Post of the Week – Zebra Garden

When I read this post by Ashley Austrew at Zebra Garden I realized while we as women have come a long way, we still have much further to go. We take three steps forward, and then are pushed four steps back. As women, we need to keep talking. Ashley also discusses marriage equality and HIV.

This post, Things That Make My Vagina Cry, deserves your attention. Let the conversation continue.

There’s Nothing a Few Boob Jokes Can’t Cure

The subject today is boobs. I imagine I have your attention, or at least half of you. Ask any woman and I bet she has her own back story about her breasts.

When I first wore a bra at the age of thirteen, it was really more a matter of principle than need. Even though I was as flat as a pancake, I was strong enough to perform 20 pull-ups without breaking a sweat for my Physical Education test. By night, I was a competitive gymnast which may have stunted my pubescent growth. It didn’t stop some jerk-head at school from pulling my bra strap for his amusement every time our eyes met. Asshole. I wanted to go home immediately, and curl up and die.

Meanwhile, my younger sister blossomed well ahead of schedule. By the time she was thirteen, she was becoming a beautiful woman, her breasts full, a bra necessary, doing her best to ignore the awkward, furtive glances from our older brothers’ friends. Sure, she got some attention, and I was probably a little jealous.

Fast forward a few years more, and my sister’s breasts grew uncomfortably large, causing her back pain, and making exercise difficult. Buying a bra, a swimsuit, or any clothing really, proved to be an enormous, painstaking chore. I’m more or less happy with mine. So for the record, sensitivity is not lost on me.

Here’s the thing, I had an experience the other day with a woman (male audience, relax)…well, I can’t get my point across without explaining to you that the size of her bosom was phenomenal. By this I mean, they were gargantuan, hard not to notice, a huge rack. You got me? I am not well versed in guessing a woman’s chest size, but I would surmise a K or J cup…triple J perhaps? I actually have no idea. This detail isn’t critical. But I know some of you prefer a visual:

Expecting some gratuitous Ta-Tas here? Well, you can fantasize. Welcome to the female mind.

As I wandered aimlessly in the local Barnes & Noble, I looked up from a book, and there they were. My eyeballs popped out of their sockets. Soft, flesh pillows spilled out of the top of her silky, red blouse matching the red of her lips, her smile radiant. Bewildered, I cast my eyes downward. I was caught. She caught me staring at her breasts. Focusing from the chin up, I looked at her straight in the eye, offering a casual smile. I had hoped the whole thing went unnoticed. Oh, I think she noticed all right.

She proceeded as follows:

“You know these women who are hired for their big boobs at restaurants,” I was sure she was seething inside. “Well, what about these women who only have one leg?”


“They work at I-HOP.*”

Relieved, I had a good laugh. She continued.

“What is the difference between a snowman and a snowwoman?”

I shrugged and smiled.

“Snow balls,” she said.

I burst with uncontrollable laughter for some reason. I wanted to give her a high five.

“You needed a good laugh, didn’t you?” Yes, I did. I think she could have told a few more.

I walked away thinking about her brilliant smile, her warm sense of humor, and that she seemed happy in her skin.

Okay, now stop your weeping, and go forth and love yourself. We should all be so lucky.

*A breakfast/pancake house.

photo credit: Kris Kesiak Photography via photopin ccMangiu via photopin cc

Chick Moments

I’m calling Chick Moments things that don’t happen to guys. So guys, if I haven’t already turned away, you might want to stay and have a peek into the inner workings of a chick moment. There’s nothing wrong with getting in touch with your feminine side. Gals, you can let me know if any of this rings true.

Have you ever found yourself in a circle of women discussing the “chick” topics: purses, shoes, hair, manicures, pedicures, etc. I think we all have. This is the scene: Women gather, pheromones blend into the perfect formation, and a chick connection is made. Sassy Queen Estrogen flies in and makes her presence, taking notes on hair styles and makeup.

Can you tell I don’t like this? And, yet, I participate with the best of them. It’s as if the pheromonal air is acting as glue, holding the circle in one cohesive unit. Sometimes I feel that I almost can’t leave, and if I want to leave, I need to run. No bolt. I find myself commenting when actually I don’t care that much. Now let me pause for a moment. If it’s a close friend who asks for my opinion on something personal, this is a completely different story.

It’s the mindless bantering, chit-chattering about purses and shoes. Admittedly, I’ve never been much of a shopper. Shopping to me is usually about finding a specific item for a particular purpose within a confined budget. This is more of an assignment really. Shopping is only fun when you have money to burn and don’t need anything. This never happens. Still, if I had extra money, I probably still wouldn’t enjoy it. I’d prefer to be given clothes that fit perfectly and look great on me. I guess, who wouldn’t?

Purses and shoes are one thing, but it’s hair….hair color, hair styles, hair length…this is where there is more common ground. The chit chat about hair, indeed, surfaces.  The worst thing that can happen is if you make a noticeable change to your hair, and you get NO RESPONSE.

Case in point. Get ready for a disastrous Bumble. Once, in the process of getting my hair colored, the hairdresser said to me, “I’m just following your file here,” as she poured color or toner (or what?!) all over my hair.

Panic sets in. Was she kidding me? “File?” I ask. “I’ve never had my hair colored here before.”

She stopped with the chemicals. “Are you sure?” Is she doubting me? Mind you, we did have the pre-color talk. We already agreed on the color and the direction we were going. I guess that went out the window with evidence of the file.

After she rinsed out the chemicals, she promptly grabbed more bottles of toner (I think) and she poured them all over my head; rinsing, more pouring, more rinsing. My head felt raw.

The moment arrived on the chair in front of the mirror. How bad was it? She pulled off the towel, and all I could say was, “Oh, oh, wow…it’s, uh, brassy.”  Inside I was screaming, What did she fucking do to my hair? Why me? Why, oh why? The color was like the brassy gold of a door knob, with tinges of orange. I wasn’t going for the chic, Cindy Lauper. I couldn’t pull that off even if I wanted to.

But at that point, I pretended I was looking at someone else in the mirror. Who was that strange girl? Then denial set in. It won’t be that bad once she blow dries my hair. It will lighten up and with a few shampoos, indeed, it will tone down. Sure. I was in shock and actually paid for the color.

I was promptly taken back to reality when I arrived on school grounds to retrieve my children. Certainly, my female acquaintances noticed. Sure they did. I got the big NOTHING. I got the glances and the head turning in the opposite direction, or my favorite, the flat out stare directly into my eyes and then ZILCH.

Honestly, I should have worn a hat. The following week, I got, “You colored your hair,” and then NADA. They collectively knew they could not fake this.

You could say I’m out of the blond phase. As this happened a few years ago the brass has been replaced by my more natural brown tones. You can always fix hair. That’s a good thing.

photo credit: porschelinn via photopin cc