Boobs and Birthdays

I turned 43 last week. Forty three. Fortythree. fortythree.furtytree.forryhree.

You know, if you say it enough times, it stops making sense.

I don’t particularly care about my age. It’s one year closer to death. Big deal.

I have a few wrinkles, more grey hair than I ever did. So what? I’ve earned every one of them. I’m all for passing the beauty torch on to the younglings that can handle the pressure. I did my turn.

But my boobs! My god, my boobs.

Now, I’ve never been a well endowed girl, and as I was a tomboy, they just got in the way. Alas, I’ve gained some weight in the past couple of years. Consequently, I’ve developed what my mother delicately refers to as a “rack”. And those things are just a pain in the ass.

Here’s my issue. Every birthday, I swear they drop an inch. It’s like they hate getting older and are moving south. Like retirees. Except south is towards my belt.

Fuck.

Last year at christmas, my mom and I were cuddled on the couch. She’s a rubber. You know the ones? They can’t just sit, they have to rub some part of you until the skin wears away and there is a bloody gaping hole where they’ve left the mark of their affection. The dogs like it. I don’t.

So she’s rubbing my arm, and I told her to stop. She asked me why. I said, “Mom, you’re kind of rubbing my nipple”. She jolted, howled with laughter and said “Jesus! Why is it by your elbow?”

Oh mom. I wish I knew.

A few weeks before christmas, our lovely neighbours called us at about 6 p.m. and said “We’re in our pajamas. And drinking. Come for pajama drinks.” Excuse me, but how badass is it to have folks in your life you feel so comfortable with that you can have drinks in your pajamas? PAJAMA DRINKS,PEOPLE!!!! Actually, it sounds a wee bit kinky, but these weren’t our orgy neighbours so we felt safe.

About half way through the evening, my friend Dee gave me a friendly stomach tickle. (Wait. This does sound kinky.) Anyway, it was one of those mom-love-ya grabs us mommies do, but sadly I had to tell her that what she’d thought was my side was actually my boob. I flustered the poor woman for a bit until I explained that now when I sit down, the girls tend to hover oh so gently to rest on my lap. An honest mistake.

Fuck.

I just don’t know why they’ve decided to become long and tubular. I thought that only happened to National Geographic tribal naked women. I’ve been so misled.

I’m already losing my navel behind them. “Where’s my navel? Oh wait, it’s right here, behind my boob. Duh.” What’s next, tucking them into my socks?

I’ve thought about getting them pierced. Not for any reason other than to slip a chain through one, lace around my neck and attach it to the other piercing. Kind of like a poor mans breast lift.  Might work.

But this is my advice to all the younglings. Don’t pierce your boobs! Don’t ever add weight to something thats going to sag naturally anyway.

As for me. It might just be time to buy a really good bra I can wear all the time. Do they come in tubular sizes?

The Husband Doesn’t Believe

You’ll be happy to know that stinky wife week has ended. Well, you won’t, but my family is. Although the dogs paid me much more attention than usual.

As I’ve said in my previous post The End Is Nigh, it is practice for the apocalypse. The hair I let grow on my legs is for camouflage (I figure I can hide like a Sasquatch. Or a Wookie. Lets say Wookie, because Wookies are real!) but I do shave when it gets to the point that if I move quickly, I smell burning hair. This is all stuff that my husband can’t understand.

“What’s with the armpit hair?”

“I’m pretending.”

“What in the fuck are you pretending? That you are a hairy man?”

I don’t tell him a Wookie.

“I’m pretending I’m a French girl. Or Italian. Spanish. I don’t know. Some European country where it’s considered sexy not to shave.”

“Well maybe you should be pretending to be a not hairy Canadian and get a razor. And a bar of soap.”

That man has no sense of adventure.

Last spring I was alone here in the country. Son was at school. All peace and quiet. I looked out at my neighbour’s and saw three men in orange vests moving slowly across his property. They had helmets and walkie talkies, and some sort of weird machine that I thought was a Geiger counter. I was convinced aliens had crashed in his yard.

I phoned my husband and spoke in a terrified whisper.

“There are guys all over the place! They’re looking for aliens! I think it’s the government! You’d better get home! They might kill me because I know too much!”

To which my hero replied: “Did you put a bra on this morning?”

Ummm, what?

I’m not sure how that would have saved my life. Perhaps he thought if I was buxom and pert, they may let me survive.

I have pulled him out of bed to look at something in the sky that I was sure was a UFO. That was headed for our house. To get me.

“C’mon! Just look at it! What d’ya think it is?”

“A plane. Listen. Hear It? Are you even sober? I’m going back to bed, weirdo.”

He doesn’t believe. It’s all right. He indulges my whimsy and I think it gives him something to talk about at work.

The upside? When my emergency preparedness funkiness ends, he thinks something really exciting and special is happening.

“WOW! You look great! Is it our anniversary? Did I miss it?”

No, baby. This is just for you.

(And because my pit hair was actually starting to tangle. He doesn’t need to know that.)

The End Is Nigh

Confession time. I am could be a survivalist. Even as I write that, some strange part of my brain is craving a gun.

My husband is starting to figure it out. The amount of instant coffee in this house is starting to reach critical mass. Like pantry cupboard sagging with the weight stage.

Hubby opened the pantry last night.

“What’s with all the instant coffee?”

“Um, what?” Brain quickly telling me to look busy. Cook something. Avoid conversation. Show him a boob if he continues to talk.

“There’s like 12 jars of instant coffee here. We don’t even drink instant coffee. And why do we have 45 fucking kinds of TEA? Who’s drinking that?”

“Um, a sale?” Rapidly whipping up a brownie mix. (Okay, it’s kind of cooking.)

Hubby, eyeing the oven, starting to sniff the air (that man is part hound) “Just because there is a sale doesn’t mean you can spend $400 dollars on hot drinks!”

Me, casually flipping left boob out of t-shirt while wearing oven mitts (tricky),”Well, it seemed like a good buy SONUFABITCH!” Burning left boob on oven door while trying to look sexy.

Hubby (looking at burned boob while I am going through circus contortions to run it under cold water in kitchen sink),”Hmmmmm. When are those brownies ready?”

See, he and I have talked about this. We thumb our noses at these folks. But we watch the ‘end of the world’ docs. I watch zombie shows like they are infomercials. Then my rationality leaves and I think maybe those folks are right. And I busily make insane lists of things we need.

“We need ammo! Do we have ammo? Fuck, do we even have a gun?!?”

“Yes, we have a gun. Three.”

“Oh good. Where are they?”

“Locked in the gun cabinet in the basement. What’s with you?”

“And ammo? Where is the ammo?”

“I don’t know. Probably in the garage or something. What’s that list you have?”

“You’ll need to bring that in. Unlock the gun cabinet. And teach me to shoot. What time is it? Ten? Can you shoot at stuff at ten in this county? God, my tit hurts.”

“You are not shooting in the dark and why are you so nuts? It’s that fucking show, isn’t it? I knew I shouldn’t have turned that on!”

Okay, okay.” Hopeful eyebrows while pulling right boob out.“Do we have gas masks?”

Stony silence.

I wish I could say that this has only happened a couple of times. But this weird panic takes over every few weeks and I get all survivally. It’s very stressful.

I have books on medical and edible plants. I have planned which of our pets we’d eat first if we ran out of food. (Don’t eat dog liver! It’s poisonous. Truth. Why do I know that? And it’s the Pug, because he’s an asshole.) And every once in a while, I scare the living bejesus out of my folks.

“Hello? You need to stock up on gas and water! If the phones go out, just get your asses in the car and get here as quick as you can! Good bye!”

My mother:”Hello? Who is this? What are you talking about?” Click.

Dad:”Who was that?”

Mom:”Some nutbag. Do we have gas and water? We need some!”

Dad:”Why?”

Mom:”I don’t know, but we do!”

And off go the old folks, motoring like mad to prepare for the doomsday.

I’ll also go without showering for a few days. Not laziness *cough* but just to practice for the time when water is scarce. I’m also trying to cloud myself in a musky scent so that I’ll blend in with all the wildlife after, well, whatever is going to happen.  That does not go over with my hubby well at all. No amount of boob makes stinky wife week okay.

Now, I’m no doomsayer. For the most part, I think these people blathering on about the end of days need to get hobbies. Or jobs. Really they just need to stop scaring the shit out of folks unnecessarily. But that one weird part of my brain wonders maybe?

In the meantime, I’ll stock up in bits and pieces. But if anything happens, try to come to my place. I’ll have coffee ready for you.

Now if I could just figure out why this dog keeps hiding from me…

 

Linking up with Dude Write this week. Go on. Read. Vote. I’m proud to be a Dude!