I am El Nino!
In Spanish, my name means er The Nino!
-Chris Farley, impersonating the weather front on Saturday Night Live
No family stories today; just a little bit of my good ol bitching and moaning. I know October was Breast Cancer Awareness Month, but apparently, Terrakottas Breasts Awareness Month is in full-force. Last night, Jen and I went out to dinner (at Chilis, because it seems that there is some sort of steak extravaganza going on and Jen was very excited to partake in the festivities) and she convinced me to indulge in the El Nino margaritas, the specialty of the month. By the time we sauntered out of there, I was more than a little swishy, and we decided to forgo the movies, as we had originally planned, and head instead for the big mall. There, I used up some gift certificates I had saved and bought four cds: Melissa Etheridges Best Of (four out of five stars), the new Depeche Mode (could these men GET any older? not possible), a My Chemical Romance (catchy, but damn, I thought *I* was an angry Gen-X-er!), and finally, the Transplants newest. The last purchase was one I have regretted. Apparently, I bought the remixed version, and the two-dollar DJ they rented to rework their pieces really needs to keep his day job. I am two seconds away from tossing out into the snow. Its so bad, when I played it on my CD player at home, I thought something was wrong with my machine.
But back to my breasts. As if ANYONE could forget them (haha
), least of all me. And Ill share with you why. I have to buy a dinner dress for an upcoming event, and so Jen and I spent about an hour in the dressing room, placing satin and chiffon nightmares over my body. This was not unpleasant just because of my aversion to girly things (see old journal entry 10 Things That Make Me Wonder if Im a Real Woman for a refresher), but rather, it was plain frustrating, since every dress fit me in the waist and hips, but lo and behold! was too small in the chest. Those dresses that I DID manage to zip up left me looking like a Barbie with implants, or perhaps rather, a prostitute awaiting her next john. Boobs were spilling, squooshed, sandwiched, and sadly, screaming in agony, after we were done. Dont worry, Jen said. Youll find something. And away we went to other stores. Still, no luck. I tried to rationalize the experience, blaming the tequila and sour mix (which, in my twisted brain, evidently cause one to swell in the bosom region). So I tried again this morning.
There I was, one of the few heathens slouching into the mall at 10:00 on a Sunday, nursing a semi-hangover. This time, I assured myself, I would find a dress. Two hours later, near a complete crying jag and probable nervous breakdown, I had three dresses as possibilities. One was about 3 times my budget cut-off (ummmm, NOPE!), another was made entirely of black lace and made me wonder if I might be mistaken for a 60 year old call girl if I chose it. The final one was long, slinky, and velvet, but again, the boobs were doing their best Pamela Anderson impression on top and the black velvet made me feel somewhat like a roll of carpet from Larry Flynts abode. I looked back on the rack. There was another velvet Flynt dress hanging there, but it was two sizes bigger. I tried it on. The boobs fit, but the rest of my body had morphed into a cylinder-shape: the dress was no longer slinky, but a big black stick of velvet butter with a (practically flourescent) white set of shoulders peeping out the top. Imagine a black painters stick after having stirred a can of alabaster paint and that was me. I bit my lip and bought it, more out of fear that I would find nothing else than out of satisfaction.
Yes, I know this is the season for selflessness and consciousness of others suffering, but damnit, I just wanted to share a bit of self-absorption with all of you. Sure its Thanksgiving, and I am thankful for my God-given knockers,
but sometimes, it would be nice if they took a vacation without me. My back and the ladies monitoring the ladies dressing rooms would thank them. Now its off to find shoes to match the dress. 
God help us all; I may just have to swing by Chilis again for some liquid courage. 
In Spanish, my name means er The Nino!
-Chris Farley, impersonating the weather front on Saturday Night Live
No family stories today; just a little bit of my good ol bitching and moaning. I know October was Breast Cancer Awareness Month, but apparently, Terrakottas Breasts Awareness Month is in full-force. Last night, Jen and I went out to dinner (at Chilis, because it seems that there is some sort of steak extravaganza going on and Jen was very excited to partake in the festivities) and she convinced me to indulge in the El Nino margaritas, the specialty of the month. By the time we sauntered out of there, I was more than a little swishy, and we decided to forgo the movies, as we had originally planned, and head instead for the big mall. There, I used up some gift certificates I had saved and bought four cds: Melissa Etheridges Best Of (four out of five stars), the new Depeche Mode (could these men GET any older? not possible), a My Chemical Romance (catchy, but damn, I thought *I* was an angry Gen-X-er!), and finally, the Transplants newest. The last purchase was one I have regretted. Apparently, I bought the remixed version, and the two-dollar DJ they rented to rework their pieces really needs to keep his day job. I am two seconds away from tossing out into the snow. Its so bad, when I played it on my CD player at home, I thought something was wrong with my machine.
But back to my breasts. As if ANYONE could forget them (haha
), least of all me. And Ill share with you why. I have to buy a dinner dress for an upcoming event, and so Jen and I spent about an hour in the dressing room, placing satin and chiffon nightmares over my body. This was not unpleasant just because of my aversion to girly things (see old journal entry 10 Things That Make Me Wonder if Im a Real Woman for a refresher), but rather, it was plain frustrating, since every dress fit me in the waist and hips, but lo and behold! was too small in the chest. Those dresses that I DID manage to zip up left me looking like a Barbie with implants, or perhaps rather, a prostitute awaiting her next john. Boobs were spilling, squooshed, sandwiched, and sadly, screaming in agony, after we were done. Dont worry, Jen said. Youll find something. And away we went to other stores. Still, no luck. I tried to rationalize the experience, blaming the tequila and sour mix (which, in my twisted brain, evidently cause one to swell in the bosom region). So I tried again this morning.
There I was, one of the few heathens slouching into the mall at 10:00 on a Sunday, nursing a semi-hangover. This time, I assured myself, I would find a dress. Two hours later, near a complete crying jag and probable nervous breakdown, I had three dresses as possibilities. One was about 3 times my budget cut-off (ummmm, NOPE!), another was made entirely of black lace and made me wonder if I might be mistaken for a 60 year old call girl if I chose it. The final one was long, slinky, and velvet, but again, the boobs were doing their best Pamela Anderson impression on top and the black velvet made me feel somewhat like a roll of carpet from Larry Flynts abode. I looked back on the rack. There was another velvet Flynt dress hanging there, but it was two sizes bigger. I tried it on. The boobs fit, but the rest of my body had morphed into a cylinder-shape: the dress was no longer slinky, but a big black stick of velvet butter with a (practically flourescent) white set of shoulders peeping out the top. Imagine a black painters stick after having stirred a can of alabaster paint and that was me. I bit my lip and bought it, more out of fear that I would find nothing else than out of satisfaction.
Yes, I know this is the season for selflessness and consciousness of others suffering, but damnit, I just wanted to share a bit of self-absorption with all of you. Sure its Thanksgiving, and I am thankful for my God-given knockers,
but sometimes, it would be nice if they took a vacation without me. My back and the ladies monitoring the ladies dressing rooms would thank them. Now its off to find shoes to match the dress. God help us all; I may just have to swing by Chilis again for some liquid courage. VIEW 14 of 14 COMMENTS
Wow...what a coincidense. I Shakespeare take home final exam essay has that as the title. Wierd...
But...back to your breasts...