I am woman hear me.... ughhhh....

In the age old battle of the sexes, I will be one of the first to admit that there are some benefits of being male.

• Guys can pee standing up. (Well, women can too, but not without serious consequences).
• Guys only have one area to cover up for an impromptu swim, sun bathe, etc. 
• Guys don't give birth.
• Guys never have to go through the hell that is buying a new bra. 

Recently a friend of mine had to invest in some new "over the shoulder boulder holders." (If that's the first time you've heard that one, pretend like I made it up). While the whole process was as awkward and uncomfortable as it always was, it was made a little better by the running commentary from the woman in the fitting room next to hers. She sent me continuous texts to keep me updated.

First, for all of you girls that are blessed with small tatas (and yes- it is a blessing) and for all of you guys out there, let me give you an idea of what it is like to buy a new bra:

• If you really need support, you don't go to Victoria's Secret. I guess that's the secret- they don't actually fit well or hold up if they are holding up more than a C- cup. Surprise! Our bras only work if you look like our models and are a size 00 with a B and look great in push-up bras!
• Good bras cost a lot of money. Anywhere from $50-$80.
• Spending that much money on a bra means knowing the correct size. You wouldn't spend that much money on jeans or tennis shoes without knowing they would fit.
• Knowing the correct size means getting measured. Which means having someone (usually an older woman that has made this her life career and has no shame---- yeah forget hot girls touching hot girls--- that ain't happening in the bra department) wrap a measuring tape repeatedly around your boobs to get the exact size. And the exact size means a taut measuring tape. Which means Gertrude/Bertha/Doris/Thelma unapologetically gets all up in your stuff. 
• You then go into a fitting room with an array of bras, most of which look like they were designed to withstand the Apocalypse (at least the roaches will be around to enjoy the bras) and start trying them on.
• Trying on bras include bending, shaking, twisting, jumping, and a series of other moves that would make Elaine from Seinfeld look like a ballerina. And all of these moves before you put your shirt on to see how the bra looks normally. So there is a lot of time in front of the mirror discovering what you really look like.

So now that you have an idea, let me bring you back to the dressing room where my friend listened to one of the best monologues in the world:

"Ooooohhh be positive. Don't get frustrated this time. I know, I know... Spanx are just not doing it. I need something here (sound of hands slapping bare skin). OOOOOHH- good lord- these must be baby spanx!! (very heavy breathing).......... Maybe I should just go all natural with no bra and really move my flesh. No, no, no, I can't do that. I really need something to smash my boobies down- this dress is just too low cut and I can't look like a floozy....... Oh, god, now that really is a new roll.... (Panicked, heavy breathing, sounds of struggling, muffled talking).... Oh no... Oh no... I can't get out of this dress... I HATE shopping... (huge sigh) that's it, I'm done! Now where is my old bra?....... Awwww, here it is. Look how dilapidated it is. Now that is some sad looking. Ain't that something...."



And to this lady, whoever she may be, I dedicate this post because I know I've been there and will be there again at some point. It's just a fact of life in this farmisht world.

To the rest of you that are cursed with the plague of bra shopping:

May your straps hold up forever
May your clasps never quit
May your cups always protect against THO
May you always find that one perfect fit

Famous last words

My mom is a really good cook. She can put together 6 course meals or whip up fish en papillote. She makes excellent gumbo, amazing grillades and grits, and has mastered the art of producing fluffy matzoh balls. She is the queen of her kitchen. While my mom enjoys spending time in the kitchen, she does not like baking. Unfortunately for her, however, a tradition started decades ago when she baked an award winning cheesecake for one of my dad's customers around the holidays. I am almost certain that if she could time travel, she would go back to that December, put some cookies in a tin, and be done with it. But alas, her fate was sealed by that cheesecake.

Now this is not any ordinary cheesecake (or so I've been told- I don't know, I don't like cheesecake). People go nuts over this cheesecake. Back in the 60s, my Grandmother would sell these cheesecakes at fundraisers for $20. That's the equivalent of over $100 today. For a cheesecake. Cream cheese and sugar. And eggs and butter. My Grandmother did not give my mom the recipe until she and my dad were happily married. Oh yeah- it's that good. (Or so they say).

Throughout the years, my mom saw the list of loyal customers who were to receive cheesecakes grow. The once coveted family recipe became the cornerstone of our holiday kitchen activity as we would churn out literally 12-15 cheesecakes every December. My mom and I developed our own assembly line of crust making, egg separating, and flour measuring.

In recent years, things have changed and now only the very select few get a cheesecake. This year some of those select few included my coworkers. I went home one weekend to partake in the cream cheese sweat factory and to have my mom's support while putting together my own cheesecakes. Since the kitchen is HER room and she has made a gazillion cheesecakes over the course of time, she had an overly watchful eye on my doings. She was particularly attentive when I began assembling her Cuisinart Elite Food Processor (insert awe here) and I finally snapped when she told my dad just to grind the cookies for me.

"MOM- I HAVE TWO DEGREES----- I AM CERTAIN I CAN FIGURE THIS OUT."

She put her hands on her hips, raised one eyebrow and hesitantly relinquished some of the kitchen power.

I dramatically sighed and turned to back to the food processor. I put the cookies in and mashed the button. Nothing. I shifted the top and tried again. Nothing. I started getting nervous at the thought of replacing the expensive machine that magically broke when I touched it when I realized it wasn't plugged in.

I tried to play it cool and plug it in without anyone noticing. But my parents saw. Oh yeah- they noticed.

Two degrees.

But neither in cheesecake making.Or how to plug stuff in.

I have a problem

A serious problem.

I can't help it.

The cravings and immediate gratification are the same as a cigarette or the clang of a slot machine.

My dad has threatened interventions before. But I don't think I can handle that.

If only it wasn't so.... available.  And it's easy, too. When you don't buy a lot at one time, people don't realize that you are stocking up. I don't look like anyone that needs to be featured on TLC. I'm a normal person. Just with one little addiction.

 

No, seriously. I can't go to the grocery store without walking down the salad dressing aisle. And then, when they put it on sale "buy one, get one free," God help me.

I have three different types of Ranch in my fridge. Talking about it out loud gives me an intonation similar to Benjamin Buford Blue (Bubba Gump).

This is an issue. Seriously.


I rationalize it by thinking of different ways the world could end and the fact that I can hole up in my apartment for a long time with enough creamy nutrients to keep me alive for at least two days. Boo-yah.

Don't hate the player, hate the wide variety and great sales.

Fill in the blank

A friend's mom unearthed a top notch picture of us from high school. My friend showed it to me and I rapidly fired questions at her:

WHAT ARE WE WEARING!?
WHY IS MY HAIR LIKE THAT!?

And... the most important one: What the hell are we looking at!? So, blog readers- that's your million dollar question. What are we looking at? Fill in the blank. Comment and take a gander. The most clever comment will be rewarded with....... more blog posts at some point (WINNNNNNER!!!)

Quirks from the road

My coworkers and I travel a lot during the fall and we all have stories we can tell about our great road running adventures. We have all had at least one moment (a day??) where our outlook has betrayed us by switching our appointments to a different time zone or where we get a call or text obnoxiously late or early from some other time zone (PEOPLE- I AM ON WEST COAST TIME. JUST BECAUSE YOU HAVE HAD YOUR LIFE IN ORDER FOR LIKE TWO HOURS DOES NOT MEAN I HAVE.... also, sorry, coworker, for calling you at midnight East coast time-- it was only 9 my time).

We have all been at the point where we roll over in the dark to find the alarm, slam it off, get up, scratch whatever needs scratching and make our way over to the window to throw open the shades to get a view of whatever office park, parking garage, or lame intersection our room faces- just so we can remember exactly where we are.

We entertain each other with "tales from the road," stories about showing up to the airport way too early (foiled by different time zones again) or late (damn you, time zones); recaps on throwing our keys away with our trash and what it was like to dig through the dumpster at the Embassy Suites for an hour; or run downs on what type of rental cars we got and jealous grunts when someone reveals the sweet ride they snagged on their trip. Ahhhh yes, life on the road.

Fortunately/Unfortunately/Fortunately/Unfortunately, Tunately, I didn't have any major happenings to report on during my last trip. My adventures were kind of lame. I ate "chicken" at a Vegetarian restaurant. (I have no idea what it was if it wasn't chicken, but I am still flabbergasted at how far veganology has come.); I took a lot of pictures of the leaves changing colors, and I apparently ordered a bunch of shower caps. On the last night on the road I went back to my room to be greeted by a frantic hotel employee. He was knocking on my door as I walked up. A huge smile of relief spread across his face. "FOR THE SHOWER!!!," he barked as he thrust the shower caps in my hand. "WEVE BEEN TRYING TO GET YOU!!!" and off he went. I had not been to my room in hours and... oh yeah... HAD NEVER USED A SHOWER CAP IN MY LIFE, so was a little confused about why I was suddenly holding four of them. I shrugged, went into my room, and immediately started wondering which room the person with the shower cap necessary hair was camping out in..... And if they would let me touch that mystifying hair. 

FYS

There are some people in this world that people just want to talk to. Total strangers will walk up to them and reveal their deepest secrets. People in the line at the grocery store will seamlessly shift the conversation from the weather to a detailed outline about their struggles with Irritable Bowel Syndrome. An innocent smile while pumping gas could result in a fifteen minute monologue about their granddaughter's ballet recital. A friend and I describe this as an 'FYS' moment- one that should be held onto for your shrink. While in line at Starbucks, divulging that you are stressed out because you have to move unexpectedly because you caught your landlord in bed with your boyfriend is not for me- that is FOR YOUR SHRINK.

Luckily, I am not one of these people that people just want to talk to.

Well not most of the time, at least.

Thank god.

But, for some reason, every now and then, I do attract some bizarre behavior and conversations. For example, the time that the girl ringing me up at the grocery store told me about her weight issues. Or the time that the man got on the half empty streetcar and chose to share a seat with me and proceeded to tell me about his ultimate fear of getting trapped in the deep freezer at work.

A more interesting FYS moment occurred this summer, while I was staying at a casino. (Just to paint the picture- it was legit, it wasn't like a truck stop casino). I had just pressed the elevator button to go to my floor when a man in a bathing suit stuck his hand in between the doors and just barely made it in. He gave me a big "I'm only missing two teeth" smile and proceeded to talk.

"You been winnin big!?"

"No- not really, I haven't been gambling much."

"Awwww- come on now--- you gotta play. I bet yer lucky! I won real big last night."

"Oh."

"No- seriously. Real big! I done won $600! And I'm doing good today, too- but I had to take a break and run to the room to use the bathroom. I didn't want to take the chance to find it in the casino. I gotta pee real bad."

At this point, he gave me another grin while hopping from one leg to the other and pulling his knees together real tight.

"Shit," I thought to myself, "why did they put me on such a high floor? If I were on the third floor, I could have avoided this altogether."

The elevator slowed down as the doors opened and he let out a moan as he kept up the toddler 'I have to pee' two step.

Another woman got on and pushed a button.

He looked at her "How ya doin, ma'am?" Her face twisted slightly as she took in the scene. He continued. "Man, I been havin a good day! But I was just telling my friend here I wish they would turn up the A/C- I'm so dang cold-I'm shiverin!" He squeezed his knees together and somewhat covered his crotch and sent a wink my way. Like it was a little inside joke that he really was about to piss all over himself.

Finally, the elevator dinged to a halt at my floor and I scrambled off of it.

I guess I had been lucky- I got to avoid what could have been a urine soaked scene in a small space. And, just from my brief interaction, I think that this man had a lot of things that he should have been sharing with his shrink.

We should all be ashamed of ourselves.

The other day while perusing Wal-Mart, I came across this fine example of how Americans have become overweight, sad, materialistic, Honey Boo Boo loving, ignorant consumers.

Please notice the size in between L and XL.


That's right- Husky.


Really!? Really!? HUSKY is a size now!?

I guess there's no such thing as vanity sizing when it comes to boy's Halloween costumes.

There should be a size called "YOU ARE TOO DAMN BIG TO GO TRICK-OR-TREATING" or maybe, instead of Husky we should call it "YOU DON'T NEED ANY CANDY, FAT-ASS. NOW RUN HOME AND DO SOME SIT UPS, KING CURTIS.*"




*Thank you to Laura Meagher for the King Curtis reference.