May
22
May 22, 2007
I hate big boobs and I can not lie.
Not your boobs, of course. Your personal boobs are magnificent! They’re so . . . rotund and regal! In fact, those suckers should be gracing the front of a Viking ship somewhere.
I’m talking about MY boobs, which have not reduced in size the same way some of my other, more cooperative body parts have in the last couple months. I realize that smaller breasts are not normally a desired side effect of dieting, but in my case I had fervently hoped to streamline my cup size, if only a little.
But no. They have perhaps succumbed even more to gravity (soon enough I’ll simply be scooping them off the goddamn floor when I get dressed in the morning), but the volume levels remain the same.
You know what? I’d like to wear a t-shirt without looking like I’m auditioning for a job at Hooters. I’d like to wear a button-down shirt that neither looks like a potato sack nor offers that tantalizing peekaboo gap between the third and fourth button. I want a bra that doesn’t include enough underwire to trigger an airport security alarm, and doesn’t appear to have been designed by a nun moonlighting as a structural engineer.
And . . . and I want to jog without having to hog-tie my chest into submission ahead of time! I’d like to experience the elusive thrill of the spaghetti strap! When I’m cold, I don’t want to have to do that awkward crossed-arms thing, to prevent my nipples from painfully poking out the eyeballs of innocent passersby!
I want small boobs, by god. Like a B cup. Enough to smash into cleavage with the right bra, not too much to get away with those ‘built-in shelf’ tank tops.
Oh, what might it be like, living in a world where your breasts don’t drag through the spaghetti sauce during dinner? Where your bra tag doesn’t read “Hoisted N’ Matronly: the Comfort Fit“? I fantasize about an unfettered, bouncy lifestyle, with elaborate champagne spillings (oops! Tee hee) and sunset horse-gallopings; where I’m free to run along the beach in slow motion, Baywatch-style . . . without a wayward boob flying back and smacking me in the face.
May
20
May 20, 2007
Hey, thanks for your interesting comments on the last post. I really enjoyed hearing where you stand on the religion spectrum, especially since no one told me I was going to, ha ha, burn in hell or anything.
Speaking of hell, the remodel work is in full swing:
Contractors have been plugging away all weekend, working to get the excavation done so the foundation construction can begin this week.
Of course, the instant the workers left for the day on Saturday, JB and Riley had to check out the backhoe. (Predictably, Riley was Suspicious.)
OMG CAT WTF!
It started raining like crazy this afternoon and hasn’t let up since–we had to get creative with the boy, because cabin fever + toddler = ARMAGEDDON.
“Go outside and play! We’ll deal with the pneumonia later.”
Did you know a dog collar can be used as a belt for a small child? Well, now you do.
This game involved pinecones. I . . . I don’t know why.
Here is Riley, ignoring his creepy lurking balloon in favor of poking Dog, who just wants to take a nap on her squeaky toy. O the madcap hijinks we get up to around here!
Cat, in Loaf Form, smugly taunting Dog for being locked outside. Cat, you are so very, very evil.
Microsoft? Well I’ll be dipped in shit, no wonder the kid has been such a handful lately: bad user experience.
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