Tuesday, October 07, 2014

A million years ago I read somewhere that a perfect breast should fit into a champagne glass.

Oof, I thought. No way. I mean, not even on my best day, not even if I'm sucking in.
I made my peace with it a long while ago. Some cups runneth over.
But then I came across a champagne coupe and thought - ah.

I'm still not cramming myself into that thing, it might just sit upon me like a little yarmulke for my tits, but I can at least get over the Madonna-like proportions of the last one, and I can stop smirking every time I pour myself some bubbles.
I've always enjoyed the elegance and sense of occasion inherent in the flutes, but the coupe just seems to wink at me and lately I'm winking back.

Thursday, October 02, 2014

Sean is full of shit.
All good husbands are, so I don't really hold this against him.
My suspicions are raised every time he insists I have a good voice.
This is patently untrue. And a "good voice" isn't really all that subjective. It's not just that I could never make a career out of it, it's that I probably shouldn't open my mouth, ever. Oh, I'm sure it's not the worst voice in the world, but it's definitely bottom third. And I know it. I can't stand to hear my own voice (and my laugh is so much worse), so if you ask me to sing, I will flat-out refuse.  However, if that same song were to come on the radio mere moments later, you'll probably catch me singing along. And I do apologize. I wish my voice were better. Or that I could resist a good sing along. But it's not and I can't, and them's the breaks. There are worse afflictions to be saddled with and I can't say I mourn this one all too often.
Just don't tell me it's nice. Why do guys do that? Sean is not the first man to insist, not just that my voice is fine, because maybe fine I could understand, in the rose-coloured glasses sort of way, where you overlook certain flaws in your loved ones because you must in order to remain sane.
But nice? No, sir, it is not.

Similarly, I was recently contemplating selling my guitar. Yes, this is tragic. I mean, not starving children tragic, or even selling a guitar you love and use tragic. I bought my guitar with good intentions, and I even took lessons, but I'm not good at persevering at something I'm not immediately good at. And I'm immediately good at most things, which only reinforces my pathetic inclination to quit things that are hard. What am I, eight? Anyway, it just kind of sits there, taunting me, reminding me of that thing I can't seem to learn. I mean, I got the chords straight. I practiced enough to get some baby calluses. I worked on strumming patterns. I even put strung some notes together enough to make out bits of songs. But I sucked and got frustrated and quit. Which Sean rosily remembers as me "having a good sound."
I mean, can you believe this guy?
He has to compliment me and encourage me on EVERYTHING and it's exhausting. Especially the stuff I feel are blatant lies. I know he's into me, but after enough years of marriage to have stopped counting, I think we get the point, Sean. But can we agree that I have enough actually great qualities that we don't need to make any up? I actually told him the other day that when he gives me false compliments, parts of my brain melt.

But it's the butt compliments that really convince me that Sean has Stockholm Syndrome. I mean, yes, if my radio is to be believed, butts are really big right now. Literally and figuratively, I guess. But no matter how many lyrics are devoted to this body part, I'm afraid I'm not getting any more bootylicious. And that's fine. I think I make up for it in other departments. But if that's what you're into, then move along. There's no junk in this trunk.
But Sean is forever engineering ways in which to walk behind me, and appreciate the view. He tells me I have a nice ass just like he tells me I look beautiful when in fact I've made no effort, or that I smell good when I'm not even particularly clean.
I think I would appreciate the compliment more if it was based in fact. Tell me I have great taste in music, that my legs are startlingly soft, that I have the most disturbing sense of humour, that I'm the best you've ever had. That, I'll believe.
But this ass? This ass is whack.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

So there was this repugnant Katy Perry song on the radio yesterday (I realize that may not narrow it down very much) during which she dedicated it to everyone going to bed with a 10 and waking up with a 2 - caveat! - not her, though.

Because the truth that is not contained within her dazzling lyrics is that she goes straight to bed with the 2s. I mean, John Mayer? Russel Brand? Girl wouldn't know a 10 if he fell in her lap and sucked her cock.

Friday, August 29, 2014

Pants on Fire

Sean and I were in the car for no more than 6 or 7 minutes - long enough for me to have fiddled with my hair and my sunglasss, checked my phone, found the right song. And then the itch. I fought it. Fought it. Resisted. Nonononono. But who am I kidding? It's a miracle I've lasted this long, and most of my "triumph" is due to poor memory. So I blurt out to Sean - has he noticed any weird clanking noises coming from my car? Is it driving weird? Because I accidentally backed over a pilon a couple of days ago and dragged it a bit of a distance.

I hadn't really meant or wanted to confess this. In fact, at the time of the little incident, I told myself quite firmly that this would stay between me and Ruby (my car). But secrets have always chafed. As soon as it was out in the open, Sean assured me that my car was fine and that it would take so much more than a little nob of orange plastic to upset Ruby, and that I needn't have confessed. But he knows better. He knows that it wasn't about the car. I'm just pathologically incapable of holding things back, which is weird considering I have no problem whatsoever abiding my vows of confidentiality at work. But in my own life? I'm not a secret keeper. I tell Sean EVERYTHING. Everything. Poor kid. He knows my worst thoughts and doubts, he knows the things I dislike most about myself, he's well-acquainted with my demons. And I wish it was just that, but I can't keep anything from this kid. I might take weeks to find the perfect gift, wrap it lovingly, hide it expertly, but about 10 seconds later, even if it's still days or weeks or months before the occasion, I'll send him to retrieve and open the present just to ease the tension. Because for those 10 seconds, the secret was KILLING ME. And it's not even a bad secret! Even things that aren't lies or secrets get spilled. I don't omit, either. It might be harmless and witness-less, but if it happened, then I'm owning it. All the clumsy, stupid shit that I wish no one knew or even guessed - but then, if I truly wished that, then couldn't I find a way to keep it to myself? Or is Sean such an extension of my own self that I don't even distinguish the boundary between he and I?

I know not everyone has this problem of oversharing, but what I really want to know is, am I the only one? And the great thing about asking is knowing that if you're like me at all, you'll have to speak up. To hide it would be impossible.

Monday, August 11, 2014

Medical Tourism

We "wasted" our summer vacation on a painful surgical procedure in Cleveland, but we're not bitter :)

Destination: Cleveland, Ohio.  The kind of city that makes border agents raise their little eyebrows and ask "Why?" and then red flag you anyway for your return trip. Because they know what we now know: there is no good reason for going to Cleveland. It's a gritty city, mostly forgotten by time and progress, abandoned in places that should be built up, untended by its elderly population who still fly tattered flags and display sun-bleached, cat-scratched lawn gnomes, but where youth have fled, no grasses are mown, no cracks repaired, no cars purchased this century. It's the kind of place where, if you deign to use a public restroom, you make sure your travel companion stays firmly within "screaming distance" and then you don't sit, you hover, and hope you're up to date on your shots. It's the kind of place where hotel staff don't feel pressured to conform to normal hygiene standards, or use the proper contraction for "is not."

Ohio is a drunk-uncle state. Not particularly wanted or respected or remotely useful, but for reasons no one can now remember, part of the family, and kind of hard to eject. Everyone else is rightfully embarrassed that Ohio keeps showing up to Christmas dinner, as it were, and asking for handouts while they're there. You see, Ohio has no shame. Its major exports are begging and pleading, with imports of all the pity it can muster. "Please let us build the Pro Football Hall of Fame," it will whine, "no one visits us unless they're forced to!" And so America the great occasionally throws Ohio a bone - the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, a booming Olive Garden franchise, and a couple of world-class medical facilities just to round out the experience. They've crunched the numbers, and it turns out people who are suicidal with back pain are more likely than healthy people to be willing to come to Cleveland, and now they've built an industry to support it. There are private clinics springing up between boarded up pawn shops, and dirty "extended stay" motels and neighbourhood Applebees to go along with them, because patients usually bring a caretaker, and so a beautiful thing called "medical tourism" is born, and Ohio is all over it like a tramp on chips.