Victoria… that naughty little vixen…. sometimes she’s not so Secret. Our next winner of the “Age, She’s Such a Beotch” story contest with three winners receiving a copy of  author Stephanie Dolgoff’s, “My Formerly Hot Life”, is Kelly.  Not only did Kelly have enough emotion with gravity trying to death-grip her boobs, she also had to deal with a unwanted man having a front seat to it all! 

Ladies, let’s support Kelly… literally…read this in your push-up bras. I’m writing this with no shirt on and sporting some lacy lock and lift action.  Kelly, you now have the floor as my boobs have cleared it…

As I enjoy my late twenties, I have noticed my body beginning to change, things are starting to sag and move south.  Now, I have lost a significant amount of weight in the past year – probably about 15 of those pounds from my breasts. I’m not making excuses for my sagging breasts; only trying to justify a portion of their current position with my weight loss.  I’m a woman of good sense, so I know part of it is the gradual approach of the big 3-0.  To remedy this very physical and obvious maturation of my body, I decided to venture into the push-up bra sector of the world.  Mind you, I have had breasts since I was in the second grade.  I have very distinct memories of my mother crying as I tried on training bras.  Because of the longevity of the relationship between me and my breasts, they have had ample time to grow and have always been on the larger side.  My excitement to enter the land of push-up’s was heightened by the idea of thin pretty straps and beautiful lace details that the full-figured section could never quite offer.

I  had recruited my sister to join me on the breast relocation project.  We started at Victoria’s Secret because my sister loves their push-up bras.  We barrelled through the store, on a mission, scooping up every fit of push-up and headed to the fitting rooms.  So, if you have ever traveled to push-up land, you understand that there is a very fine line between beautifully elevated breasts and the dreaded double boob.  With the bras that we thought might work, I tried on a t-shirt over each for the ultimate test.  My assistant, my only sister, was of little help.  She purchased her breasts back in 2003 after the birth of her second son.  Hers are destined to always be a comfortable chin rest whether they are in a bra or not.  Confused as to how a push-up bra should fit a natural breast, my sister ran out and retrieved the nearest saleswoman to help us decipher the bra fit.  What my sister returned with was a snotty 21 year old who has yet to see the flip side of perky breasts and looked at me with a bit of disgust as we explained the situation.  She quickly suggested that I try a few of their fuller coverage bras since I seemed to have ample breasts.  I had to re-explain to this 21 year child that it was the height of my breasts that I was concerned about, not the fullness.  As we sat and discussed (my sister poked and prodded my chest to see if the bra actually fit correctly), a male voice chimed in.  In the midst of the already perplexing chaos, I hadn’t noticed that the fitting room door was completely open. In the reflection of the mirror across from the door was the image of a man in his early fifties sitting comfortably in the husband/boyfriend chair with a perfect view.  He assured me that my breasts were beautiful for a 30 year old and to enjoy them while they were at their current elevation.  His vote was for the bra I was currently wearing.  Stunned and in shock, I quickly shut to door, regrouped and yelled to him behind door, “Sir, I appreciate your compliment, but I am 28, not 30.”

Needless to say I left Victoria’s Secret without that particular bra, but with the two runner ups. Oh.. and with my sunglasses on so I wouldn’t have to make eye contact with the older male stranger that experienced the entire debacle with me.

GYNA GALS!! Remember my little contest? Well, after purchasing an economy size package of Depend and wetting myself, I was able to narrow down the Three Winners! It was hard – you gals out there have slap-ass funny stories. I was just laughing, wetting my pants and slapping my ass simultaneously for an entire month. My boyfriend thought I had Turrets.

The three lovely ladies won a copy of  author Stephanie Dolgoff’s, “My Formerly Hot Life” which reached #32 on the The New York Times Best Seller List! Congrats, ladies! Embarrassment and bounce-back WELL DONE!

The next three days, I will feature each winner’s story! Our first story is from Leiah in Lake Charles, LA, a little lady that went from 26 to 92 in a mark of a pen thanks to our responsible voter registration system. ENJOY!

I recently wrote a blog post regarding not being very thrilled about getting yet another piece of mail that should be delivered to a person of more advanced age than mine. The day after receiving yet another letter asking me if I was aware of the potential changes to my Medicare benefits I remembered where this all began.

My nephew Christopher was in kindergarten when his baby sister was born. My sister-in-law asked if I would take her place at the Tiger Cub Mom & Me camp-out and, of course, I agreed. I picked him up early that Saturday morning and we headed north to the Boy Scout campgrounds. It was mid-October in Texas so temperatures in the high 70s were not out of the norm. We pitched our tent, hiked, did whatever crazy badge stuff he needed to do, finally ending the evening with a campfire and then heading to bed…as much as a sleeping bag on the hard ground can be considered a bed.

Have you ever heard what they say about weather in Texas? If you don’t like it, wait a minute it will change. It did. When we woke up the next morning it was in the 40′s. The 40′s!! I had no cold weather stuff with me. No jacket. Nada. I was in a T-shirt and jeans. And miserable. Thank the Good Lord above we only had to stay there until after breakfast and a SHORT pack, den…some kind of wild animal group meeting, then we were free to go. Oh, I forgot…there was no hot water there at the camp. Only cold, frigid, liquid icicles dripping from a shower head that had about 7 openings…not that I know that for a fact because I refused to stand under what had to be the original idea behind the waterboarding technique. We packed up and headed home as quickly as we could so that I could warm up and finally take a shower.

I brought Christopher home and then headed to my parents house. I came in, dropped off my bags and headed straight to the shower. An extremely nice, long, hot shower. When I got out, my mom told me I had gotten a phone call while in the shower…and then started laughing. Here is the telephone conversation as my mom told me:

Mom: Hello?
Caller: Is Leiah there?
Mom: She’s unavailable right now – can I take a message?
Caller: Oh no, she’s not sick or anything is she? Is she doing OK; will she be available later?
Mom: If you must know, she’s in the shower. She just got back from taking her nephew camping.
Caller: Oh. {crickets}……This is the Jefferson County Democratic Party. We were calling all our senior citizens to see if they needed a ride to the polls next week.
Mom: Senior citizens?
Caller: Yes ma’am.
Mom: I think you’ve got the wrong person. She’s only 26
Caller: Really? We have her birth date as 10/22/00…she’s not 92? Well, I’m sorry to bother you. Enjoy your day and don’t forget to vote!

92?!?!? Yep, they forgot to enter the year I was born when they printed the new Voter Registration cards that year. Can you imagine the thoughts going through that person’s head when they heard that the old lady they thought was 92 had taken her nephew camping?

Ever since then I’ve gotten AARP information, Medicare junk mail, scooter information and any kind of ‘old people’ junk mail showing up in my mailbox. I guess by the time I finally do partake in these services, there’ll be some crazy math going on.

I know what common animals look like: cat, dog, horse, rabbit, cow…. but those other animals that live in trees and in the ground…. I have no freakin idea. I once thought a possum was an abnormally large rat. I’m from the South, too, so I should be better with identifying animals. My bladder is actually better than I am. If I’m ever in the woods and suddenly wet my pants, I know that there’s a carnivore in my path and my bladder is warning me…. or……. I’m drunk…..but I haven’t been drunk in the woods in 10 years, so I’m going to stand by my bladder being an attack-animal alarm system.  That could actually be a super power! When the heroine wets herself, it’s a sign of nearby danger…. she would be called The Excreter. There could be chaffing repercussions though……I digress… it’s a huge problem!

LUCKILY, I’m not alone when it comes to animal identification issues. Deb Amlen, fellow blogger and hilarious author of, “It’s Not PMS, It’s YOU!” had an episode with her vet. Read Deb’s words, my kittens:

It occurred to me the other day that perhaps I’m not as prepared for Nature as I thought.

I was born and raised in New York City, where contact with other carbon-based life forms was limited, animalistically-speaking, to leashed dogs and the occasional squirrel or pigeon.   I also went to high school in a particularly dangerous part of the Bronx (school song:  ”Look Out!  A Mugger!”), where squirrels and pigeons were smart enough to maintain a polite distance from the human residents, mainly so as not to disturb the drive-by shootings.

When we moved to New Jersey to raise our kids, I had this city-slicker fantasy that I would finally get to commune with Nature and befriend all of the charming woodland animals that scampered about my property.  My kids and I would frolic with the birds, and the deer, and the antelope, and the carp, and whatever else came our way, and they would sing a charming woodland animal song to me as I scattered woodland animal food for them, just like in a Disney cartoon, which clearly shows you how demented I had become.

Obviously, none of this ever happened.  The birds were more concerned with pooping on my outdoor furniture than singing, and the deer were much more interested in eating my flowers than frolicking.   This disappointed me, but it had no real impact on my life until the day my dog had a showdown with Cujo, the Hostile Yard Rodent.

Jade is a Border Terrier, a quirky, happy-go-lucky breed, and I like to think of her as the Roberto Benigni of dogs (“I luff evry-BAHDY!”)  She’s never met a human or an animal she didn’t like, so when she woke from her afternoon nap in our sunny yard and saw another four-legged being standing over her, she naturally came to the conclusion that it had come to play.  I did not become involved in the game until I heard Jade yelp and walked out to the side of the house to see her, nose to nose with a hissing football with a bushy tail and bared fangs that obviously did not have a game of Tug-of-War in mind.  Border Terriers are known for having their own minds, but when I called her, she turned tail on the football and ran, with only a glance back that said, “You’re lucky she called me, or you would be SO over!”

Because I was already operating at a disadvantage due to having grown up in an ecological wasteland, I called the veterinarian, who told me to bring her in so they could check for bites and give her a rabies booster.

“What kind of animal was it?”, she asked, still looking at her clipboard.

“Well, it might have been a beaver.  Or a very large squirrel.  Possibly a jackalope.”

The vet glanced up from her clipboard.  ”You’re not from around here, are you?”, she asked.

“Well, I don’t really know what kind of animal it was….”, I said, feeling like a total doofus.

“Stay here.  I’ll be right back.”

When the vet came back, she was holding what appeared to be a stack of flash cards, and she spread them neatly on the examination table.  Each card had a different rodent on it.

“Pick one”, she ordered, and I suddenly realized what she was asking me to do.  She wanted me to pick the culprit out of a line up.

“This one”, I muttered, obediently pointing to the third card.

“That’s a groundhog”,  she said matter-of-factly, doing an admirable job of staying professional and not laughing hysterically at me, although I could tell she sort of wanted to.

Fortunately, Jade was fine, and although she avoided the spot in our yard where she had met her match for a while, was none the worse for the wear.  I, however, am still humiliated.  But at least now I know what a groundhog looks like. 

http://debamlen.com/2009/06/30/all-hostile-yard-rodents-turn-to-the-right/

Over and over again my, “You’re Not Alone,” theory is proven!!  I’m a genius I tell you, sheer genius!! You may have an embarrassing moment, but someone out there is eating a gallon of ice cream with their eyes closed because of a kindred pain. I eat a gallon of ice cream simply because I know someone is feeling pain over embarrassment and I want to be supportive. So…. my cottage cheese ass is all your faults… but, apology accepted… I’m just a good person.

Most of us, feel embarrassment from an encumbering moment almost immediately…. we find ourselves running to the computer, going to THIS website, searching through the archives for a similar incident to laugh and find instant solace. OKAY – I made up the last part, but I’m trying to brainwash you to come to this website everytime you’re embarrassed!! 

However, some of us have a delayed reaction by, let’s say, I don’t know…. 5 to 10 years…. but the rest of the world sees it and winces for the victim of denial.

CASE IN POINT: the different varieties of  “The Real Housewives.”  For some reason, a few of them believe being featured on reality TV magically gives them the ability to sing and dance. I have no doubt, well….. I do have doubt, but I also have hope…. that one day in the future they will look back, see these videos,  then lock themselves in a closet for a week.  WHEN this day happens… they can rest assured… Reality Star That Made an Ass of Yourself, YOU ARE NOT ALONE!! You have each other!! I propose a reunion where you get together, burn your singles and hug it out while sipping champagne because you’re born-again classy.  Please refer to the below Exhibits for evidence…

Exhibit A: Kim Zolciak from “Real Housewives of Atlanta”

 

Exhibit B: Countess LuAnn from “Real Housewives of New York”

Exhibit C: Danielle Staub “Real Housewives of New Jersey”

Girl, you’re not alone if having a bitch moment isn’t just an attitude… it’s a freakin result!!  A result of all the things, as women, we juggle everyday with more items on our TO DO list than minutes in a day.  I’m single with no children.  I struggle with just my sole commitments.  I faint at the thought of throwing a husband and children into that mix………………… okay, sorry, I just did it…. I fainted. I’m still on the floor… I’m typing from the floor with one hand because I can’t get up from the thought of adding other people to my plate…. wait… I fainted again. Please call 911 and send a hot EMT with a bottle of vodka.

I don’t know how you mothers do it!!  Red boots and invisible planes for all of you Wonder Women!! I actually have a Lasso of Truth and gold bracelets in transit to a fellow GYNA gal, Johanna. After a 15-hour day of hell, she sent the below post. I love the phrase she used, “Bitch Holiday.” Hang in there, Johanna and by all means, get your bitch on… but make sure you’re wearing stilettos!

Why is it that when you’re in a bad mood, people ask, “whats’ wrong?” or “is everything okay?” I mean, if you are in a bad mood, doesn’t that tell you that “something” is wrong or that “No, everything is not okay?”  Why can’t I just be in a bad mood, just to be in a bad mood? Maybe, I just want to be cranky and bitchy, or maybe, I just woke up not wanting to put up with shit.

Let’s see, got up at 6am, I rush take a shower and wake up the baby. I then feed, change him and go straight to daycare. I rush again, try to beat traffic on the I-495 only to inch my way to work.  While I’m inching my way to work, my company cell phone rings, one of my staff called out last minute.  Phone rings again, my boss looking for paperwork I submitted 5 days ago. 10am – walk into my office and rush to grab a cup of coffee, only to find there is no coffee. Why couldn’t the last person that made coffee, get some more coffee!!

11:30am - reviewing reports while answering calls when, I pull out my pen from my bag only to find a liquidity jelly-like substance on my hand and oh, now on my shirt. The pen exploded. WTF! Whatever! I then go for a break with my left-eye twitching from coffee withdrawals. I drive up to 7-11 to grab some coffee and a sandwich, “15 minutes miss, coffee coming fresh” My first thought, “give me a shot of whiskey instead, please.”  After I finally grab coffee, my husband, Lou, calls to ask about my day…… he really wanted to know if I was making something for dinner.  Since I am a good dutiful wife, I always have last minute dinners for those hectic days. Tonight, ham and cheese sandwiches, potato chips and  kool-aid.

Back to work, my boss calling again for paperwork, which again, I submitted a week ago.  “Please fax them again” he says.  “Sure”, I respond.  Fax machine “Out of Order.”  Okay, thats’ it!! UGH!! I’m back in my car, driving him another copy of the report I already submitted.   I get there, and he says, “Oh, thanks, but I found them.”  WTF? “Is everything okay?” he asks, I’m sure I appeared a little agitated. I leave, back in my car and into traffic.

My phone rings, daycare is calling. Tired and hungry, as I still didn’t eat the chicken sandwich snuggled in my bag, I’m now rushing to pick up Franco from daycare as he is not feeling well. I pick him up, he is crying. I put him in his car seat and I call Lou and his doctor. Finally, I see Lou waiting for me as I pull up to his pediatrician’s office. He takes the baby out the car, he is still crying, and hands him over to me so he can get his diaper bag. I hear gurgling sounds and feel some hot liquid on my breasts.  Okay, where is the liquor store!!!! I now have vomit in between my breast and I smell like a rotting mouse. I go into the my pediatrician’s office when I see eyes of disgust on me. Like these people have never had vomit on them before!  I try to clean myself up with little resources then wait in the waiting area. “What’s wrong?” Lou whispers.  I just take a deep breath and blankly stare at him. 6:30pm – Franco is fine, just a stomach bug. Give him liquids, liquids and oh, more liquids.

Finally, home and I see the mess, boxes and crap everywhere. We are moving next week.  I shower and pop a bottle of apple juice in Franco’s mouth. Next, Sandwiches and potato chips for Lou. I now begin to pack boxes. Lou helps but, takes a lot of breaks in between. 9pm – exhausted. I finish the last of the boxes only to find, that I need more boxes. I go into the bedroom to see if Lou is finished but, find him and Franco are asleep.

So, now I sit here writing this post, wondering why people question our mood, our “bitchiness,” as if they didn’t know!  Most likely we are bitchy because we are tired, sleep deprived and overwhelmed. We get up, and as women, mothers, wives, run around all day to make sure everything and everyone is taken care of.  Are we not allowed to have a bitch fest here and there? Are we not allowed to roll our eyes, grunt, yell, scream or take a stiff drink when the situation calls for it?

Tonight, right now, I embrace my bitchy side. So, on those days I don’t feel like enduring all of this, well, that is my Bitch Holiday.  I’m entitled to be a “bitch” when I want to!