On bras. And breast cancer.

Lots of hubub about SAVE THE BOOBS! with October being breastcancer awareness month. So I bought myself a couple of nice new bras. I lied. My purchase has actually nothing whatsoever to do with breastcancer or any kind of awareness. I just wanted to feel better about my chest in certain tops.

I've always appreciated the simplicity of an unpadded, underwire demi bra. This time I went with padded. And it's taking some getting used to.

When I look down? I can't see past "my" boobs to the shirt falling below them. I can even catch them out of the corner of my eye sometimes. If I brush up against them with my arm, it sounds like styrofoam. Plus, you guys? I'm used to being able to tell that these, in fact, are my breasts.

A girlfriend of mine and I once discussed having boobs on the smaller end of the spectrum. When we put them in padded bras, there's this unnatural "shelf" that is created between where my chest ends and the padding begins.

But hey. In honor of breastcancer awareness month, and for all you gals who have struggled with or survived having breast cancer, I'll continue to give myself monthly self-exams and be grateful I have healthy boobs, regardless of how I dress them.

What's good for the goose

Last night I began reading Please, Sir for the virtual book tour I am participating in for my friend Rachel. Meaning, I am going to be providing what I understand to be a literature review of the book. Or at least that's the angle I'm taking.

Speaking of angles, my head took about a 45 degree angle while my eyes widen and my nose crinkles, accompanied by my blushing face. Reading this book is not for the faint of heart. Rather, a reader open to observing another person's hot, steamy, heart-pounding, toe-curling orgasm recount of what it means to be submissive or dominated by someone else. Who ever thought I'd write that in this blog?

Preparing for my review leaves me with a lot of opinions and unanswered questions I'm guessing this audience may refute. Although my angle is from a person far less experienced in this topic, it is coming from a great place of nonjudgment and acceptance.

Now kindly shut Mommy's door so she can continue her stories...

I have an assignment!

An acquaintance friend of mine out in Brooklyn is an editor of erotica. She compiles stories filled with various themes involving hot steamy sexy stories Penthouse Forum has a hard time topping. I think her resume includes editing Penthouse Forum. Pardon the use of "hard" and "topping." That'll make more sense in a sec.

One of the many things Rachel does is travel the states conducting workshops on just how one successfully writes a story of erotica. And one time? I went up to Minneapolis to kick it with my friend Courtney, also friends with Rachel, because Rachel was in town giving one of her workshops at a local Uptown dildo shop. Honestly, you guys, my initial thought was YEAH! The perfect reason to get to Minneapolis to see Courtney AND see what Rachel is all about!

I believe I missed the memo informing me "workshop" entails you, as in me, actually participating in the shop of work.

Me: Writing? No biggie.
Memo: EROTICA.
Me: Oh.

Although I'll spare the gory details, I will share the image of the Catholic girl in me burying her beet red face anywhere she could so as to not make eye contact. With anyone. Especially the 50-something balding man with Jeffrey Dahmer glasses, white unmarked van parked outside, detailing his erotic fantasies with the entire group. That's how I took every story each brave soul shared. No one else existed in the room but me. Like they were whispering each dirty detail to me in secret as I squirmed doing my best to slither away. Spotlight shining straight down on me as they described the intricacies of the wet dream they had had the other night.

Except for Courntey. Pretty sure her humor disguised the naughtiness, allowing me to laugh. Catholic, remember?

On to my recent assignment. Rachel is now conducting a virtual book tour for her latest compilation,Please, Sir: Erotic Stories of Female Submission. Rachel requested friends with blogs help with her book tour. I have a blog. I am friends with Rachel. This is when I agreed via facebook to do my part to represent erotica writers everywhere. Wait. What?

Female submission. Not sure I even know what that is. BDSM? No idea. Rachel is trusting that I can deliver. So I'll be reviewing the book on May 18. Stay tuned, you guys. This? Should be good.

To feel like a woman

It's a good thing Jon forced me to I opted out of the Valentine's Day traditions of obligatory gift giving. Jon believes Valentine's Day to be a holiday completely manufactured by Hallmark. Suckers who buy into the supposed responsibility of Showing Her You Care while perpetuating the cycle of bullshit consumption from China. And Blood Diamonds. Kind of like Wal Mart.

Isn't that romantic?

Instead of traveling through year after year of complete and utter disappointment, I successfully denied my inner hopeless romantic. Now that I'm "single," you guys, the thought of exchanging gifts goes from obligatory to fun. And exciting. And spontaneous. And loving. And caring. And...and...and...

While I can force myself to understand Jon's opposition to said holiday, I also appreciate sharing tokens of one's love. Sure I talked myself into bashing STUPID VALENTINE'S DAY! for ten years. That's called SURVIVAL. Having a relationship with someone who thinks surprising a loved one with flowers is a waste of money jaded my perception of romance.

Jon's idea of romance: Wining and dining? Let's just skip to the sixty-nining.

My idea of romance: GO ASK ANY WOMAN!

Relief

Such the relief is sending one's kids off to school for the very first day of a new school year. Welcome Cliche Fest '09. Every parent-friend of mine on facebook documents the same milestone with photos and status updates, commemorating another summer over and a new year for students everywhere.

SAHMs or Ds, whatever the case may be, feel they can finally tackle the long awaited list of Shit To Get Done Once The Kids Go To School. Me? I call your bluff. Many of you are probably still sitting in your pjs with your Us Weekly on your lap only midway through your pot of coffee. Or maybe its whatever trashy cable program suits your fancy. One you dare never watch when the kids are in the house.

My mornings as of late involve combing over divorce petition and stipulation details. I too am embarking on a new year. Jon and I have finally decided to end the marriage we started ten years ago. Never fear, though. We are ridiculously amicable and looking forward to our continued partnership in parenting, albeit individually. But together. We are still a family. A nontraditional one at that. No need for apologies or heartache. Because, although it was a difficult to decision, we know it's right for our kids and us.

Gotta go. E! News is on.

Couch potato

Jon's return home each week is more often than not about me and my needs than anyone else's. I punched out around 7:00 last night. A 10-year-old can totally watch Grey's Anatomy, right?

Laying on the couch together

Allie: Who is Grey?
Me: The main girl. That one.
Allie: Her name is Grey?
Me: That's what they tell me.
Allie: What's anatomy?
Me: It's, um, uhh...like, the make up of something? Your body parts are all your anatomy?
Allie: So why is the show about that girl's....EW! ANOTHER TURNING KISS!

Four days alone with the three of them and their myriad requests leaves this mother ready to make any inappropriate show suitable for her children. Except maybe not The Hills. That's my secret.

Come on, Internet! or Marlo Thomas instilled some values

Time to update this stale medium where I either share family stories, complain about my responsibilities, or pontificate on whatever might have crept into the folds of my frontal lobe, lodging itself so deep I can't get it out EXCEPT FOR HERE.

When I go to the gym, I fall victim privy to the wall of televisions that motivate those who think watching an interview with Kathie Lee and Hooda and some washed up television actor really gets 'em going. I can't help but notice the various advertisements for teeth whitening, hair color, or Nutrisystem, all serenaded between my ear buds by the Ting Tings and Justin Timberlake.

Why do they keep telling me I shouldn't accept my body the way it is: prematurely grey; coffee stained teeth; the beginning laugh lines of almost 34 years of hilarity; my magnificent mama muffin top a sensational reminder of my thrice in a lifetime achievement of bringing three of the most amazing creatures into this world?

The programming begins again and there's now a woman on the morning show telling me How to Look Sexy at Any Age! Because she's actually going to convince me that wearing pantyhose with a built-in butt-pusher-upper fools anyone?

As women we are constantly told how imperfect we are. If we only had that creaseless forehead, the biggest boobs, a perfect shade of auburn that washed that grey right out of your hair, or teeth so white they're grey. On the one hand it's perfectly understood to buy a product that you think lifts your saggy ass. Yet the other hand is holding way too accessible plastic surgeons brought to you by E! and their exclusive zip code. Let me rephrase that. Those surgeons appear to be so accessible because they are on E! every time I sit down to fold yet another load of laundry. Sure, you and I get that these doctors are as exclusive as Oprah Winfrey. But to others their local alleyway knife wielding ICS certificate holding physician can achieve the same looks as Brazilian goon on E!.

Why are we a society dedicated to achieving a look resembling Barbie's plastic fantastic unchanging face? Mary Tyler Moore is an applaudable success story for that. We are actually supposed to believe we aren't awesome just the way we are. If you're unhealthy, get healthy. If you're looking for a fun new hair color, go for it. Cover your grey? Hell no! All those advertisements for products and purely cosmetic surgeries are a very painfully obvious symbol of corporate America making bank off our insecurities. Insecurities they've instilled within us.

You fellas can't escape it either. Balding men need not spray the tops of their gorgeous heads with black spray paint because that's no more persuasively plausible than butt lifting panty hose.

Excuse me while I high-five my stretchmarked muffin top and stuff it discretely back into my cords.