating the rest of my vacation stories . . . well, I was drunk. And my friends were drunk. And I got a sunburn which is okay because it didn’t hurt that much and when I came back to work it was perfectly obvious that I had gone SOMEWHERE, which is half the point, isn’t it?
But really, there isn’t much to tell that would be at all amusing to outsiders. Was it fun? Duh, stupid. I had a wonderful time, but there are not really any stories of the “First, and then, and then, and finally, the end,” variety, you know? Not much can be said about sitting around getting drunk and laughing into the night, except that it is one of the truly marvelous human activities.
As is late night swimming in a too-cold ocean. At some point, clad in a bathing suit and a liquor wetsuit, I decided to go for a midnight swim. It was amazing, there is no other word for it. Just me and the water, laughing under a huge, black sky. It will be one of my favorite memories of this vacation, and it’s one I didn’t really share with anyone (even though poor Greg did come out to check on me, but he chose not to continue his swim because I wasn’t drowning and the ocean was too cold). Somehow, that almost makes it cooler. I had some shit I needed to say to the ocean and the stars, anyway.
Now, back to the world . . .
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Vacation, Part the First
Today is the last day of my long-awaited, much needed vacation. I've spent the day futzing around the house and puttering with this blog. At some point, I'm going to actually get dressed so that I can go pick up the boy and dissolve once and for all his delusion that he is involved with a civilized human being by relating tales of my trip.
Oh well.
Last night I returned to my hovel just before 1 a.m. to find that someone must have fed my cat X as that is the only thing that would explain his behavior. Jack must have woken me up no fewer than 10 times trying to make out with my head and eyebrows before I finally gave up on the whole sleeping thing. Fat fuzzy little bastard, to get revenge I picked up the dogs this morning.
The dogs? Both chasing bunnies in their sleep, Bella snoring like—well, like me when drunk, apparently.
Tybee was brilliant. The weather, although somewhat cool for a couple of days, was gorgeous and sunny. There cannot be any sound more wonderful in all the fucking world than the sound of the ocean at night. I participated in what can only be described as a seafood orgy, to the point of satiety. I can’t imagine eating seafood for awhile, which is just as well because after snarfing it on the coast of Georgia, it’s going to be a bitter disappointment in St. Louis.
Except buffalo shrimp. These are under consideration for acceptance to the short list of Reasons Worth Coming Out of the Trees. Short list, really. Great pizza and good, ice cold beer; green curry tofu; a perfect piece of crusty bread with excellent butter—these are among the short justifications for why it was worth evolving that I’ve come up with in my 30 years clinging to the planet. Buffalo shrimp might, maybe, get on that list. I already miss them. Damn you again, Mandy.
Thank god I found a place in St. Louis that serves them. As good as Tybee and Savannah? I highly doubt it given our distance from the ocean, but I’m hoping it is enough to, you know, give me a reason to live.
Anyway, vacation. You have to love a place where when you sit in the bed of a truck because that is where the sun is, not only does the waitress continue to bring you drinks, she doesn’t even bat an eye.
God love the woman, she might be a genius; I think I might have suggested at one point that she should get a Nobel Prize. Do they have one for waitressing? They should...otherwise just give her one for economics
Oh well.
Last night I returned to my hovel just before 1 a.m. to find that someone must have fed my cat X as that is the only thing that would explain his behavior. Jack must have woken me up no fewer than 10 times trying to make out with my head and eyebrows before I finally gave up on the whole sleeping thing. Fat fuzzy little bastard, to get revenge I picked up the dogs this morning.
The dogs? Both chasing bunnies in their sleep, Bella snoring like—well, like me when drunk, apparently.
Tybee was brilliant. The weather, although somewhat cool for a couple of days, was gorgeous and sunny. There cannot be any sound more wonderful in all the fucking world than the sound of the ocean at night. I participated in what can only be described as a seafood orgy, to the point of satiety. I can’t imagine eating seafood for awhile, which is just as well because after snarfing it on the coast of Georgia, it’s going to be a bitter disappointment in St. Louis.
Except buffalo shrimp. These are under consideration for acceptance to the short list of Reasons Worth Coming Out of the Trees. Short list, really. Great pizza and good, ice cold beer; green curry tofu; a perfect piece of crusty bread with excellent butter—these are among the short justifications for why it was worth evolving that I’ve come up with in my 30 years clinging to the planet. Buffalo shrimp might, maybe, get on that list. I already miss them. Damn you again, Mandy.
Thank god I found a place in St. Louis that serves them. As good as Tybee and Savannah? I highly doubt it given our distance from the ocean, but I’m hoping it is enough to, you know, give me a reason to live.
Anyway, vacation. You have to love a place where when you sit in the bed of a truck because that is where the sun is, not only does the waitress continue to bring you drinks, she doesn’t even bat an eye.
God love the woman, she might be a genius; I think I might have suggested at one point that she should get a Nobel Prize. Do they have one for waitressing? They should...otherwise just give her one for economics
Monday, March 5, 2007
On Captialism, Telecommunications Edition
Capitalism failed me again today.
Because my dad always held my intelligence in high esteem, he never had a problem explaining rather adult concepts to me. Before the age of 10, I had a rudimentary grasp of, in no particular order, perspective drawing; the internal combustion engine; why it was a bad idea to engage Israel in a war; the proper way to administer a headbutt; and the basic elements of capitalism. Supply and demand, opportunity cost, laissez faire economics (he didn’t use the words “laissez faire,” but whatever), monopolies, and why people in the USSR stood in line for toilet paper—all of these things were explained to me before I began the 4th grade.
Now, why can’t someone explain it to huge-normous corporations with which I am unwittingly forced to conduct business?
Having finally decided that Charter Communications is no longer worth trying to work with, I chose to go back to AT&T and get a landline phone and DSL. I need to be able to shop for sex toys and type swear words at will, so I need to get online at home.
This whole process turned into an utter goat-rope. I should be a communications company’s wet dream. I loathe ordering by phone. I am more than happy to send my personal information out over the interweb just so that I need not actually open my mouth and talk with another human being. It’s cheaper for the company, it keeps my hair from falling out. Why, dear god, why can’t we make this happen? What low-rent dropout programmers are working on the website for AT&T, and why can’t they make the P.O.S. work?
And, perhaps most importantly, whose dick do I have to suck to get these people to take my money?
Because my dad always held my intelligence in high esteem, he never had a problem explaining rather adult concepts to me. Before the age of 10, I had a rudimentary grasp of, in no particular order, perspective drawing; the internal combustion engine; why it was a bad idea to engage Israel in a war; the proper way to administer a headbutt; and the basic elements of capitalism. Supply and demand, opportunity cost, laissez faire economics (he didn’t use the words “laissez faire,” but whatever), monopolies, and why people in the USSR stood in line for toilet paper—all of these things were explained to me before I began the 4th grade.
Now, why can’t someone explain it to huge-normous corporations with which I am unwittingly forced to conduct business?
Having finally decided that Charter Communications is no longer worth trying to work with, I chose to go back to AT&T and get a landline phone and DSL. I need to be able to shop for sex toys and type swear words at will, so I need to get online at home.
This whole process turned into an utter goat-rope. I should be a communications company’s wet dream. I loathe ordering by phone. I am more than happy to send my personal information out over the interweb just so that I need not actually open my mouth and talk with another human being. It’s cheaper for the company, it keeps my hair from falling out. Why, dear god, why can’t we make this happen? What low-rent dropout programmers are working on the website for AT&T, and why can’t they make the P.O.S. work?
And, perhaps most importantly, whose dick do I have to suck to get these people to take my money?
Friday, March 2, 2007
On Bathing Suits
There is, for the average woman, perhaps no better way to ruin a perfectly good day than to go shopping for a new bathing suit.
In less than two weeks I will be shaking the dust of this little town and going on vacation. If the universe is feeling particularly merciful, the weather will be warm and sunny enough for me to bask outside and listen to the ocean. If the universe is NOT feeling merciful, per usual, there is a hot tub. Either way, though, I need a new bathing suit. Preferably one that does not make me want to hurt myself, or make my companions want to gouge out their own eyes.
Now, I understand that it is a rare woman indeed who feels perfect confidence in a suit. I don’t know any; I don’t think I even want to. My problem isn’t the leap of faith between dressing room and lounge chair. No, it’s finding a suit that I even want to take from the rack to the dressing room.
You see, there’s this thing about me. Things, really. They’re boobs. And they’re real. And without support, they become sad and pouty. They rebel. They refuse to participate in planned activities. Uncontained fake boobs will drift about the room and bounce off the ceiling like big souvenir helium balloons from the zoo. Real boobs, being of this Earth, are subject to the more fundamental laws of physics. Like that bastard, gravity.
So. I need to find a bathing suit that will offer the girls some support so that they enjoy their time in the sun, however brief it might be. And because I have the body of someone who enjoys food and drink without the stupid interference of jogging, I need some kind of coverage.
Here’s the thing, though. I am not a post-menopausal shapeless sack. I have curves, a waist even. My body is not perfect, but I don’t absolutely make people fucking ill. And I don’t care to drape myself in yards of lycra like some hideous redone throwback to the 19th century. Cut me some slack here, people.
Grrr. Bastards.
In less than two weeks I will be shaking the dust of this little town and going on vacation. If the universe is feeling particularly merciful, the weather will be warm and sunny enough for me to bask outside and listen to the ocean. If the universe is NOT feeling merciful, per usual, there is a hot tub. Either way, though, I need a new bathing suit. Preferably one that does not make me want to hurt myself, or make my companions want to gouge out their own eyes.
Now, I understand that it is a rare woman indeed who feels perfect confidence in a suit. I don’t know any; I don’t think I even want to. My problem isn’t the leap of faith between dressing room and lounge chair. No, it’s finding a suit that I even want to take from the rack to the dressing room.
You see, there’s this thing about me. Things, really. They’re boobs. And they’re real. And without support, they become sad and pouty. They rebel. They refuse to participate in planned activities. Uncontained fake boobs will drift about the room and bounce off the ceiling like big souvenir helium balloons from the zoo. Real boobs, being of this Earth, are subject to the more fundamental laws of physics. Like that bastard, gravity.
So. I need to find a bathing suit that will offer the girls some support so that they enjoy their time in the sun, however brief it might be. And because I have the body of someone who enjoys food and drink without the stupid interference of jogging, I need some kind of coverage.
Here’s the thing, though. I am not a post-menopausal shapeless sack. I have curves, a waist even. My body is not perfect, but I don’t absolutely make people fucking ill. And I don’t care to drape myself in yards of lycra like some hideous redone throwback to the 19th century. Cut me some slack here, people.
Grrr. Bastards.
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